Needless to say that Thanksgiving and Christmas 2000 weren’t joy-filled holidays. But, we made it through . . . somehow. And, the new year passed as did each day following. Life started to settle down and the days weren’t as difficult. I didn’t realize, though, that it was leading up to a calm before the storm. So, this is what happened . . . I was out with some friends on a regular Friday or Saturday night, I can’t remember which. It was April and probably one of the first times I agreed to go out with a group of people. I recall it was an ordinary night of shooting pool and hanging out. Nothing too out of the ordinary. The great thing about it is that I was having a good time. But the change took less than a split second. Suddenly I felt like the only person in a room full of people. My mood immediately sombered and all I knew was that I had to get out, I had to leave. The change was evident to everyone. And all of my friends tried to persuade me to stay, but I wasn’t having any of it. I had to leave. Immediately. I remember that when the mood changed, I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly was bothersome. I couldn’t figure what put me in such an immediate and rapid emotional spiral.
It was the day before Easter. Now, you may be asking yourself, what’s so special about Easter. Well, the answer is nothing. Absolutely nothing. EXCEPT for the fact that when I was younger, my mother and I would dye eggs. AND, until I graduated from college, each year, without fail, my mother gave me a Godiva bunny. It’s not like I was expecting a chocolate bunny this particular year. I hadn’t received one from my mother in at least five years. It was the memory of what was that sent me in a spiral. It was the memory and the idea that I’ll never be given another Godiva bunny on Easter by my mother. Ever.
See, when I went through some therapy and what not, no one told me that there would be random days or holidays that would unleash surges in grief and emotion. Easter of all holidays! But, it made sense. It didn’t matter that whatever I used to do on those holidays, for example, I didn’t do anymore. It was just the fact that I would never do them again with my mother that caused such turmoil. You see, I didn’t just stop there. I would continue the string of what won’t happen by stating she won’t be present to help me plan a wedding, she won’t be present when I have my first child . . . all these milestones in my life to come and she won’t be present. Physically present.
So, now, Thanksgiving and the 8th anniversary of my mother’s passing are fast approaching. And much as I’ve done since the first year of my mother’s passing, I mentally prepare myself. I’ve taken every approach that one can create and I haven’t been consistent as the years have passed, either. There are times when I hide, maybe I’ll allow one or two around me, maybe I’ll just want to be at my mother’s grave . . . I can never be sure the approach, I just know that I actively remind myself to be gentle with myself because of what’s approaching. While I am experiencing much of the same emotions and feelings as I usually do, there’s an added twist this year. There’s someone I want her to meet so much. There’s someone a part of my life now that I think she would truly have liked and welcomed into the family with open arms. It’s someone who, for the first time, I want to introduce to my mother. Alive or not, I don’t think I’ve ever had that feeling about any man who’s been a part of my life. I feel that way now because I think she’d laugh and see that I got it right this time. And I know she waited and hoped that I would . . .
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Never give up . . . on anyone
I knew my mother was sick . . . I knew there wasn't much time left for her. But, I always thought there would be time for us to try and mend fences. I thought there would be time for us to find resolution and closure to the past together. I was wrong. I missed out on opportunity after opportunity to make amends with my mother, but towards the end, I gave up. If there's one trait I could say I definitely I inherited from my mother it's her stubbornness. Ok, and maybe a sense of pride. Though it is no excuse, I know that I gave up meeting my mother halfway because each time I did, it got me nowhere.
See, my mother and I were so similar that if you put the two of us in a room together (alone) the equivalent of a verbal World War III would break out. That’s just how we were . . . from the time I could probably speak, we rarely saw eye to eye on things. We were constantly arguing. But, the flip side is that when we got along, we really got along. We had a blast when we would go shopping together. She always gave into my ploys of “forgetting my wallet at home” and footing the bill. She did this even when I was a college student. There were times when my mother and I just laughed and laughed together – late night drives across the state of Pennsylvania, unpacking our house when we moved to Philadelphia, incredible shopping trips for prom dresses, etc. But, all that was lost on us when we didn’t get along. And in the last few years of her life, there were many things that brought her disappointment and sadness about some of the choices I made for myself.
