My deepest sorrow and greatest joy

Finding time to grieve can be a difficult thing when you have a young child. I was struck with a memory today (which I shared here in the previous post) and I cried silently and needed and wanted to cry longer and harder…

However, my sobs were interrupted by cries of a different type coming from another room. I could not nurse my wound at this time, for I needed to attend to the needs of a helpless, little person who needed me more than I needed to grieve.

This is often the case when I feel the need to grieve something. There are many things we need to grieve besides the loss of a loved one. But I was particularly feeling the loss of my mother on this day. And my son simply doesn’t understand that momma needs time to cry right now.

And what am I to do? Call someone, “Excuse me, could you come over right away to sit with my son while I go cry?”

I don’t see that happening.

So, what could I do?

I have learned that although I can sometimes turn off grief, I can very seldom turn it on. And once it’s “on” it seems like an hourglass is turned and I have only so long to process that before it slips away.

So, I did the only thing that I thought made sense to do. Turn on my computer and wait for the first chance to type out and process my feelings. Braddock had already had his only nap for the day. My next chance came when he wanted alone time in his crib… which only lasted about 30 minutes. So, with computer on lap, I sat in his room and felt the weight of my grief. Through my tears I could see him watching me. And as he watched me, a silly grin spread across his face and he began to laugh.

A pure, joyful laugh.

It was beautiful.

In that moment I so badly wanted my mother to see him and laugh back. And that thought brought even more tears and heartache, and for some reason, that brought more laughter to Braddock. And as I cried and he laughed, something beautiful took place...

I simultaneous felt my deepest sorrow as I experienced my greatest joy. I, in longing and wanting, grieving the loss of my mother, was fully experiencing the sheer joy of being a mother.

It was a beautiful moment that I will always remember.

(original post: 8/27/11)

A mother's memory and a daughter's grief

When talking to my grandmother (my mother's mother) my mom will usually pop into the conversation somehow. Today it came in the form of talking about lotion, to my grandmother complimenting my hands, then us talking about how dainty and cute my mom's hands were, and finally to my grandmother admiring my mother's adorable, tiny feet.

And then, my grandmother recalled a memory: she, sitting by her lifeless daughter's body, wanting to touch and hold on to the feet she had so many times admired. She, as a mother, had years of memories of those precious little feet... little feet she probably kissed a thousand times as a child. Feet that carried her daughter away from home and back again. Tiny little feet that remained tiny all my mom's life. She had unusually small feet that were too cute for us not to comment on and admire. She always had her toenails perfectly painted and wore the cutest high heels.

We all loved her feet.

Mom had many aesthetic qualities about her that we each loved and noticed - from her dainty hands with perfectly painted long nails, to her Farrah Fawcet-like hair... from her petite body, to the always cute second-hand clothes that graced her small frame. She was one of the few women I knew who could wear high heels, a beautiful dress, and hardly any make-up at all and turn heads as she walked into a room.

And while all these are aesthetic - they are much more than just physical to us. It was and is HER that we miss. Her body just housed the soul and spirit we all were in love with. Her physical attributes just signified the deeper beauty and peace she had within. That physical form embodied her presence.

After recalling that memory of sitting at her daughter's feet and pulling back the sheet to hold and kiss her feet one last time - my grandmother told me how thankful she was that we got to have so much time with my mom's body before they came to take her away... giving us time to say goodbye. I was so much in that moment with my grandmother that as she said, "to take her away", that image quickly assaulted my mind. The image of these random people (whom you don't know) covering your mother's body, that precious little body, with a sheet and placing her on a gurney and rolling her away... forever. An image so unbearable that I've buried it for years. An image that I wish I had no memory of.

Such a deep grief washed over me in that instant. And I have learned over many years of repressed grief that if you can let it out - you better. What I felt I needed to do in that moment was let myself fall to the ground and weep bitter tears of longing and missing. To sob uncontrollably and relinquish all the pain my heart had been carrying. But I didn't. Instead I cried silently as my grandmother continued talking. I didn't have the heart to tell her I was upset, because I knew her response would be to apologize... and she had nothing to apologize for. I was thankful for her story. I was thankful for the memories of seeing my mom and her beautiful attributes so vividly. I was even thankful for the memory of "them" taking her away. Why? Because it made me feel.

Feel.

That is hard for me sometimes. I can talk about my mom and share memories like she's sitting beside me. I rarely let myself feel what I have lost. And, over time, that can do it's damage...

not feeling.

