Monthly Archives: December 2010

Powerlessness

“You will not die.”  The words of NCIS’ famous Senior Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, delivered to Agent Anthony DiNozzo, as he lay dying of pneumonic plague. A light slap to the back of the head, and again, each whispered word measured out independently, as if with a period between them: “You. Will. Not. Die.” And the junior agent recovers, obediently.
If only it were that easy.
About six months ago, I went through a painful breakup. As with other difficult times in my life, Mom was there, on the other end of the phone line, reminding me of my value as a woman and making me laugh. I vividly recall one particular phone call within a few weeks of the split; as usual, she listened, let me cry, and encouraged me. She understood what I was going through; she’d been hurt badly a few times herself, and she and I were so similar emotionally. She had been feeling pretty lousy around that time, dealing with some pain and numbness related to a couple of car accidents she’d had years ago. Selfishly, I said to her, “Mom, you have to get better. You have to. I can’t lose you, too, you know? I need you.” She responded as I expected she would: “I know, Baby Girl. Don’t worry. I’m going to get better.”
I really do think Mom wanted to get well, at least at that point she did. In spite of the many difficulties she had – financial, family, health – she had three grandchildren she adored and in whose eyes she hung the moon. She loved her dogs and cats as much as most people love their children. I needed her and loved her more than anyone, and she knew that. She enjoyed her friends, music, and books, and when she felt up to going, her church. Besides all that, I flat-out told her to get better.
That last sentence is absurd, isn’t it?
The sense of powerlessness I feel as a result of Mom’s death is profound, beyond description. I wonder if she also felt powerless. I often find myself wondering if the emotional and physical pain of her life had reached some sort of critical mass, so that she didn’t want to live anymore. I ask myself if she knew what was happening to her beforehand, and if maybe she even welcomed the relief. I know she told friends at Thanksgiving dinner that she was “ready,” and I think that is somehow significant.
As I think of our conversations over the preceding days, I remember telling her many times that I loved her. I wish I had gotten to tell her again. It bothers me so much that I didn’t get to look her in the eyes and tell her one more time how much I love her and how important she was to me. I suppose no matter how many times you tell someone that, you always want to tell them one more time. The truth of the matter is the power over death is not in our hands. We don’t get to decide to say “I love you” one last time, to tell death to wait, to stand back, that we aren’t going to let the one we love go just yet. Gibbs and DiNozzo may tell us otherwise, but when death comes, we don’t get to choose.

Finding Joy

Last night after I posted “Christmas,” I began thinking about how I couldn’t find joy, not even in knowing He lives, and therefore, my mom lives, and I will see her again. It was disturbing to realize how far I was from the truth of Scripture. So I read her favorite Psalm, the 91st, thinking perhaps it would inspire me to write or help me understand her better, or at least to process the feelings.
Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High 
 will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress, 
   my God, in whom I trust.”
Mom made the Lord her refuge and fortress. She made Him her shelter, running to Him in the many difficult seasons of her life, especially in the last ten years or so, when she committed her life to Him in good times and bad. She wasn’t always a “good girl;” neither was I. We made horrible, selfish choices, and we came to know that we were, at our core, hateful, sinful people, full of ourselves and everything evil in the world. So she and I both know what it is to need a Savior. She trusted Him completely, and she inspired me to believe in Him as a powerful, healing God. A tiny ray of light began to shine in my soul, and this morning, I found an email from a friend that was a short and simple reminder of what the birth of Christ means for us, and through tears, the light began to shine brighter.
Jesus was born so that Mom and I would both have the Savior we need. He was born so that she would finally be happy, free of the painfulness of her life here, of the consequences of her choices and the deterioration of her body.  Born of the union between God and [wo]man, He was fully God and fully man. He lived, as we do, but was sinless, so that He could be all that we could not and do what we could not do: atone. He died, and He lives again, the first of many resurrected ones, and because of that I have hope. Jesus was born so that one day, I would see my mom again.
This isn’t the end of mourning, nor should it be, but I have found joy in the Season, and for that I am grateful.
Merry Christmas. 