For me, when my mother was getting really sick and the future was looking dim, my fears completely surfaced. I feared her dying thinking I was such a huge disappointment, that she hated me, etc. And what made it even worse was that the last time I saw her, two days before she died, I barely said a word to her. In fact, I don’t think I said anything and at the time, I had no idea if she even knew I was there. So, yeah, she died and our last moment together was silence. No words. Nothing. And this realization echoed through every inch of me.
So, there I was. My mother was gone and we had no resolution. No closure. Nothing. And I had all these lingering questions. Perhaps it seems childish or insane that I thought my mother hated me or that I was nothing but a disappointment in her eyes . . . but our relationship was so tenuous that these were truly my fears. Thus, in addition to feeling sad and grieving . . . I was angry because my mother left before we could resolve anything. She died without shedding a small ray on how she really felt.
God, yes, God, has a funny sense of humor though . . . either that or an incredible sense of timing. As I reveled in this anger, my father told me that my mother’s nurse was on the phone and she was asking for me. Her request was simple – to come to the house to talk to me about my mother and her last hours. Of course I said come over; which she did, the very next day. Never in a million years did I think that she would be my answer. What she conveyed to me was something I never thought I’d hear or learn about my mother’s thoughts. Especially during her last hours. In a nutshell, when all was said and done, the nurse told me that my mother was proud of me and the woman I had become. That though I didn’t follow the path she thought I should have, that I didn’t do so bad. And yes, she loved me. Apparently, my mother woke up calling for me and then proceeded to spend however long talking with the nurse about me and my life. She tried to express such disdain, worry and, perhaps, disappointment . . . but the nurse told me that when she simplified it for my mother, she couldn’t argue with the fact that I had a good job, a roof over my head and the ability to take care of myself. My mother conceded that there really wasn’t much more she could ask or expect. At least not at that point. And most of all . . . my mother loved me.
For quite some time, I was bitter because I couldn't understand why my mother couldn't have just said these things to me. Why she couldn't just, for once, tell me "I love you" without it being a battle of the wills. Why she couldn't have just met me halfway. Just. Once.
Now, I am not bitter or angry that it wasn't my mother who could have told me these things herself. She had her reasons . . . which I do understand. Rather, I am grateful that the nurse felt compelled to share this information. I am grateful that my mother was able to have this sort of conversation and leave nothing unresolved. It was Thanksgiving Day when I learned all of this . . . talk about something to be grateful for.
See, my mother and I were so similar that if you put the two of us in a room together (alone) the equivalent of a verbal World War III would break out. That’s just how we were . . . from the time I could probably speak, we rarely saw eye to eye on things. We were constantly arguing. But, the flip side is that when we got along, we really got along. We had a blast when we would go shopping together. She always gave into my ploys of “forgetting my wallet at home” and footing the bill. She did this even when I was a college student. There were times when my mother and I just laughed and laughed together – late night drives across the state of Pennsylvania, unpacking our house when we moved to Philadelphia, incredible shopping trips for prom dresses, etc. But, all that was lost on us when we didn’t get along. And in the last few years of her life, there were many things that brought her disappointment and sadness about some of the choices I made for myself.
For me, when my mother was getting really sick and the future was looking dim, my fears completely surfaced. I feared her dying thinking I was such a huge disappointment, that she hated me, etc. And what made it even worse was that the last time I saw her, two days before she died, I barely said a word to her. In fact, I don’t think I said anything and at the time, I had no idea if she even knew I was there. So, yeah, she died and our last moment together was silence. No words. Nothing. And this realization echoed through every inch of me.
So, there I was. My mother was gone and we had no resolution. No closure. Nothing. And I had all these lingering questions. Perhaps it seems childish or insane that I thought my mother hated me or that I was nothing but a disappointment in her eyes . . . but our relationship was so tenuous that these were truly my fears. Thus, in addition to feeling sad and grieving . . . I was angry because my mother left before we could resolve anything. She died without shedding a small ray on how she really felt.
