Are you tired about reading about my grief for my mom? Because I'm tired of writing about it. But it still fills me up, and sometimes needs to pour out of my fingertips so that I don't drown.
The thing I'm realizing is that I've been in a bit of a survival mode in regard to my grief over the last 9 months. It's been this sort of "Just hang on...hold on...until....until..."
Until, what?
I have been hanging on to this surreal idea that somehow my mom will be back again soon. I think the part of my brain that is protecting me and keeping me going has created this sort of weird cushion where I am unable to process the permanence of her death. That if I just hang on, get through these times without her, that everything will soon be okay and normal again. Like she is on a long trip to somewhere far away where phones and emails don't work, but everything will be safe again soon.
The fact that she is not coming back, ever, is just so hard to process. I hate that I will be lying flowers on her grave for Mother's Day, not just this weekend, but for the rest of my own life.
I hate that her death has made me lie awake at night in terror of my own mortality. I hate that she will never watch her grandchildren grow. I hate that my dad and my sister have to live in that big house without my mom. I hate that I have to hold it together for the sake of everyone else. I hate that I just want to sit on the kitchen counter and watch her make vegetable soup and let my daughters run circles around their grandma's legs, but it's never going to happen no matter how much I wish it so.
This is permanent, this is forever. And I miss her.
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Friday, May 11, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
gardening & grief
Gary and I planted our summer garden this weekend. It was a lovely way to spend time together as a family- working hard, and getting dirty in the sunshine. I'm grateful that Gary works really hard to make our yard a happy place for our family. And Juliet loved it. I can't wait for my summer tomatoes, my very favorite of the summer crop. We also tried a couple new things this year- I'm eager to see if the corn does well.
As I pulled out our supplies from the garden shed, I found a big bag full of seeds, with a note attached from my mom. My mom- the organic gardening queen, who was raising her own vegetables, fruits, and even chickens, decades before it become hip and chic. Ahead of her time in her own special ways. When I worried and grieved that she hadn't been able to leave anything behind anything special for us, for me, I was wrong. It didn't come in the expected way, but this is what she left behind- a note that was 3 years old, but came at just the right time.
I miss her to the deepest depths of my soul. I feel the grief creaking in my bones like an unwanted visitor tip toeing up an old staircase. It makes my stomach drop to the floor.
This garden, and every garden that Gary and I plant, is in her memory and her honor, and so my daughters will have a little piece of their grandma in their backyard. It's a special place. A sacred place.
As I pulled out our supplies from the garden shed, I found a big bag full of seeds, with a note attached from my mom. My mom- the organic gardening queen, who was raising her own vegetables, fruits, and even chickens, decades before it become hip and chic. Ahead of her time in her own special ways. When I worried and grieved that she hadn't been able to leave anything behind anything special for us, for me, I was wrong. It didn't come in the expected way, but this is what she left behind- a note that was 3 years old, but came at just the right time.
This garden, and every garden that Gary and I plant, is in her memory and her honor, and so my daughters will have a little piece of their grandma in their backyard. It's a special place. A sacred place.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
grief, worry, and why I take so many pictures
grief:
Easter was a really hard holiday this year. My mom's absence just pierced me to the core.
On the eve of Easter, Gary and I put the girls to bed as usual. I nursed Audrey to sleep and laid her gently down in her crib. And then Gary and I knelt at Juliet's bed and prayed our bedtime prayers with her, blowing kisses as the door shuts behind us.
Once the girls were asleep, I slipped away to the grocery store to pick up last minute items for the snacks I was bringing to my aunt's the next day. And my grief for my mom overwhelmed me. I sat in the parking lot of Albertson's by myself and wept. I collected myself enough to go in the store, but then found myself weeping as I walked down each aisle of that same store that my mom used to shop in for holidays so often.
