Will the real you, please stand up

There have been days when I realize I have nothing substantial to add to this blog. Then there are the days when all I can think of is writing for this blog. But I seem to have trouble finding the in-between.

Nevertheless . . . my father was in town for a short visit. He arrived late Saturday night and left yesterday. It was not a good visit, at least in my eyes. In fact, it was a horrible visit. So why am I writing about it here? Well, reflecting on his trip, and even while he was here, I realized just how much he has changed since my mother died.

I understand that his wife of a sigificant period of time, the mother of his children is gone. I realize that he is and eighty-two year old man who is still angry at the world and still has not moved forward. He has become more ornery, irrational and unreasonable. Worst of all, though, while he asserts himself to be infallable, he does so at the expense of everyone else around who loves and cares about him. It seems he has mastered the art of manipulating people into just the position of "damned if you do, damned if don't" so he has something fight. He yells and looks like he's just about to explode so you just end up agreeing him to placate him. He laughs when others are upset or in tears. He's like a child, but more unmanageable.

Seeing all of this makes me realize that no matter how hard I try to be the glue to keep this family together, I can't. Seeing all of this as a married woman, I understand more and more why it is that my father could be the very reason why my brother doesn't come to visit more often, and when he does come to visit, he and his wife stay for an extremely short period of time. Seeing all of this makes me realize that I really have to do what it takes to protect my family, my future children from this volatility. Seeing all this makes me realize that my father is, in a sense, completely lost without my mother.

My mother was the one who kept my father in line. She was the one who made sure he was socially appropriate. That he was kind to those around them (even though she could be quite the pushy one herself). She was the one who made sure that they enjoyed life and what they had not only themselves but with family and those around them. And now, I see that my father doesn't trust anyone. Including me. He conducts himself as though everyone is trying to take advantage of him. Thus, he has an incredible control issue that rears its ugly head every single opportunity that my father gets.

At least with my mother . . . what you saw is what you got. My mother was one incredibly tough boss and mother. And when things didn't go as she dictated, you heard about it. But, when things went as she dictated, you heard about it and then some. You KNEW it was a job well done. My mother was true to her word - good or bad. On the other hand, I see more and more that my father is NOT his word. In varying situations, I witnessed that he cannot be trusted to be true to an agreement - verbal or written. And his attitude is, well, it's going to be this way now and if you don't like it then go F yourself. Ok, so he doesn't say "go F yourself", but you get the point.

My father has always stressed over and over again to my brother and I that we can really only count on each other. Um - untrue. How can I count on my father when he cannot keep his word. And even worse, how can I count on him when I know he is lying. To my face. Each time I think things will be different, it is quite the opposite and I'm left even more and more disappointed. With my mother, you knew when she said something, she was going to do it. Yes, when she grounded me for four months (yes, four months) after I got my first "C" ever on a report card . . . I was grounded for four months. No joke.

This visit with my father left me realizing that things have changed so much since my mother died. He's a different man. Sometimes for the better, but of late, not so much for the better. My mother isn't here to rein him in and keep us functioning as a family. These are shoes that try as I may, I cannot fill. I have my own family to keep together and protect. And hopefully, someday soon, that family will expand. I cannot have such volatility around my family.

I'm at a loss. I think I finally see that when my mother died, she clearly took the father I knew with her. And that is a new adjustment.

At sea

Ever have a period of time where it feels like nothing is clicking? One’s up, the other’s down. One’s angry, the other’s happy. One feels slighted, the other feels just as slighted. One tries to make peace, the other ignores. One feels an inequity, the other doesn’t see it. One tries to explain, the other doesn’t hear it or understand. I guess it’s all about perception and it feels like the perception meter can be so out of whack sometimes there’s so much difficulty in finding the equilibrium. And truly, it just leaves me in a place where I’m just tired. Tired of trying to find the equilibrium, tired of trying to be heard, tired of listening without getting upset . . .just tired of everything. It’s not that I want to just toss my hands up and just be away from everyone and everything, but just tired of feeling like everything is MY misperception. It’s not fun feeling stepped on, not fun feeling like what I say doesn’t make sense, not fun feeling as though anyone can behave completely opposite of his or her own expectation of me and expect that I’ll just stand by and say or feel nothing.

It’s truly one of those times when I wish I could just wrap myself in my mother’s arms and have her hold me close. This is a time when I want nothing more than her guidance to help me muddle through. It’s a time when it couldn’t be more obvious to me that I lack that mother-daughter relationship. And not that it was always perfect, because it wasn’t. But when it really mattered, there were times when my mother could listen with an open-mind and help or guide. Or at least posit questions for me to ponder. At a bare minimum, I just want her here.

And this is what sucks about her being dead (can’t tell you how long it took me to type THAT word). I don’t have access to the mother-adult daughter relationship. There was no chance to develop that dynamic and be able to learn from that next stage. It leaves me feeling more at a loss, leaves me feeling more at sea with being a motherless daughter.

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.

Gettin it right

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 . . .

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.

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.