The Next Breath

Well, the hard part is over. The eighth anniversary of my mother's passing is over. And, surprisingly, it went smoothly. I was with my father, his wife and my significant other, who could not have been a stronger rock for my roller coaster emotions. 

And then I thought, well, ok, so it's over, so what's next for all my writing? It started as a cathartic thing for all my feelings and emotions as her anniversary approached. And it worked. It brought a lot of clarity to me and my feelings. Then, I thought about my original goal when I started writing again. Last year. Yeah, a while ago. My original goal at that time was to do a crapload of writing to put together in a book and maybe even publish. The thought was to record my journey of healing, mainly healing from my mother's death. But, then, last night, I thought - there's so much to write about. The healing from my mother's death. The journey of my discovery of my mother in me. The lessons learned from my mother. Basically the good, the bad, the ugly. And, possibly even something that my children may read to learn about their grandmother and how their own mother was raised.  The journey of healing and learning will be lifelong one in which I am excited to record. So, join me if you will.

With brutal honesty about one of the most unsettling relationships I will ever have, perhaps it will bring me peace. Perhaps it will bring you peace or realizations that you thought not possible.

Who I am

I wonder sometimes if I really know my mother . . . if I ever knew her. It's funny because a few years ago, I probably would have scoffed at someone who asked me to talk about my mother and what I knew her to be, etc. Honestly, I probably would have been incredibly positive about the professional side of my mother, but not so much about her personal side. The truth of the matter is that I do know my mother and I am able to be positive about her professional and personal side. See, the bottom line is that my mother is in me . . . she is part of me. Down to the very core. 

I chuckle to myself when I realize my night vision is horrible. Or when I am ridiculously stubborn with others or myself. A smile rises from the depths when I realize that in a shop full of items, I am drawn to the ones of the highest quality (and likely to cost the most). When I find myself suddenly incredibly impatient or intolerant of others at times, I shake my head because that is so my mother.

When I see how I am today and how I have been, I am able recognize immediately where that particular characteristic/trait came from. It's easily identifiable as to whether it is my mother's or father's. As I would recognize a trait of my mother's in me, it used to make my skin crawl. It gave me no joy whatsoever to say to myself, I am my mother's daughter. However, today is a far different story. I have come to a place where I embrace each and every characteristic that is either my father's or my mother's. I am able to say that yes, I am my mother's daughter and enjoy making that statement. That's just another way to keep her spirit alive and honor her memory.

Ordinary day

So, today is the day. To my surprise, it's been relatively smooth sailing. I didn't wake up with a shroud of grey over my head. I didn't wake up not wanting to face the day. I woke up with somewhat a sense of renewal . . . a feeling that it is time to turn things around.

I went about the normal morning routine. Took the dog for a walk - we ran into a good friend with her dog. It was nice to spend some time catching up and watching the dogs run around and play. Got home, brought in the paper, made some coffee and actually interacted with my father's wife. This is a first for me - to interact with her and actually enjoy the conversation and not feel resentful that it should not be her standing there. Had some early chatting with my father then proceeded to do the crossword puzzle as I drank my coffee. It's like any other ordinary Saturday - except for the fact that my father is here and it has now been eight years since my mother's death.

It seems, in many ways, that this year is a turning point or a point of change for my father and I with respect to handling this day. My father didn't arrange a service or big gathering to honor my mother's memory. I am smiling, enjoying the day. It is as if in some non-verbal and unexplicable way, my father and I silently agreed to just let this be another ordinary day. Yes, we will go and see my mother and place a wreath of flowers at her site. And then we'll have lunch, as we do every year on the anniversary of her passing. However, it is without ceremony and formality that this will be done. We will each honor her and think of her, but then let the day pass as if it were any other ordinary day. And maybe, just maybe, that's how we need to look at it so that we may continue to put one foot in front of the other and continue moving on and letting go. Because, really, it is just another day. Neither my father nor I need to commemorate my mother's memory any differently than we would on any other day. This is just a day.

But, if this is just a day . . . it just doesn't feel that way.