God, yes, God, has a funny sense of humor though . . . either that or an incredible sense of timing. As I reveled in this anger, my father told me that my mother’s nurse was on the phone and she was asking for me. Her request was simple – to come to the house to talk to me about my mother and her last hours. Of course I said come over; which she did, the very next day. Never in a million years did I think that she would be my answer. What she conveyed to me was something I never thought I’d hear or learn about my mother’s thoughts. Especially during her last hours. In a nutshell, when all was said and done, the nurse told me that my mother was proud of me and the woman I had become. That though I didn’t follow the path she thought I should have, that I didn’t do so bad. And yes, she loved me. Apparently, my mother woke up calling for me and then proceeded to spend however long talking with the nurse about me and my life. She tried to express such disdain, worry and, perhaps, disappointment . . . but the nurse told me that when she simplified it for my mother, she couldn’t argue with the fact that I had a good job, a roof over my head and the ability to take care of myself. My mother conceded that there really wasn’t much more she could ask or expect. At least not at that point. And most of all . . . my mother loved me.
For quite some time, I was bitter because I couldn't understand why my mother couldn't have just said these things to me. Why she couldn't just, for once, tell me "I love you" without it being a battle of the wills. Why she couldn't have just met me halfway. Just. Once.
Now, I am not bitter or angry that it wasn't my mother who could have told me these things herself. She had her reasons . . . which I do understand. Rather, I am grateful that the nurse felt compelled to share this information. I am grateful that my mother was able to have this sort of conversation and leave nothing unresolved. It was Thanksgiving Day when I learned all of this . . . talk about something to be grateful for.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Passing the torch
The day of my mother's service is a day that I still don't remember completely. To me, everything seems like a blur. I do remember thinking that I couldn't believe what we were actually doing . . . that we were burying my mother. Everyone appeared on edge and of little words. And me, I was screaming inside. All I wanted was for my mother to be.
We arrived at the church for the service . . . and there she was - laying down in a box. She was dressed in one of her favorite suits. She looked so peaceful, she looked like she was asleep. But, I knew differently. But oh how I would have traded places with her - she deserved to be here. In my opinion, she wasn't done yet . . . we weren't done yet - there was so much more for her to accomplish as a professional and so much more for us to accomplish as mother and daughter. Apparently, though, that wasn't the case. Her time had come and it couldn't have been clearer than looking at the front of the church seeing her laying there. Peaceful.
I don't remember much of the service. My aunts did a couple of readings, one of my mother's close co-workers and my brother gave a eulogy. And the whole time my brother was speaking, all I could think was that he was so stoic, together, calm. Meanwhile, I was just numb. Looking around the church all I could see was a sea of people - it was standing room only. All these people who had crossed paths with my mother either permanently or temporarily had come to say their final goodbyes. It was an amazing sight. I think the breaking point for me during the service was when these very people did, in fact, say their final good byes to my mother. For, I guess as tradition or protocol holds, you then (again) express your condolences to the family. I can't tell you how many hands I shook, how many faces (familiar and unfamiliar) I saw, how many times I heard "I'm sorry". And I think it was the first time I ever saw my brother shed a tear over our mother's death.
After the service, I (yes, me) led the procession away from the front of the church holding a picture of my mother, my cousins were behind me holding my mother's casket. I remember focusing so hard on walking. I couldn't see through the tears that were just streaming down my face. It was too much for me. See, nothing really prepares you for a moment like this. Nothing prepares you for the loss of a parent, let alone how to get through a service in his/her honor.
When we finally got back to the house after the service at the cemetery, there was so much to be done - food to be put out, drinks to be served, people to be tended to. And this is where I finally felt some sort of familiarity - the hostess-ing. Immediately, I saw to the caterers, made the rounds to see that everyone had a drink, etc. I made small talk with people, listened in on some conversations where people were reminiscing about my mother - the good, the bad, the crazy. Throughout the day, my focus was on the guests - to make sure that everyone had what they needed. When I took a moment to breath, it was then I heard some guests talking about me. Revelling in how I had stepped into my mother's role of hostess so seamlessly. That on the first day of having to be the matriarch, I had done my mother proud.