There are moments when I want to feel more and I can't... joyful moments that aren't as joyful. I fear that I have lost some of the depth of my "being" because I have silently (and sometimes loudly and angrily) refused to grieve so many times. There is truth in the Khalil Gibran quote, "Your deepest sorrow is your greatest joy". Wow, so much to unpack with that statement (and more on that in another post). But, for now, I will stop here and just say that this is my way of experiencing that sorrow. Getting it out. Remembering. And even letting myself cry a little bit.

(original post: 8/25/11)

Sharon's {cancer} Story: One last letter (part 2)

As I shared in part 1 of this post, I feel like Tessa's letter really captured how we both felt about mom. As I was reading through both of these letters, I found that Tessa's especially struck a cord so deep that I cried the whole way through. Memories and feelings came back so vividly. I'm thankful that she was able to write this to her:

Moma,
...You are so many things to me. First you have been my strength. You are a part of me... I am a part of you. You amaze me with your strength. The way you took care of us and loved us through the years when you were going through so much that we were too young to understand. You just kept going even though you probably didn't want to. I am grateful you did what you did and sacrificed what you did to raise us....
I am so angry that you are sick. I feel cheated because I don't want to lose the most special person in my life. I know through the years when I have been going through hard times, in my mind I would say, "It's ok Tessa, you got moma, she will know what to do or say." Now I feel like I will be making those decisions on my own. I feel like I am dying too, inside. Sometimes I feel like I can't breath when I think of not having you....
Moma, you have been such a huge influence to so many people's lives. You are so beautiful, smart, creative, independent, strong minded, and very fun. You were such the life of the party. Nobody could not have a good time if you were around. Moma, I love you so much and I will continue to love you every day for the rest of my life. I know I can't have you around but I will feel you always in my heart. I will never forget how you smell, how it felt when you were comforting me. The slightest fever, I would call you. When the girls got sick, I would always call you. When I would get those anxiety attacks, you would put in Goose Creek and I would be ok. You always knew what to do. You are my mother and I am so proud that you are my mother. There is no human being that will ever take your place. You are so special moma...
Mom, you are the Best Nana. Those girls love you so much. Nobody compares to you when it comes to those girls... even me, they still want me to do things like Nana. You have created great memories for these sweet girls. They will never forget the things you have done - the way you did them.
I will never forget your comforting hand when I was in labor. I will always talk about you being there every step in my life. Mom I don't know what I am going to do without you. I am still going to talk to you like you are with me. I cherish all the times you came over for lunch - it made me feel so good. You just being there. You would take your vitamins, eat your yogurt or cheese sandwich. I cherish those rides in the back of the truck... even the way the house in the mountains smelled. You playing the spoons or banjo or even singing along with Jeff. You know why Candace and I are so close is seeing you and Jeff. I admire your relationship with Jeff. You have left a lot of great memories for all of us. I can't tell you enough how much I love you. You are a great mother. The Best Mother and Nana ever. God has blessed me with giving such a great woman for a mother. I will carry the bond we have forever. I love you moma now and forever.
Love Always,
your daughter, Tessa

Sharon's {cancer} Story: One last letter (part 1)

Before mom died, Tessa and I decided to make her a scrapbook to say goodbye (the best we knew how). We both wrote her letters that were included in the book, along with poems, pictures, etc. I had forgotten about those letters until this week when Braddock was pulling books off our bookshelf. I saw the scrapbook we had made and decided to show it to Braddock. I read the letters we wrote her for the first time in a very long time.

I thought today, of all days - her 6 year D-Day anniversary - would be fitting to share excerpts from our letters to her. She read this just a couple days before she died and she went on and on about the poems, pictures, and letters. It meant a lot to her. She even asked if we would make sure it was out at her funeral.... ugh - I still can't believe it. Here is my letter to her:

Mom,
...I don't want to say goodbye to you mom. I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay with all us forever. Gosh - it hurts so bad. I've tried for so long not to really feel the weight of what's happening - because it hurts so bad. It just doesn't seem real - like this shouldn't be happening. Not to you. Not our mom. I don't know what me and Tessa are going to do without you momma. It's always been the 3 of us. Even when we weren't able to actually be together or even when it wasn't technically us 3 - it really was just us 3 anyways. God formed such a strong bond between us that nothing or no one could ever touch or change. Not even the worse of fights - I think we're still as close as ever. Mom - not even death can change that bond between us 3. You will always be apart of me and Tessa forever. Mom - there will never ever be anyone who could ever take your place or even come close. You are such a special and unique person - you have been so many things to me and Tessa that no one else could be....
Thank you momma for giving me and Tessa so many great memories with you. We do have so many memories to hold on to and to cherish with all our hearts. We will never forget (or cease to laugh) when we think of you dancing to your Cher video or when you'd pull out your tambourine to sing with Stevie Nicks while watching Fleetwood Mac.
Mom - there's so much of who you are inside of me and Tessa. We will always carry you inside of us - you are and have always been such a huge part of us and who we are. You have given us so many sweet moments to cherish and plenty of wisdom to carry with us and pass on to our children. The last thing I want to do is let go of you and not have you here with us - but God must have something else in mind....
God really couldn't have given me and Tessa a better mother - we couldn't be more proud or love someone as much as you. Momma - I hope you know that I will always love you with all my heart and that I will carry you with me forever.
Love Always,
your daughter, Candace

Later today I will share part 2, which is Tessa's letter to mom. I am ending with it as it is more special to me. I had a really hard time writing my letter and communicating to mom how special she was to me... I feel like Tessa's letter really captured how we felt about her and how her presence touched us and how her absence would leave us.

A Dream: "I want my sister back!"

A few nights ago, I had a dream about losing my sister. It was the second dream I had had about losing her. The first dream came not long after our mother's death. I had dreamed that my sister and her children where in a car accident and she and one of my nieces died. I dreamed of their funerals. It was awful. The next day, I had learned that my sister had been in a car accident with her children in the car. Thankfully, it was not a serious accident and no one was hurt. But it was still scary.

There were some similarities with this dream. My sister had been in a car accident and died. But, we were much younger than we are now and she had no children at the time. She was just a teenager.

The rest of the dream was about me and my mom together. We were walking across my elementary school's football field and mom was perfectly herself. I could feel her strong presence... that presence that permeated a depth and love that words could not communicate. She wrapped an arm around me and said something (I can't remember what)... but it gave me the impression that she was inviting me to grieve. And in that moment, as we were walking across the field, I cried out in my child-full anguish, "I want my sister back! I want my sister back! I want my sister back!" I cried and screamed until I could cry no more and my mother just held me and cried.

I called Tessa as soon as I woke up to tell her about it. As I was repeating those words to her, "I want my sister back", I was in tears. It was an awful dream. I hope to never feel the realities of that dream.

This was the first dream that I have ever had about my mom not being sick or about to die. That fact stuck out strongly to me. Every dream my mom has ever been in, she has been sick. In an odd way, it was nice to feel my mom's strong and comforting presence and not have her impending death loom over us. It was nice to see her again in her usual role of comforting and loving me.

Now, I can't help but wonder if some where in my subconscious that was my way of having mom comfort me in my grieving the loss of her. And that's just like her... always helping and comforting others.

A Dream: Intro to series

I'm starting a new series entitled "A Dream".

I used to dream a lot. I dream a lot less now. Some dreams are very significant, awakening deep feelings or lost memories... inspiring me... grieving me... or haunting me.

Every now and then I will dream about my mom and it usually sparks something within me. Most of my dreams about her have a common theme. And it was a dream that inspired me to write my last letter to her, to which she read just a few days before she died.

I may venture back and retell some of those past dreams. Or I may just keep record of the dreams I have from here on out. Nevertheless, I want to keep record of them.

Grief is like a brick in your pocket

Just watched this movie tonight - Rabbit Hole (click the name for the preview). I don't recommend it (unless you want to be really depressed), but the preview is definitely worth watching. It's a very (very) depressing movie following the grief of 2 parents who lost their 4 year old son in a tragic accident several months earlier. I did however, really like this scene between the mother of the boy (Becca) and her mother (Nat) who also experienced losing a son.

I liked it so much and didn't want to forget it, so it found it's place here.

I really liked Becca's mother's answer to her difficult question regarding her grief. I found it to be quite accurate... at least for me anyways.

As Becca is packing away her son's things, she asks her mother: "Does it ever go away?"
Nat: "No.
I don't think it does. Not for me, it hasn't. It's going on 11 years.
It changes, though."
Becca: "How?"
Nat: "I don't know. The weight of it, I guess.
At some point, it becomes bearable.
It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you even forget it for a while, but then you reach in for whatever reason, and there it is. "Oh. Right. That." Which can be awful. But not all the time. It's kind of... not that you like it, exactly, but it's what you've got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And it doesn't go away. Which is..."
Becca: "Which is what?"
Nat: "Fine. Actually."

Very well put. Don't think I could have worded it better.