A letter

Dear Mom,

Well, tomorrow it will be eight years since you have left a world of physical pain. And also, eight years since you left us behind. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about you. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish you were here. Though I know letting you go puts us both at peace, it is still such a difficult task.

I'm sitting here listening to Christmas music, and your favorite one, "O Holy Night" is playing in the background. And all I can think of are all the happy Christmases we had together, especially the first one we had when we moved to Philadelphia 20+ years ago. And how both of us would get eerily silent when "O Holy Night" would be playing. It snowed today, for the first time this winter. And I said how beautiful it is to you, under my breath. It was as if were right there in the car. If only.

I miss you like crazy. There are so many things I want to tell you, share with you. But, reality is that (1) I simply cannot do that and (2) you already are aware of everything. You know that I've fallen in love with an amazing man that I just can't wait to marry and have children with. You know that I've been wallowing in misery at times because I miss you. You know that my dog is growing up each and every day. You know. You know it all. You see it all. And I know that you see my attempts and small steps at moving forward. You already know that not every piece of jewelry on me was once yours. You already know that I am trying to let you go. But not because I want to forget you. But because that's what needs to be done to let the healing continue. Sometimes it's hard to remember that letting go doesn't mean forgetting you.

In fact, forgetting you just isn't possible. I am at a point now where I love sharing memories I have of you and me - shopping, when we first moved to Philly, our drives home with KFC in the car, your inability to get home successfully sometimes from the market (that was less than 10 minutes from our house) . . . how we used to watch "The Wizard of Oz" and "The Sound of Music" each year when there on television . . . tales of our shared stubbornness . . . I revel in all of it. So, while some things have changed, know that you'll not be forgotten. I can't wait for the hurt to lessen so the real joy of you being my mother may settle in. I can't wait to have children and tell them all about their grandmother and what an incredible woman she was. And I can't wait for the guilt of letting go subside so that I can just remember you with a smile on my face, always.

So, yes, the firsts now of my baked goods will go to my future husband. And if I have a daughter, I will learn from our mistakes so as to have a better relationship with my daughter than we were able to have before you left. Your strength of character, dedication to work and family along with your silliness will live on forever in me. I know you want me to move forward and take joy in all that I have . . . and I am trying to do that. Don't worry, I can feel your swift kick in my arse to nudge me along!


I love you, Mom.
Forever your daughter,
Kathryn

My lesson for you

She drove me nuts.
We argued within minutes of being together.
We rarely agreed.

We loved to go shopping together.
We loved our dinners out, just the two of us.
We watched cheesy TV together and swapped trashy novels or magazines.

We didn't exactly have an incredibly consistent relationship, but if nothing else, we were definitely mother and daughter. And despite all the screaming matches, disagreements and disappointments, there isn't anything I wouldn't do to have her here. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to be able to have just one more day, one more hour, one more minute with my mother.

Just one more moment in time to take in her breath, to take in her love. To tell her that above all and despite everything, that I love her. Just one more moment in time to bring closure to all that remained between us. Just one more moment in time for her to hear me call her "mom." Just one more moment to feel her presence.

I thought there would be more time. I thought she'd hang on just a little longer. I thought we would have the chance to come to a final place of agreement . . . even if it was just to disagree. I didn't think she would go so soon. I didn't think that there wouldn't be another chance to tell her how much I love her.

And these are the things that run through my mind each year as the date of her death approaches. It is this time of year when it sometimes becomes so hard for me to find my footing. To feel as though I have a place in this world. I never realized just how lonely it can be to NOT have a mother. Clearly it's not because I miss our friend-like relationship, but just the fact that one of my constants is no longer that - constant. It puts me a place where I have to find my strength of character to go about my daily business and function when that is the very last thing I want to do.

Time is precious.
Life is precious.
Our parents . . . they are precious.
Remember this when it's most difficult for you to do so. Remember this the next time you don't want to go and see your parents. Or pick up the phone and call them. Remember this when you think your parents are being oh so annoying.

This is our one chance in life to get it right with our parents. There are no mulligans. Once they're gone. That's it. And that is a hard pill to swallow when you live your life thinking there would always be more time.

Never put off tomorrow what you can do today.