Of course that was a proud moment for me, but a sad one as well. I didn't want that role. I didn't chose for that to happen when it did. But, in a house full of guests - what was I to do? I know my mother would have wanted me to take the reins and do what she would have done. All those parties she had where she had me running around like a maniac finally made sense to me. She did that so when it was my time, I would be able to pull off being a hostess to the degree that she did. So that I wouldn't question what I thought needed to be done, so that everything would flow smoothly and no one would notice the great effort it took to make it all happen. And there I stood, surveying the crowd of people in the house and making a mental list of who needed what, where there needed to be more food, where there were things that needed to be cleaned up. There I stood . . . in her shoes.
We arrived at the church for the service . . . and there she was - laying down in a box. She was dressed in one of her favorite suits. She looked so peaceful, she looked like she was asleep. But, I knew differently. But oh how I would have traded places with her - she deserved to be here. In my opinion, she wasn't done yet . . . we weren't done yet - there was so much more for her to accomplish as a professional and so much more for us to accomplish as mother and daughter. Apparently, though, that wasn't the case. Her time had come and it couldn't have been clearer than looking at the front of the church seeing her laying there. Peaceful.
I don't remember much of the service. My aunts did a couple of readings, one of my mother's close co-workers and my brother gave a eulogy. And the whole time my brother was speaking, all I could think was that he was so stoic, together, calm. Meanwhile, I was just numb. Looking around the church all I could see was a sea of people - it was standing room only. All these people who had crossed paths with my mother either permanently or temporarily had come to say their final goodbyes. It was an amazing sight. I think the breaking point for me during the service was when these very people did, in fact, say their final good byes to my mother. For, I guess as tradition or protocol holds, you then (again) express your condolences to the family. I can't tell you how many hands I shook, how many faces (familiar and unfamiliar) I saw, how many times I heard "I'm sorry". And I think it was the first time I ever saw my brother shed a tear over our mother's death.
After the service, I (yes, me) led the procession away from the front of the church holding a picture of my mother, my cousins were behind me holding my mother's casket. I remember focusing so hard on walking. I couldn't see through the tears that were just streaming down my face. It was too much for me. See, nothing really prepares you for a moment like this. Nothing prepares you for the loss of a parent, let alone how to get through a service in his/her honor.
When we finally got back to the house after the service at the cemetery, there was so much to be done - food to be put out, drinks to be served, people to be tended to. And this is where I finally felt some sort of familiarity - the hostess-ing. Immediately, I saw to the caterers, made the rounds to see that everyone had a drink, etc. I made small talk with people, listened in on some conversations where people were reminiscing about my mother - the good, the bad, the crazy. Throughout the day, my focus was on the guests - to make sure that everyone had what they needed. When I took a moment to breath, it was then I heard some guests talking about me. Revelling in how I had stepped into my mother's role of hostess so seamlessly. That on the first day of having to be the matriarch, I had done my mother proud.
Of course that was a proud moment for me, but a sad one as well. I didn't want that role. I didn't chose for that to happen when it did. But, in a house full of guests - what was I to do? I know my mother would have wanted me to take the reins and do what she would have done. All those parties she had where she had me running around like a maniac finally made sense to me. She did that so when it was my time, I would be able to pull off being a hostess to the degree that she did. So that I wouldn't question what I thought needed to be done, so that everything would flow smoothly and no one would notice the great effort it took to make it all happen. And there I stood, surveying the crowd of people in the house and making a mental list of who needed what, where there needed to be more food, where there were things that needed to be cleaned up. There I stood . . . in her shoes.
Monday, October 27, 2008
One foot in front of the other
The days that followed were a complete struggle. The week after that fateful day, I stayed in Philadelphia for another week to help my father. But, it didn’t take long for him to shoo me away to go back home. I relented, but I had no idea just how difficult it would be to resume life.