Being Practical isn’t Practical

I went down to Mom’s last night to pick up one of her dogs to take to a friend who wants him. Part of Mom’s legacy to me is her love of animals, which she and her sister got from their mother. Naturally, Mom had – has – a houseful of pets. I took two of them away last weekend and that was hard, but they were going to good homes and obviously, I can’t keep them all, no matter how much I love them, and my stepfather is only going to be able to stay in the house for so long before he will have to go and live where he will have help. I am trying very hard to be practical. So after work yesterday, I drove the two and a half hours to Mom’s to pick up Spencer and take him to my friend.
Driving down to Mom’s, I was thinking about my stepfather, with whom I am not close, but who loved my mom, in his own way. I feel especially sorry for him. I was thinking about how difficult it is for me to walk through each day when I can go to work and not think 100 percent of the time about having lost her, and how he doesn’t get to do that. He lives in the house, sleeps in her bed, spends all day, every day unable to escape the reminders of her and the fact that she’s gone. How does he do it, I wondered. I am not sure I could. Actually I am quite sure I couldn’t.
So when I put Spencer’s collar on him, and my stepfather was saying goodbye, he started to cry, and those thoughts of his existence overwhelmed me, and I could not stop the tears from coming, no matter how strong I wanted to be for him. I came all the way down there to pick up the dog and take him away, but in the end, I couldn’t do it. I wept with my stepfather for all we had lost, and I left the dog in his care and drove back home, crying much of the way.
I will have to find homes for some, if not all, of the remaining animals eventually. Until I must, however, I will not take Spencer or Mom’s other dogs away. While they are in the house, an important piece of her is there, with my stepfather. The pain is so great, the hole so enormous; I will not make it bigger than it already is, for him or for me. 

Christmas

Yesterday was weepy. All day long I was biting back tears. The coworker and friend who had picked me up off the floor and walked me back to my classroom when I first heard the news brought me cookies, some of my students brought me presents, but all day I just wanted to cry. About 1:30, during my planning period, the chorus teacher brought his class around to my room and they sang carols outside my door. I walked out and sang along, harmonizing – the way Mom taught me – with one of my particularly special students. Then they started singing Carol of the Bells, and something about that song is so moving anyway. My eyes filled up, and couldn’t sing anymore. I just wanted to share Christmas one more time with my mom, and the reality of the season without her was too much.
There is no joy this Christmas. I haven’t put up any decorations, and I don’t have any desire to. I haven’t wrapped the first gift. I have bought a few, and I must wrap some of them. But I can’t make myself do it. I am completely unmotivated. I talked with another friend who lost her mother this year and she is having a similar experience, although she is also empty nesting, which is making it even worse. She has put up her tree, out of necessity for an event having to do with her husband’s work, but she hasn’t been able to decorate it beyond putting lights on it.
Driving down the street, seeing the lights on other houses and the Christmas trees brightly lit behind the windows, it all just makes me sad. I know that’s wrong, because Christ lived, died and lives again, so there is hope for me, that I will see my mom again, that death is not the end of our relationship. Perhaps, as some believe, my relationship with her will not be the same as it was during this life within the confines of time, but at least I know she is Somewhere, that she didn’t cease to exist. One day we will be together again There. But for now there is no joy, and the fact that I can’t even find joy in knowing that He lives, therefore we live, only serves to make me more broken.  I just want to forget everything, and the specialness of this season sharpens the pain. I am afraid of what Christmas will be for me from now on: a reminder of the one who isn’t here with me. 

Snow Day

Workdays are better than weekends. Most days I get up and get busy right away. Morning ablutions, quiet time, care for the pets, then off to work. The drive, thankfully, is short; if it were longer, I’d have more time to think, and thinking is bad. I arrive in ten minutes or so, practically run into the building, and then get ready for first period. I don’t really have much of a break until fourth period, nearly six hours after I arrive at school, and the intensity of teaching high school students keeps the reality of what has happened, while not forgotten, at least at bay for most of the day.
Today school was closed because of weather. I’m not really sure why, as the weather wasn’t all that bad, but this is the South, where a little rain can close schools. It would be a “snow day” if we’d had any snow. We didn’t but school was just as closed as if we had. So I slept in for a little bit. In a normal world, it would’ve been a miniature celebration, a snuggle-fest with my dog and cats in the quilts. But I’m not living in a normal world right now, and all I wanted to do was jump out of bed and busy myself with my daily routine. With school closed, my second choice was to bury myself under the covers so I could forget all the things I needed to do, that I had put off or not had time to do because I was working. Like call the veterinarian about Mom’s pets’ records. And clean the framed pictures of Mom’s dad and mom I’d brought home with me. And call the company about sending back some unopened items Mom had bought, pay the pastors who had done the funeral and interment services, fill out the life insurance claim form, and call about Mom’s headstone.
But of course, I didn’t let myself stay in bed very long. It would’ve been pointless; I wouldn’t have slept. I got out of bed and did all those horrible little things. I would’ve much rather been at work all day.