Lessons

Last night I returned from a brief getaway to Orlando. I was right across the street from Disney World. Right across from where they have the one ride with the one song that my mother and I used to sing over and over again when I was younger. It’s a Small World. I remember the last time I was in Orlando, going to Magic Kingdom and riding on that ride was an absolute must. There was no getting around it, there was no way I wasn’t going to do that. This time – it was less of a must and more of a maybe. Surprisingly . . . the maybe didn’t bother me in the least. In fact, I started off thinking that I had to find a way to fit going to Magic Kingdom into the one full day I had in Orlando. And I couldn’t see that happening without wanting to lose my mind. And, quite frankly, in my mind, there were also other things that I wanted to take care of during the day. In fact, I could think of nothing more than helping out my significant other and taking care of what I needed.

So there was my sign. There were the flashing lights letting me know that in some way I was choosing to move on. That I was choosing to do what I am sure my mother has been wanting me to do since she died. Move on. Take care of myself. Live in the present. Admittedly, I have struggled with this since the day my mother left. I struggle with it as each year clicks by that she hasn’t been here. However, this year has been the first year where I’ve really felt okay and strong enough to take steps towards letting her go. It’s actually resonating with me that letting go doesn’t mean that I’m forgetting her or that I’m disrespecting her in some grand way. Rather, to move is honoring her and letting her be at peace.

This year has been a year of struggles and hard lessons learned. But it has also been the year of many incredibly wonderful lessons. Most of all, I’ve begun looking towards a life with someone who accepts me just as I am. Someone who has always allowed me to feel my grief and sadness. Someone who has reveled in the good with me. Someone who has always found a gentle way of letting me know that torturing myself and holding on so tightly to my mother aren’t exactly good things to do. And because of that . . . because of the freedom I have to talk about my mother and share the memories I finally feel and understand that letting go is exactly what I need to do to let my healing continue.

So, on this, the almost eight year anniversary of my mother’s death – I will strive to let her go and let her remain free so that we can both move on. And, on this the eighth Thanksgiving without her, I am grateful for a man who understands that to love me is to hold me when I cry for my mother and encourage me to let go of my past and embrace my future. Just as my mother would want me to do.

The ties that bind

For almost eight years, a piece of my mother has always been close. Ok, maybe not a piece of her, but something or some things that were once hers. Since the day she died, almost all my jewelry that I wear was hers - the first diamond earrings my father ever gave my mother along with a necklace and ring that she wore quite frequently. For eight years, nothing ever changed, unless it was to change my jewelry (to some other jewelry that was once my mother's) for a formal event. The construct was always the same though - earrings, ring and necklace was always something that she once wore. By doing this, I felt as though my mother was always close to me and it was a great source of comfort. But, it wasn't until recently that it occurred to me that maybe what I was doing wasn't the best of ideas. That by doing this on a daily basis I was trapping both myself and my mother.

Though my mother is gone . . . my inability to truly let her go has been debilitating to me and also to her soul. You may not believe in that, but I do. While I was trying so hard to hold on to her and keep her presence here, it just doesn't work like that way. She's gone. She's not going to come back . . . no matter how much of her jewelry I keep on my person. No matter how hard I think about her and remember her every single day. She's not going to materialize and suddenly be here, physically.

See, what I failed to realize completely is that she is with me. Everyday. That she is inherently a part of me. No kidding, right? But, it's funny how one can forget about this when it seems like the continuum has been thrown off. I am my mother's daughter. I have the freedom to think about her and honor her in any way I choose, whenever I choose. I don't need to have on a favorite ring of hers to honor her. I don't have to try and keep her alive in my mind and in everyone else's mind to respect her. I don't have to punish myself to make up for what never happened between my mother and I to honor her memory. And to make it seem like she died in vain. I don't have to do any of that. In fact, I have to do the complete opposite. I have to live.

I have to make the conscience decision every day to live the life that she would have wanted me to live. To be successful. To be happy. To not wallow in the misery of her absence. To remember her and laugh. To remember her and pass on all that I have learned form her to others and, hopefully one day, my children. I know that she would not want me to live like this, to live with such a death grip on the past. To live with such a hold on her soul because I don't want it to appear as though she's forgotten. What I do have to do is continue to move forward and let go of the sadness. To let go of the mourning. To let go of her.