This was pretty much what happened the first week:
Day 1: Wake up, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 2: Wake up, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 3: Wake up, brush my teeth, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 4: Wake up, brush my teeth, take a shower, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 5: Wake up, brush my teeth, take a shower, get dressed, start crying . . .
Day 6: Wake up, force myself through the day.
I am grateful that at the time, my job was completely understanding of everything I was going through and the difficulty I was having resuming my daily routine. Unless you actually go through the loss of a mother, you truly have no idea how heart wrenching and painful the experience. And it makes no difference if you’re best friends or almost mortal enemies with your mother when she dies because the bottom line is that she’s gone, you’re here and that’s that.
During that time, if it hadn’t been for my friends, I really don’t know what I would have done. Anything and everything that had to do with daily life and existing was incredibly difficult for me. Truly, I didn’t want to exist. I wanted more than anything else to trade places – and I gladly would have done that. Selfish as it may sound . . . I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be in so much pain and have to be here. My father had retreated into his own depression, my brother was emotionally unavailable when it came to the topic of my mother. Talking to my aunts, uncles or cousins wasn’t really a comfort to me, either. I’d felt like a child who didn’t know how to find her way anymore.
The weeks that followed got easier. The crying wasn’t every minute, the inability to move wasn’t so powerful. The pain wasn’t as gripping and debilitating. However, today . . . almost eight years later, there are those days when it feels like it just happened; where the pain is that huge and the inability to move that powerful. And it is then when I have to remember I can allow myself to feel all of that, but I cannot be paralyzed indefinitely. I’ll never get over the pain of my mother’s death or the sheer fact that she’s gone. Anyone who expects that or tells me that I should get over it is out of his or her mind. But what is important is to let go of the grief and my mother. I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. And it’s taken me eight years to learn that lesson. I couldn’t truly move forward until I let her go.
This was pretty much what happened the first week:
Day 1: Wake up, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 2: Wake up, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 3: Wake up, brush my teeth, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 4: Wake up, brush my teeth, take a shower, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 5: Wake up, brush my teeth, take a shower, get dressed, start crying . . .
Day 6: Wake up, force myself through the day.
I am grateful that at the time, my job was completely understanding of everything I was going through and the difficulty I was having resuming my daily routine. Unless you actually go through the loss of a mother, you truly have no idea how heart wrenching and painful the experience. And it makes no difference if you’re best friends or almost mortal enemies with your mother when she dies because the bottom line is that she’s gone, you’re here and that’s that.
During that time, if it hadn’t been for my friends, I really don’t know what I would have done. Anything and everything that had to do with daily life and existing was incredibly difficult for me. Truly, I didn’t want to exist. I wanted more than anything else to trade places – and I gladly would have done that. Selfish as it may sound . . . I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be in so much pain and have to be here. My father had retreated into his own depression, my brother was emotionally unavailable when it came to the topic of my mother. Talking to my aunts, uncles or cousins wasn’t really a comfort to me, either. I’d felt like a child who didn’t know how to find her way anymore.
The weeks that followed got easier. The crying wasn’t every minute, the inability to move wasn’t so powerful. The pain wasn’t as gripping and debilitating. However, today . . . almost eight years later, there are those days when it feels like it just happened; where the pain is that huge and the inability to move that powerful. And it is then when I have to remember I can allow myself to feel all of that, but I cannot be paralyzed indefinitely. I’ll never get over the pain of my mother’s death or the sheer fact that she’s gone. Anyone who expects that or tells me that I should get over it is out of his or her mind. But what is important is to let go of the grief and my mother. I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. And it’s taken me eight years to learn that lesson. I couldn’t truly move forward until I let her go.