I miss my mom. I want her here to watch my girls grow.I want her to delight in them and hold their chubby little hands. I want her here to tell me I'm doing a good job, that I'm a good mother and that she's proud of me.
worry:
I've been starting to have some aggravating carpal tunnel in my wrists. It's nothing to write about, except that my mom also suffered from carpal tunnel for several years. I have so much of my mother's genes in me and the carpal tunnel is just another reminder. I look in the mirror every day and I see the same deep crease between my eyebrows that my mom had in hers, until death came and smoothed her wrinkles all away. I worry that my body will betray me like hers did. I do not want to die my mother's death, nor do I want my children to ever go through what me and my sisters did.
why I take so many pictures:
Because my children are cute, of course. Every mother thinks that her children are far more adorable than any other child.
But also because I want these reminders that I am here, alive and happy with my children. And when I am someday gone, I want them to have piles and piles of photographs so that if they ever need a reminder, they will know that I loved them desperately, that I held them and cherished them and delighted in every moment of being their mother.
Easter was a really hard holiday this year. My mom's absence just pierced me to the core.
On the eve of Easter, Gary and I put the girls to bed as usual. I nursed Audrey to sleep and laid her gently down in her crib. And then Gary and I knelt at Juliet's bed and prayed our bedtime prayers with her, blowing kisses as the door shuts behind us.
Once the girls were asleep, I slipped away to the grocery store to pick up last minute items for the snacks I was bringing to my aunt's the next day. And my grief for my mom overwhelmed me. I sat in the parking lot of Albertson's by myself and wept. I collected myself enough to go in the store, but then found myself weeping as I walked down each aisle of that same store that my mom used to shop in for holidays so often.
I miss my mom. I want her here to watch my girls grow.I want her to delight in them and hold their chubby little hands. I want her here to tell me I'm doing a good job, that I'm a good mother and that she's proud of me.
worry:
I've been starting to have some aggravating carpal tunnel in my wrists. It's nothing to write about, except that my mom also suffered from carpal tunnel for several years. I have so much of my mother's genes in me and the carpal tunnel is just another reminder. I look in the mirror every day and I see the same deep crease between my eyebrows that my mom had in hers, until death came and smoothed her wrinkles all away. I worry that my body will betray me like hers did. I do not want to die my mother's death, nor do I want my children to ever go through what me and my sisters did.
why I take so many pictures:
Because my children are cute, of course. Every mother thinks that her children are far more adorable than any other child.
But also because I want these reminders that I am here, alive and happy with my children. And when I am someday gone, I want them to have piles and piles of photographs so that if they ever need a reminder, they will know that I loved them desperately, that I held them and cherished them and delighted in every moment of being their mother.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
On the eve of my Mom's birthday
When I was 10 or 12 years old, I would occasionally have a severe pang of anxiety that something terrible had happened to my mom.
This would happen when my mom would go out for an errand on a weekend afternoon, saying that she was going to the grocery store, and "would be right back". We weren't being left alone or anything; my dad was home too. But an hour would pass, and then maybe another, and my mom was still gone.
I would sit at the kitchen window, nervously awaiting the sound of her car driving up the cul de sac. And I would convince myself in those moments of waiting that something bad had happened, that maybe my mom had been in a terrible car crash and was never coming home for me.
I never told anyone that I was scared about this until mentioning it to my mom a couple years ago. I suppose because I felt embarrassed. Because she would inevitably come bouncing through the door with bags of groceries, and it was clear that she had taken just a bit longer than expected to run another errand while she was out.
Well, something terrible has happened to my mom. And she's not coming back for me anymore and it still hurts like hell.
Tomorrow would have been my mom's 57th birthday. We visited her grave today and left my mom some flowers and talked to her for awhile. I picked out some orange freesia that smelled wonderful. It's weird leaving flowers for someone who's passed away.
I sobbed at her grave for a little bit while Gary stayed with the girls in the car. And then we brought the girls to her grave, too. Audrey sat on the cool marble slate that has her grandma's name, birth, and death written on it. Juliet happily bounced around clutching freesia blossoms in her hands.