So, I have taken more steps to completing the cycle of letting go. I have retired the notion that I must keep her close by having tangible pieces of her jewelry on my person. And I have taken action to break my debilitating cycle.

While I am moving on and letting go of her . . . she will never be forgotten. Her strength of character, the silly moments we shared and the lessons she taught me will be passed on and shared. I will honor her memory by living the life that I know she would want me to live. The life she would want me to live free of guilt and sadness.

She will always be with me. She was, is and will always be my mother.

Perspective

As each year passes since my mother died goes by, it still seems surreal. It still seems . . . unreal. But, what I do know and think about each year is just how much my mother's daughter I truly am. To be honest, I never thought I'd ever say something like that about me and my mother. To me, I thought to be like her would be the worst thing EVER. But, as the days pass . . . I couldn't be prouder of the fact that I truly am my mother's daughter. And that it's evident, even in some of the simplest and silliest ways. When I recognize the similarities, all I do is smile and laugh to myself. In other cases, I'll just say something to the effect of I have my mother to thank. And most times, I'm not being sarcastic.

I thought of this very topic last night while I was going home from work. It was later than I usually leave, so it was dark and rainy. After driving for a bit, I noticed my back was hurting as were my eyes. I took a minute to think about it and realized I was death gripping the steering wheel and squinting - yes, there it was . . . the lack of night vision that my mother has bestowed upon me. All I could do was shake my head, smile and chuckle quietly to myself.

In almost every way now, I am my mother's daughter. I am capable of her temper, incredible stubbornness and perseverence. I have her appreciation for the finer things in life, both shopping and dining, as well as her flair for being ridiculously silly. And while I revel in these thoughts, I have to wonder how my father feels about that. Whether when he looks at me, does he see my mother. And if he does . . . does he hate me for it? Those questions never occurred to me before until recently. It was pointed out to me that while I may feel abandoned by my remaining family members - it is appropriate to think about how my father must feel in comparison to the sadness I feel because my mother isn't here.

My father's partner of 25+ years is no longer here. He is a retired doctor . . . he couldn't save/ cure her. Their children remain one of whom is a daughter that in many ways is like his deceased wife. What he must feel when he looks at me . . . and then I wonder, what does he see. In so many ways, much of how my mother was is now a part of me - from the lack of night vision to making sure parties are planned for appropriately to the headstrong personality.

Being my mother's daughter . . . curse or blessing in disguise?

A new First

Last night I made dessert for me and my awesome significant other. I decided I would make chocolate lava cakes. Now, don't be impressed, really, because it was just a mix. The problem for me was two-fold - I wasn't in my own kitchen and this was the first time I've made these things. Whenever I tried a recipe for the first time . . . or whenever I would bake . . . firsts were always to my mother.

Whether it was chocolate chip cookies, blueberry muffins or a new recipe for dessert . . . my mother always had the first. I remember I would take a plate out, just for her . . . and as something came right out of the oven, she got the first one. Always. Even when I moved out of my house this would happen on days when I knew I would be going to see my parents. I would take the first and put it on a plate for her. It didn't matter if she was actually going to be the first to eat my creation, all that mattered was that she was the recipient of the first one.

So back to last night . . . I was baking these delicious looking chocolate lava cakes for dessert. As they were baking, the smell filled the house and was just awesome. I got blue for a moment because I realized that my mother would not be getting the first. But, the flipside of that is that my significant other would be receiving the first. And he will be receiving the first from here on out. That's not such a bad thing. If my original first's shoes must be filled, I truly cannot think of a better person to fill those shoes than he.

My mother had all my past firsts and she loved every single one (at least that's what she told me). I'll always want for her to be the first, but reality dictates otherwise. So, my significant other will have the present and future firsts. Not such a bad trade, in my opinion.