Paris

Last summer I took Mom to the beach. She lived about an hour from one of the US’s major beaches, and all her life, she loved the ocean, the beach and the sun. Her mobility had gotten to the point that although she could drive herself there just fine, it was not possible for her to get onto the beach by herself, so one day I drove down, picked her up and off we went. We spent about three hours lying in the sun and sitting in the water. We talked and laughed and had so much fun. We planned to do it again, but the weather didn’t cooperate. So. That was the last time Mom went to the beach.

Mom had traveled a lot in her life; she had lived in Germany, Colorado, California, and all over the Southeast US. She had seen parts of Germany from the back of a Harley Davidson. There were so many places she had not seen, though; and everywhere I have traveled, I have thought of taking Mom.

The first time I saw Times Square, I thought, “Oh, Mom, I wish you could see this!” When I saw “Les Miserables,” “Gypsy,” and “Wicked” on Broadway, Mom was there, in my thoughts; she would’ve loved those shows. Every time I went to Spain, I thought about how wonderful it would be to take her there; she would’ve been fascinated by Las Ramblas. A couple of years ago I made it to Paris for the first time. Mom had always wanted to go there. When I gave her the earrings I bought for her, she said with unashamed delight, “Oh, my goodness! Whenever anyone complements me on them, I’ll say, ‘Thank you so much. My daughter bought them in PARIS.'” I have friends in Wisconsin and Chicago, and some of them are Mom’s friends now, too. One of them, in particular, wanted me to bring her to Wisconsin to visit, and I wanted to do that so much. She would’ve loved the farm, the countryside, the depth of the conversations about life and faith. She loved Southern Gospel music, and I have thought for years of taking her to a Gaither Homecoming show, but for one reason or another, I never did.

I can’t help but think of all the things she won’t ever get to do now. And as a consequence, there are lots of things we won’t do together. Yes, the memories we made together are still there, and they will last as long as my mind does, but it isn’t enough; it just isn’t enough at all, not for me, nor for her. The places she didn’t see, the things she didn’t do, the people she didn’t meet…she won’t. 

It makes me so sad that she never saw Paris.

Finality

Yesterday a friend and I drove down to Mom’s and cleaned out her bedroom and bath. It was a bittersweet day: physically demanding and emotionally volatile, filled with memories. Obviously, it had to be done, and the whole house eventually will have to be cleaned out, but her bedroom and bath are so intensely personal. I was glad to have my friend with me; it would’ve been impossible without her because the memories were profound and the sadness overwhelming.
Many of her favorite garments were items I had bought for her when I had taken her shopping from time to time over the past five or six years. They were fun memories. Mom loved Belk and we would start there, looking for red dot clearance items.  One piece, an aqua colored top with sparkles around the neckline, made me take in my breath—she loved that top so much. It was flowy, filmy and on top of that, sparkly – all of her favorite things in one. She didn’t have many opportunities to wear it because she very rarely went anywhere over the last couple of years, but she did manage to enjoy that blouse a few times. When I removed from a drawer a pair of turquoise Capri pants that she wore often, I paused and held them to my face; memories of her rushed into my mind and for a moment, I could barely breathe. Suddenly I was holding the pants against my cheek and weeping into their softness.
This particular act, the cleaning out her bedroom, bathroom and closet, is an act of finality that beggars comparison. The most personal of items, taken from chests of drawers and bathroom cabinets, tossed into huge bags of black plastic, and given to others to use, or worse, thrown into the garbage bin, puts a period on the end of the sentence in a way even the interment service did not. Finality. She won’t need any of those things anymore.