Friday, October 24, 2008
That Day
My mother’s death was the first family death I had to deal with. Ever. Wednesday, November 22, 2000. The day before Thanksgiving. I was living in Virginia and my goal was to leave the area for my parents’ house before 9 or 10 AM. As I was about to turn into my parking lot where I lived . . . my phone rang. It was my father and brother. While turning left, that’s when I hear the news – my mother was gone. I don’t remember how I managed to park or even get up to my apartment. What I do remember is how numb and shocked I felt. Over the weekend, one of my cousins and I figured that she’d make it until the end of the year. I didn’t think she’d leave the day before Thanksgiving.
How did it happen? Apparently ever so peacefully. My father said he went to say good morning to my mother. Perhaps they had some conversation, perhaps not. But I do know she knew he was there. He then said he told her he was going downstairs to get breakfast for them and he’d be right back upstairs. They didn’t have breakfast together. She was gone before he got back upstairs. I like to think that she held on for one more chance to see my father.
For second time in my life – I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do. I knew that this would happen, but nothing had prepared me for this moment and how to handle it. I think I just started calling people. And I kept making phone calls and it didn’t even register with me that I was calling people during the workday and they wouldn’t be able to talk. And, of course, for the moments that I was able to talk coherently, if someone said he or she couldn’t talk, then I said ok and hung up without explaining the nature of my call. After some time passed, there was a knock at the door – it was one of my friends, Dwight. He brought me the hugest Starbucks frappaccino topped with whipped cream and just sat with me. I don’t recall if there was any conversation, I just know that someone was with me. I suspect had someone not been there, I probably would have gone out of my mind. Knowing me, I probably started trying to put clothes together to get ready to leave and to keep myself occupied. But, I honestly couldn’t tell you what happened that morning.
The drive to Philadelphia was excruciatingly long. All I could think about was the fact that I was going home, but to a single-parent home. All I could notice was the massive amount of cars on the road. Well, no kidding there are a lot of cars on the road because it is the day before Thanksgiving, after all. And it was at that moment where I suddenly felt lost, abandoned . . . alone. It seemed like an eternity to get to Philadelphia and each second was pure agony. How was I supposed to walk into that house? What was I supposed to say to my father? What was I supposed to do. Period.
Seriously, I couldn’t tell you what happened once I got home. It’s all truly a blur. The next significant thing I remember is going to the funeral home . . . and all I remember thinking is that I just wish my mother would wake up; even if it meant yelling at me for whatever reason. Just wake up, dammit. She didn’t. Obviously.
That was the day. And as I sit here and try to recall all the details – I just can’t. Maybe it’s a good thing . . . maybe it’s not. But I guess at this point, it’s irrelevant. The long and short of it is that she is and was my mother. And it doesn’t really matter if I remember the details of that fateful day. What I’ve come to learn with regard to what matters is how I move on, how I remember and honor her and what I choose to do with each day that is given to me.
How did it happen? Apparently ever so peacefully. My father said he went to say good morning to my mother. Perhaps they had some conversation, perhaps not. But I do know she knew he was there. He then said he told her he was going downstairs to get breakfast for them and he’d be right back upstairs. They didn’t have breakfast together. She was gone before he got back upstairs. I like to think that she held on for one more chance to see my father.
For second time in my life – I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do. I knew that this would happen, but nothing had prepared me for this moment and how to handle it. I think I just started calling people. And I kept making phone calls and it didn’t even register with me that I was calling people during the workday and they wouldn’t be able to talk. And, of course, for the moments that I was able to talk coherently, if someone said he or she couldn’t talk, then I said ok and hung up without explaining the nature of my call. After some time passed, there was a knock at the door – it was one of my friends, Dwight. He brought me the hugest Starbucks frappaccino topped with whipped cream and just sat with me. I don’t recall if there was any conversation, I just know that someone was with me. I suspect had someone not been there, I probably would have gone out of my mind. Knowing me, I probably started trying to put clothes together to get ready to leave and to keep myself occupied. But, I honestly couldn’t tell you what happened that morning.
