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.