Fight or flight

Family. This time of year generally has me thinking a lot about family . . . the ones that are still here and those who have gone. It also reminds me of that "left behind" feeling. My mother is gone. My father generally spends most of his time in CA now. My brother is married and living in Shanghai. So, yes, I tend to get lost in that "left behind" feeling as the anniversary of my mother's passing approaches. The past few days, especially, I've been feeling especially blue and feel as though I have multiple personalities. It's amazing that anyone around me can deal with, what I think is craziness. Now, I do know that at some point, whether it be a couple of days or a week, I will shake these blues, sadness, whatever you want to call it. And I shared that yesterday while apologizing, yet again, for my recent craziness. It was at that moment that I was reminded that while it may seem as though everyone, in some way, has left me, I am in the process of building a family of my own.

Oh yeah, that's right! I'm building my own family. A family where life will be created and celebrated. A family where there will be no feeling of "left behind" - at least not immediately. the best part . . . I am creating a family with a man who I am so in love with. And this is the good stuff that I have to remember when all I want to do is be engulfed by the sadness that plagues me because my mother is gone. Yet keeping that perspective at the forefront of my mind is so difficult at times.

It remains difficult at times because I feel as though all I've been doing for the past eight years is re-building my life. Creating an existence without the presence of my mother. Re-creating my sense of family since now all that remains are the three of us . . . separated by ocean and land. And I have to admit that at times, it is just plain tiresome. All this rebuilding. Some days, I just want things as they were . . . the four of us.

But no, I must look forward and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Take comfort in the family I still have and continue to look forward to the family that I am creating. It's the circle and cycle of life. I can either fight it or welcome it. Some days I'm not sure what I want to engage in - a fight or life.

When I was just a little girl . . .

Given the time of year, I tend to think back of the moments of my mother and I. Most of those moments tend to be the funny . . . it's funny because most of those stolen happy moments I recall so often with my mother are ones that were so far and few between. Especially as I got older. However, my mind continues to hit rewind and play just the happy ones. I'm not disillusioned or that forgetful that I do not remember that most of the time, my mother and I fought like cats and dogs. I think at this point in time, it doesn't really matter. When I look back at times with my mother, there is already enough regret that just recalling the miserable times with her doesn't really make sense. So, yeah, I choose to remember the yearly Easter tradition where my mother gave me a chocolate Godiva bunny. Or the fit of laughter that she and I broke into when she thought she saw (identical) twins on a double date - and I mean, identical twin sisters on a date with identical twin brothers - only to realize that the couple was sitting right next to a mirror. Or the suddenly quick drives home when we had KFC in the car. Or the numerous times when we'd be out shopping and my mother would want ice cream, for example, and rather than just tell me she wants ice cream, she'd ask me if I wanted some. If I answered no, the woman would just stand there and pout and tell me I'm no fun.

The times that were the most fun were ones that usually involved shopping. Put my mother and I in any retail setting and the tensions that were between us simply melted away. I really have no explanation other than the fact that my mother and I always enjoyed shopping together. The purpose didn't matter, because usually there wasn't one. As I got older, the teasing would begin when one of us would be looking for something for me or come across something that I would like . . . when it was decided that I would get it - I generally played the "oops, I left my wallet at home" reel and though my mother would give me grief, in the end, she picked up the tab. And that was our song and dance. At the time, I always thought that I was pulling the wool over mom's eyes whenever she would finance our shopping trips, because let me tell you, when my mother and I went shopping, it was an all out event. We rarely came back empty-handed.

Looking back, though . . . I can't say that I was actually getting over on my mother. Looking back, I think it was her way of expressing a level of love or emotion that she was unable to articulate. Growing up, my family never really expressed our independent feelings. Nor was there ever many displays of affection, either. And my parents never really showed much affection towards each other. I think this always made me feel like a fish out of water because I always wanted the feel of my parents - something to make me feel safe. However, I rarely ever got that. It was generally a pat of some sort from my father and not much more from my mother. But, when it came to shopping or other events - it was no holds barred. As an adult I've come to realize that buying things or giving me excessive money when I went out was their way of showing their love. Though I thought it often as a child, it wasn't them trying to buy my love, but their way of just expressing their love because for whatever reason, they knew no other way. To engage in personal conversation or touch was beyond them.