I used to love having my birthday fall so closely to my mom's. (Just 1 day in between; 2 on a leap year.) Somehow it made me feel special to be connected to my mom in that way. I guess it still does.
Last year, mom came home from stroke rehabilitation on her birthday. It was a bittersweet day, welcoming her home after 5 weeks in the hospital. Her body and mind had been so badly damaged by the tumor and the surgery and the strokes. But my sister still made a birthday cake for Mom anyway. And the following weekend, we had a birthday party for me at our house, and I have a beautiful photo of my mom holding Juliet and smiling. This year, I wrote a card for my Mom and Juliet decorated it with stickers and crayons.
I want to honor my mom with bright freesia and joyful children, instead of drowning in the grief. But this isn't the easiest of days.
This would happen when my mom would go out for an errand on a weekend afternoon, saying that she was going to the grocery store, and "would be right back". We weren't being left alone or anything; my dad was home too. But an hour would pass, and then maybe another, and my mom was still gone.
I would sit at the kitchen window, nervously awaiting the sound of her car driving up the cul de sac. And I would convince myself in those moments of waiting that something bad had happened, that maybe my mom had been in a terrible car crash and was never coming home for me.
I never told anyone that I was scared about this until mentioning it to my mom a couple years ago. I suppose because I felt embarrassed. Because she would inevitably come bouncing through the door with bags of groceries, and it was clear that she had taken just a bit longer than expected to run another errand while she was out.
Well, something terrible has happened to my mom. And she's not coming back for me anymore and it still hurts like hell.
Tomorrow would have been my mom's 57th birthday. We visited her grave today and left my mom some flowers and talked to her for awhile. I picked out some orange freesia that smelled wonderful. It's weird leaving flowers for someone who's passed away.
I sobbed at her grave for a little bit while Gary stayed with the girls in the car. And then we brought the girls to her grave, too. Audrey sat on the cool marble slate that has her grandma's name, birth, and death written on it. Juliet happily bounced around clutching freesia blossoms in her hands.
I used to love having my birthday fall so closely to my mom's. (Just 1 day in between; 2 on a leap year.) Somehow it made me feel special to be connected to my mom in that way. I guess it still does.
Last year, mom came home from stroke rehabilitation on her birthday. It was a bittersweet day, welcoming her home after 5 weeks in the hospital. Her body and mind had been so badly damaged by the tumor and the surgery and the strokes. But my sister still made a birthday cake for Mom anyway. And the following weekend, we had a birthday party for me at our house, and I have a beautiful photo of my mom holding Juliet and smiling. This year, I wrote a card for my Mom and Juliet decorated it with stickers and crayons.
I want to honor my mom with bright freesia and joyful children, instead of drowning in the grief. But this isn't the easiest of days.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
january 21
One year ago, my world crashed down and things changed forever.
My mom had a brain tumor, and a very, very bad diagnosis. But things still were being held together in a semblance of normal. A year ago, my mom was still herself. January 20, 2011 was almost an ordinary night, if it weren't for my mom's appointment for a biopsy of her brain at UCLA the next morning. The family had a casual dinner together and then we watched American Idol in my parents' living room.. I went home to tend to Juliet, then 8 months, and kissed my mom goodbye.
I was so worried and scared, and my mom looked right at me and said, "Oh, Jen, please don't worry. Everything is going to be fine."
Because that's what mothers do. I know that now. They reassure their children and comfort them and tell them everything is going to be okay, even when they're not so sure.
Everything wasn't just fine. Her biopsy went very, very wrong. The memories of that day make me close my eyes in pain. Some things are just too terrible to remember. They are also too terrible to write down. If you were there, you know what happened. If you are just a casual reader, then it's too private to share. It was the worst day of my life, and then things kept getting worse.
I will say that the biopsy caused my mom to have 2 strokes, and the neurosurgeon removed a part of her frontal lobe due to intercranial swelling. She spent six weeks in intensive care and stroke rehab. That's the clinical description but it doesn't explain what really happened: we lost my mom that day, we lost who "she was" as our mom, and we never got to say a proper goodbye.