The drive to Philadelphia was excruciatingly long. All I could think about was the fact that I was going home, but to a single-parent home. All I could notice was the massive amount of cars on the road. Well, no kidding there are a lot of cars on the road because it is the day before Thanksgiving, after all. And it was at that moment where I suddenly felt lost, abandoned . . . alone. It seemed like an eternity to get to Philadelphia and each second was pure agony. How was I supposed to walk into that house? What was I supposed to say to my father? What was I supposed to do. Period.
Seriously, I couldn’t tell you what happened once I got home. It’s all truly a blur. The next significant thing I remember is going to the funeral home . . . and all I remember thinking is that I just wish my mother would wake up; even if it meant yelling at me for whatever reason. Just wake up, dammit. She didn’t. Obviously.
That was the day. And as I sit here and try to recall all the details – I just can’t. Maybe it’s a good thing . . . maybe it’s not. But I guess at this point, it’s irrelevant. The long and short of it is that she is and was my mother. And it doesn’t really matter if I remember the details of that fateful day. What I’ve come to learn with regard to what matters is how I move on, how I remember and honor her and what I choose to do with each day that is given to me.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The Nuts and Bolts - Why? Who? How?
Why am I doing this? Because it's healing. Because it brings the cycle full circle. Because I want to. Because I'm ready. It's hard enough to deal with the death of a parent. What makes it harder is that unless you've actually experienced the death of your mother you have no idea what it is like. And even if you experienced the loss of a parent, you can only sympathize. There are far too many factors that affect how a person reacts, handles and lives in the aftermath where another individual could actually empathize with how I felt and still feel with respect to my mother's death. So if no one other than me ever lays eyes on this particular blog . . . I'm okay with that because this is for me more than anyone else to help me down the road of healing and recovering.
Who? Well, it is my mother who this revolves around. And it is about and for me as well. Anyone else who comes along for the ride is more than welcome.
How? It was November 22, 2000 when I received the phone call from my father and brother. We all knew it was coming, however, we, or maybe just I, thought that it wouldn't happen until after the holidays. My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer less than 8 months before she passed. She went over a year undiagnosed - one doctor thought it was TB, another thought acid reflux, etc. No one ever thought to look for lung cancer - she didn't smoke. Nor was she around people who do smoke. After she was properly diagnosed, I think it was already Stage II or III. Immediately my mother started chemo/radiation . . . it was heart-wrenching to watch her go through those processes. After her first round, the doctors were relieved because it seemed as though she was doing fine. Then . . . my mother started saying how her bones were hurting and it hurt for her to walk. Yeah, you guessed it - the cancer had spread to her bones. This is never a good thing. By the time she went in for x-rays, the cancer had spread to her brain. That was, literally, the kiss of death. In less than 3 months, my mother died peacefully in our home.
Why? It is almost eight years later and I find that I am at a point where I want to talk about her more. Where I want to share my mommy-and-me stories. Where I want to celebrate my mother.
So, Mom - this is for you.
Who? Well, it is my mother who this revolves around. And it is about and for me as well. Anyone else who comes along for the ride is more than welcome.
How? It was November 22, 2000 when I received the phone call from my father and brother. We all knew it was coming, however, we, or maybe just I, thought that it wouldn't happen until after the holidays. My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer less than 8 months before she passed. She went over a year undiagnosed - one doctor thought it was TB, another thought acid reflux, etc. No one ever thought to look for lung cancer - she didn't smoke. Nor was she around people who do smoke. After she was properly diagnosed, I think it was already Stage II or III. Immediately my mother started chemo/radiation . . . it was heart-wrenching to watch her go through those processes. After her first round, the doctors were relieved because it seemed as though she was doing fine. Then . . . my mother started saying how her bones were hurting and it hurt for her to walk. Yeah, you guessed it - the cancer had spread to her bones. This is never a good thing. By the time she went in for x-rays, the cancer had spread to her brain. That was, literally, the kiss of death. In less than 3 months, my mother died peacefully in our home.
Why? It is almost eight years later and I find that I am at a point where I want to talk about her more. Where I want to share my mommy-and-me stories. Where I want to celebrate my mother.
So, Mom - this is for you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)