This weekend I was on a mission for new black boots. I was also in quite a funk missing my mother. After some encouragement and nudging from my incredibly awesome boyfriend, I ventured to the outside world and went to find boots. When I finally managed to peel myself from the chasm of blankets and sadness, venturing into the outside world felt good and refreshing. After I successfully completed my quest of looking for new boots . . . I took a trip to a favorite store of mine to see what I could pick up. A little retail therapy never hurt anyone. While in the store, I was trying on a trench coat, admittedly the only trench coat I own was purchased well over 5 years ago and it was clear that it really doesn't fit properly. So, there I was standing in front of the mirror asking all the usual questions - does it fit right? Does it look okay? Will it fit properly even over a suit? And then I was hit with a wave of sadness. Suddenly, I couldn't help but notice that my mother wasn't here to answer my questions. That she wasn't around to tell me that I had indeed found the perfect trench coat. Before I could sink too far into the abyss of sadness, I hear a woman's voice telling me that the coat suits me and it looks great. I ask her if it's too big explaining that I had a thin t-shirt on underneath, she said no because I'll likely be wearing a sweater or suit jacket underneath. I thanked her and said she helped make my decision easy as she answered questions I was struggling with in my head. Before I had a chance to walk away, the very same woman asked me for my advice on two dresses she was holding. And for that moment in time, for that brief exchange with a complete stranger, it brought me back to those moments in time when my mother and I shopped together and had similar exchanges. As I walked to the register to pay for my belongings, all I did was smile to myself and knew that my mother was with me as she always has been and always will.

And as I walked out of the store, I recognized another sign that my mother was right there with me . . . I was humming one of our favorite songs.

What works for me

Truly, there is nothing worse than someone telling me that's it time I "get over it." Seriously, if you lost your mother, regardless of when, you would never tell another motherless child to "get over it." Second to that, don't tell a motherless daughter that the pain or grieve shouldn't still be debilitating - regardless of when it happens, regardless of how long ago her mother died. See, the thing that people do not realize is that you never really get over it. Obviously I cannot say that with 100% conviction. Nor is it a guarantee or absolute fact. However, from all that I have read, from all that I have heard from others . . . it is a loss that one does not wholly recover from. And finally, the fact that my mother isn't in pain anymore and is in a better place didn't bring me all that much comfort the day she left . . . so, honestly, it's really not going to bring me all that much comfort today. So, please, don't say anything remotely close to "but she's in a better place."

An old friend of mine would repeatedly tell me that it was time to move past the pain and, literally, to "get over it." Easy for anyone to say when both parents are still standing. Easy to say when you don't have to actually put that into practice. Death is hard enough to manage and cope with, let alone have to cope with the death of a parent at a time that just seems so unfair and wrong. But, to have someone tell you to get over losing half of the combination that made you? To get over losing someone who was supposed to guide me through having children? To get over someone who was supposed to do this, that and the other thing? You have got to be kidding me.

Here I stand approaching eight years to the day since my mother left this world. And still, unless I'm being irreverant to a telemarketer, I cannot bring myself to say that word . . . that she is de*d. I've said it out loud and it makes me want to vomit. Literally. Ok, so it makes me want to cry, be sad and all that other stuff. But, honestly, it makes me want to vomit. Why? What daughter, at any age, wants to say that her mother is dead? Even moreso, what daughter in her late 20s really wants to say her mother is dead. And realize that her mother won't be physically present when she gets married or when she has a baby.