Getting Used to It

I laughed yesterday. One of my students said something funny, and I laughed. I was so surprised that I went over and hugged him. As the day wore on, I was sad and aware of the pain, but I was not stricken, not the way I have been. I worked. I went to the bank. I came home and met the HVAC technician.  I got to the end of the day, and I realized I hadn’t cried. I thought, “Okay, I’m getting used to it. Maybe it’s starting to get easier now.”  So I took a sleeping pill and went to bed, and for the first time in nearly two weeks, I slept almost until the alarm went off.
And then today.
As one might expect, while I was working, I was okay: students, papers to grade, progress reports… perhaps I was a little less cheerful with the students than I normally would be, but I was maintaining. After teaching my classes, I remembered that I needed to make a phone call about one of mom’s bills. The practicalities of it all demanded, and so I picked up my cellphone and dialed. I had to speak with two different people, and they both were so kind, and each independent of the other said how sorry they were, that she seemed like such a sweet lady, was so nice to talk with on the phone.  I gratefully acknowledged that she was, indeed, a lovely woman. It was bittersweet. A little later in the afternoon, while I was helping students do make up work, it was as if a truck hit me, and I found myself putting my head down and taking huge breaths, trying not to be too obvious in front of my students. By the time I got home, nothing was going right. I was short-tempered and bitchy. I found myself sitting on the back porch watching my little dog and trembling.  All it took to finally finish me off was a phone call from my dad; I mostly held it together until I hung up and then I was standing in the kitchen and crying like a baby, wanting nothing more than to talk with my mommy, to hear her voice, to know she’s there.
I am not getting used to it after all.
Here are the tears again, and I suppose I can be alright with them. Mom should be here and she isn’t, so It somehow feels correct, not “good,” but “right” to just want to cry, to not to want to laugh or smile or be anywhere near happy. Life is not as it should be, and the tears help me prove it to myself and to the world.  I think that someday I will want to be happy, but right now, I don’t. 

The Unbelief

The hardest thing to handle is the unbelief. It simply can’t be real. This. Can. Not. Be. Real.

This thought invades my brain: “It hurts so bad. I’m going to call Mom….” And then I am forced to say to myself, “No, Stupid, you can’t call her. That is WHY you are feeling this way.” Suddenly the realization, anew and fresh, hits me and the pain surges like it did the first day.

When I was told the horrifying news, I kept saying, “No, you’re lying to me. You’re lying to me.” It took me several minutes to believe it. I remember thinking, if I can just keep saying this, if I can just keep from admitting it, then it won’t be true. I could deny it into non-existence. When I finally realized that it wasn’t some cruel joke, I collapsed on the floor. Two coworkers came to my side, thank God, or I guess I’d have still been lying there when the kids came teeming down the hall from lunch.

I don’t know why I didn’t think it could be real; I guess there are some people in your life that you think are immortal, that they will always be there. Your mom probably tops that list. Unfortunately, the truth, no matter how hateful, how painful, how unthinkable, is still the truth; but how loathe we are to say yes to such a terrible reality. It is too much for our temporal perspective. If your experience is like mine, even though you admit the horrific truth, it still startles you from time to time, and you deny, deny, deny. Several times a day you are forced to come to terms with a truth whose implausibility, whose complete inconceivability towers over you, overwhelms you. And yet…it is.

A teenage friend who lost his dad four years ago put it into words most eloquently: you dream about them, then you wake up and remember they are dead, and the dream out of which you’ve just stepped feels more real than the wakeful truth.

She really is dead, isn’t she?

Ten Days

It has been ten days since my mother died. Ten days of tears. Ten days of thinking too much. Ten days of disbelief. Sometimes I feel as if someone has taken my heart out of my chest and replaced it with a ten-pound rock. Sometimes I feel as if I’m someone else, living in my house, doing my job, but not thinking my thoughts or feeling my emotions. Sometimes I feel like my everyday, normal self, then all of a sudden, it’s as if I’ve just heard the news, and I am paralyzed with grief and incredulity.

I have been surprised by the tears. There are so many. I knew I was emotional, that I could cry easily, but I didn’t know I could cry this much. A friend’s comforting words or a hug bring them on, of course. So does the sudden remembrance. Then they fall as if from a spigot, cups-full at a time. And this is not a quiet cry, mind you; on the contrary, the grief pours out of me in loud sobs and cries that I hardly recognize as my own. My broken hearts, my grandmother’s death, the betrayal of friends, even the passing of my beloved feline companion of seventeen years can’t compare to this. At middle age, the loss of my mother feels like the loss of the biggest parts of my soul, body and spirit.

I just miss her so much.