Mom was never the same, and she died six months later. My mom's death was too terrible to share on an Internet blog, but those of you who were there, know. It hurts to remember but is impossible to forget.
I love you, mom. I miss you.
My mom had a brain tumor, and a very, very bad diagnosis. But things still were being held together in a semblance of normal. A year ago, my mom was still herself. January 20, 2011 was almost an ordinary night, if it weren't for my mom's appointment for a biopsy of her brain at UCLA the next morning. The family had a casual dinner together and then we watched American Idol in my parents' living room.. I went home to tend to Juliet, then 8 months, and kissed my mom goodbye.
I was so worried and scared, and my mom looked right at me and said, "Oh, Jen, please don't worry. Everything is going to be fine."
Because that's what mothers do. I know that now. They reassure their children and comfort them and tell them everything is going to be okay, even when they're not so sure.
Everything wasn't just fine. Her biopsy went very, very wrong. The memories of that day make me close my eyes in pain. Some things are just too terrible to remember. They are also too terrible to write down. If you were there, you know what happened. If you are just a casual reader, then it's too private to share. It was the worst day of my life, and then things kept getting worse.
I will say that the biopsy caused my mom to have 2 strokes, and the neurosurgeon removed a part of her frontal lobe due to intercranial swelling. She spent six weeks in intensive care and stroke rehab. That's the clinical description but it doesn't explain what really happened: we lost my mom that day, we lost who "she was" as our mom, and we never got to say a proper goodbye.
Mom was never the same, and she died six months later. My mom's death was too terrible to share on an Internet blog, but those of you who were there, know. It hurts to remember but is impossible to forget.
I love you, mom. I miss you.
 |
| At my bridal shower, September 2008 |
Thursday, January 19, 2012
bits & pieces
I'm really enjoying the sunny 70 degree weather in Fullerton while reading through Facebook posts on the snow & ice storm in Seattle. Just one good reason to have moved back to my hometown! I blame my parents for having raised me in a warm climate- no matter how much I tried to acclimate to colder weather, it's just not my favorite.
My mom used to say that she could never move back to Chicago after having moved to Laguna Beach in her 20s and spending a winter day on the beach, eating an avocado in the sunshine. And I agree. And I miss my mom; memories of her flood in every day and I feel waves of grief that knock me to my knees.
This was how we started our morning, before having a lovely visit with some old friends and their little ones. Juliet's new "Cheese!" face cracks me up.
How about you?
My mom used to say that she could never move back to Chicago after having moved to Laguna Beach in her 20s and spending a winter day on the beach, eating an avocado in the sunshine. And I agree. And I miss my mom; memories of her flood in every day and I feel waves of grief that knock me to my knees.
This was how we started our morning, before having a lovely visit with some old friends and their little ones. Juliet's new "Cheese!" face cracks me up.
How about you?
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
3 month reflection of grief
It's been 3 months and I miss you more than ever, mom. We had a pumpkin carving party at our house yesterday. You were here for it last year, dressed in a silly long wig and carrying Juliet around the house so proudly in her little bumblebee outfit. We all had a great family day yesterday, but it will never be the same without you.
This is a picture I took of Grandma holding Audrey. Grandma cried when she saw pictures of you hanging everywhere- she wears her hurt and pain more outwardly than the rest of us. There is a large picture of you hanging above her- it's from your memorial service. I like walking by it and looking at your beautiful, strong hands as I live my everyday moments. I just wish you were more than a picture on the wall. I grieve for you so deeply, every single day.
This is a picture I took of Grandma holding Audrey. Grandma cried when she saw pictures of you hanging everywhere- she wears her hurt and pain more outwardly than the rest of us. There is a large picture of you hanging above her- it's from your memorial service. I like walking by it and looking at your beautiful, strong hands as I live my everyday moments. I just wish you were more than a picture on the wall. I grieve for you so deeply, every single day.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
grief
Feeling heavy with grief for my mom this week. Anything that happens- whether good or bad, something to celebrate or something to struggle with - is punctuated by her death.