So, as the 8-year mark of my mother's passing nears . . . this is what I need to help me through:

1. Do not tell me to "get over it."
2. Be gentle and kind with me. I'm just as irreverant and relentless as the next person, but this is a time when I need those around me to just understand that, yes, I am fragile.
3. Understand that the pain will be overwhelming at times so I may say things that are more a reaction to a feeling of being overwhelmed than actually a reaction to what you say or ask.
4. Let me have my day or two of wallowing. I need it. If those days come up for me, I need them. I need to be able to cry, watch sad movies, listen to sad music or whatever to help me get out the preceding days and months of missing my mother.
5. Do not tell me to "get over it."
6. Give me a wide berth . . . be cognizant that this is an extremely difficult time for me. The last thing I really want to do is remind anyone who is close to me of what's seemingly around the corner. This is especially annoying if we've had the conversation and yet you still look at me like I'm a freak when I'm over-emotional.
7. Accept the fact that you nor anyone else will be able to comfort me. But, the fact that you are listening to me talk and cry like crazy is awesome.
8. If I say I hate you and everyone else who has a mother . . . don't take it personally. I highly doubt I hate you if you're being a pillar of support/strength during this time.
9. If you ask me what I want or what you can do and I respond with something that implies my mother being here, just let me say it. You don't need to respond . . . I know it's not possible.
10. Do not tell me to "get over it."
11. Don't try and make a list of things for me to do (or something of the like) to distract me and keep me moving forward.
12. Don't problem-solve my feelings of sorrow, loss and emptiness. You can't. Just listen.
13. If I start to smell, am wearing the same clothes, am not eating or being remotely social for more than two days, you have my permission to kick my arse into gear.

I'm sure there are other things to add to my list, I just can't think of them at the moment. I generally go into hiding when this time of year approaches. However, as the years progress it's getting harder and harder to hide. But, I'm also finding that I don't want to hide. Yet, to rely on someone, anyone, during this time is incredibly scary. So, for those who find that I've been turning to you more . . . this is a partial, growing list of what works for me during this time.

So, thank you in advance for being such a good friend and staying by my side when I've asked during this difficult time.

Psst . . . if you tell me enough years have passed and that I should "get over it" - I may hurt you. Badly. ;o) Consider yourself warned.

There can be only one

This is the point that I think escapes people. When my mother died, what went with her was one of the two most important people in my life. For my entire life, my parents always said that the only ones I would be able to count on were my mother and my father. And, well, of course my brother. I remember my father saying this over and over again, even as I went into my twenties . . . my father constantly reminded me that the only people I would be able to truly and completely count on were my parents - my mother and father. So, the screwed up thing is that as much as I tried to not believe that, I did. I believed that my mother and father were always going to be there. That they would always be the two people who would pick up the pieces when they fell apart. That they would always be there to put me back together when I fell apart. Not that they ever really did . . . but, just knowing that I had them there in my corner (whether I believed that or not) always provided some sort of comfort. As I saw friends around me go through their parents divorcing, I took comfort in the fact that my parents stayed together - for better or worse. And believe me, there were times when all I wanted was for them to get divorced. Anyway, the point is that I was raised by a father who told me that he and my mother would always be there. But see, what he neglected to tell me were all the caveats. All the what ifs. All the possibilities of what could happen. So sure, you can say to yourself, well, gee . . . didn't it occur to you that you parents would die one day? Well, of course it did occur to me. Of course I knew that at some point in the far off future, my parents wouldn't be around. I didn't think that the natural flow of things would have a disruption. Never did I think I would have to deal with the death of my uncle (my mother's youngest brother) and maternal grandmother AFTER my mother died. Again, the natural flow of events was disrupted. At least in my world it was disrupted.

So, after my mother died, I've had some major milestones - I graduated from law school, my brother got married, my father re-married and I've moved into an incredible condo. I'm also about to embark on another journey, which is planning a wedding to the most incredible man I've known. And while it's awesome . . . again, my mother is not here to go through the process with me. Just as she wasn't here to see me graduate from law school and see my brother get married. I know that there are people in my life who will be more than happy and willing to help me plan my wedding . . . it's just not the same. And who knows how it would go if my mother helped me plan this wedding. But the fact remains that she would have been here to help or, at the very least, be part of the process dictating every little detail.

See, the point is that there is no substitute. There is no one who can take her place or even come close to it. And it's not that I want anyone to be able to do so, anyway. It's just the simple fact that a mother is like the swordsman out of "Highlander" - there can be only one. No one can come after. And those who try . . . not even close. I say this because this is what people need to remember. As far as mothers go - there is only one for every daughter. And when our mothers go . . . there is no replacing her. There is no substitute. There is no mother, per se. This is the daily struggle. The balance between embracing those who are here versus the one who isn't. If you aren't already, some day you'll walk in similar shoes as mine . . . and only then will you understand.