"Audrey smiled at me today!". And my mom is dead.
"I walked 45 minutes to the park with the girls, and Juliet learned to go down the slide by herself". And my mom will never see her go down a slide.
"There are gourmet food trucks in the parking lot of Troy high school tonight." My mom would have gotten a kick out of that. She probably would have found it silly. But I will never eat a meal with her again.
"I'm tired, and want to curl up and take a nap but the babies are up and need mama". My mom was a napper. She slept on the couch in the living room. I will never walk in the front door to see her sleeping there again. She took her last breath in a chair in that same room. We were all surrounding her, crowding up that room with our sorrow; I was at her feet. The chair just sits there now, punctuated by her death.
I miss you, mom.
"Audrey smiled at me today!". And my mom is dead.
"I walked 45 minutes to the park with the girls, and Juliet learned to go down the slide by herself". And my mom will never see her go down a slide.
"There are gourmet food trucks in the parking lot of Troy high school tonight." My mom would have gotten a kick out of that. She probably would have found it silly. But I will never eat a meal with her again.
"I'm tired, and want to curl up and take a nap but the babies are up and need mama". My mom was a napper. She slept on the couch in the living room. I will never walk in the front door to see her sleeping there again. She took her last breath in a chair in that same room. We were all surrounding her, crowding up that room with our sorrow; I was at her feet. The chair just sits there now, punctuated by her death.
I miss you, mom.
Friday, September 30, 2011
2 month reflection of grief
My mom passed away on July 31, so this weekend marks 2 months of time since she has been gone. My sister just wrote about her grief and how she is handling it on her blog, just as I was sitting down to the computer to do the same. I guess our heads are in the same space- trying to enjoy the beauty of our children while also watching the calendar tick by and missing mom with a desperate longing.
Two months have gone by, and I still haven't visited her grave, despite it being just a couple miles away. Despite driving literally past it on several occasions. Each time I accidentally drive by (it's off a major road here), my eyes flood with tears and my hands shake against the steering wheel. I had to pull over to collect myself once.
The only time I have been to her grave was at her burial. I felt like a crazed, injured animal and wanted to run away as fast as I could. Instead, I hid my tears under a pair of dark sunglasses - it was a hot, sunny summer day - and quietly sat and held my sister's hand. I'm not ready to go back. I don't know if I ever will be.
I miss you, mom. It isn't getting easier to accept that you are gone yet. There are so many moments that you are missing and it's just not fair. I'm not feeling like looking at any of the bright side at this very moment. I so often tell people, "Yes, it's hard, but there have been blessings too..." but that's really to make other people feel better. The truth is that it is a terrible thing that my dad doesn't have a wife, my daughters don't have a grandma, and I don't have a mom. I don't think that's ever going to go away.
Two months have gone by, and I still haven't visited her grave, despite it being just a couple miles away. Despite driving literally past it on several occasions. Each time I accidentally drive by (it's off a major road here), my eyes flood with tears and my hands shake against the steering wheel. I had to pull over to collect myself once.
The only time I have been to her grave was at her burial. I felt like a crazed, injured animal and wanted to run away as fast as I could. Instead, I hid my tears under a pair of dark sunglasses - it was a hot, sunny summer day - and quietly sat and held my sister's hand. I'm not ready to go back. I don't know if I ever will be.
I miss you, mom. It isn't getting easier to accept that you are gone yet. There are so many moments that you are missing and it's just not fair. I'm not feeling like looking at any of the bright side at this very moment. I so often tell people, "Yes, it's hard, but there have been blessings too..." but that's really to make other people feel better. The truth is that it is a terrible thing that my dad doesn't have a wife, my daughters don't have a grandma, and I don't have a mom. I don't think that's ever going to go away.
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