There can only be one.

Figuring it out

Anger. That was the strongest emotion, aside from sadness, that I felt after my mother died. I was angry that she was gone. I was angry that I didn't have resolution to our conflict. I was angry that I couldn't talk to my brother or my father about my feelings and what was happening to our family. I was angry. In one fell swoop, my world seemed like it was unraveling and I had no idea how to keep it together. The thought that my mother wasn't in pain anymore didn't bring me much comfort. It didn't ease the anger that I was feeling inside.

Anger. It describes the nature of the relationship that existed between my mother and I for as long as I could remember. I was in trouble more often than not. That made my mother angry. My mother was gone a lot for work, my father was gone during the week for work, my brother was in high school so he wasn't around much either. All of that made me angry. And the times when we were all together or some combination of the four of us together, I was angry because I felt like a fish out of water. I didn't feel like I belonged in my own family. That made me angry. When my mother died, the three left standing were like independent islands. We came together when we had to . . . but we co-existed when we did. That made me angry.

At some point, the anger dissipated and changed into an emotion that changes all the time. Sometimes I'm angry. Other times I'm sad. And when I'm not feeling one of those, empty, alone, depressed filled those gaps. There are times, though, when I remember what it's like to have fun or be happy and not feel guilty that I was feeling those emotions. I remember when I would stop myself from those feelings because it felt wrong. It felt like I was disrespecting my mother, but I know that what she would want is exactly that - for me to continue to move forward. For me to continue with my life and be successful. Admittedly, I feel guilty for doing so. Yeah, that's me - do the opposite of what someone would want. Seriously, it's not that difficult to do what's right . . . to do what comes naturally. It doesn't matter if it is exactly what another person would want from me.

It is now in my life when things are settling and making sense. So, of course, now is the time when I think I've been feeling the saddest and angriest since my mother died. All of these awesome things that are happening - I want her here with me. It's funny how all the feelings tend to come full circle at some point. How they all take turns in making their presence known within my being. What I have to remember is that while it's ok and natural to feel anger, sadness and guilt . . . there will be that moment in time when the feelings must switch for me to be in the present and not ruin it for everyone else.

Striking that balance . . . that's what I'm trying to figure out and do successfully.

Growing pains

Integrating the loss of a mother has its ups and downs. It's also an ongoing life process. And you better believe that there are some days when I feel just as sad as I did on the day she died and the days that followed.

This month will be the 8th year that my mother has been gone. Ok, fine, since my mother died. And I just experienced a couple of days that felt extremely familiar to the days of when she died. The sadness I felt, the depression that took a hold of me, the darkness that tried to consume me entirely. Grant it, there were some moments where the sadness completely took a hold of me and I had trouble finding my way out. There were moments where I thought my moods were going to drive me and everyone around me completely bonkers. In fact, I know I frustrated a specific someone this weekend with my Sybil-ness.

It's so not on purpose though. And this is truly the reason why I don't like people around me when I am going through some of the darkness. It gets bad. I get ridiculously sad, angry, bitter and resentful. And, I really don't want anyone around me who is going to try and be someone who won't let me feel the sadness or wallow, for just a bit. The thing about me is that I have to wallow in it. I have to get the sadness all over me before I can move forward. I move forward everyday, but as my mother's anniversary date nears each year, there is always a period of time I struggle with because of the hurt. Sure, I can focus on the people who are still here and are family. I can focus on the fact that I have my health, an amazing partner and the most incredibly loyal dog ever. But, really, for the two or three days when I feel so miserable and sad, the bottom line is that while I'm glad to have all of that, it doesn't change the simple facts that I (1) miss my mother; and (2) want my mother here. I know all the things and people who are still here. But, those moments in time are not about any of that.

So, unless I actually stay home from work day after day after day or lay in bed day after day after day . . . I'm allowed my sad days. I know eventually those won't all be sad days . . . but it's an ongoing life process. I guess it's just a different form of growing pains.