Category Archives: loss

Consequences

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom lately. So many things about where I’m living now, Belgium, remind me of her. We were together in Germany for several years when I was a teenager, so my life and hers were inextricably wrapped up in European scenery, food, art, people. Those who followed this blog from its inception remember that I always wanted to bring her back here, to relive some of our memories and let her see some places she always wanted to see; I never got to do that, unfortunately.
Yesterday I went to Amsterdam to visit the Van Gogh Museum there. It is an interesting city, not one of my favorites by any means, but interesting nonetheless. It is both beautiful and ugly, in both literal and symbolic ways, with its gorgeous canals and dramatic architecture on the one hand, and its red light district and numerous druggies and street people on the other. Fascinating is a better term than interesting, I would have to say.
When you’re in Amsterdam, you can’t help but notice the many people on bicycles. Literally hundreds. They ride because the traffic is terrible and because it’s cheap, I suppose. They are of all ages, from youths to older people. They are evidently ridiculously fit. I saw one lady, probably at least 70, bent over and bundled up in a coat and scarf with sensible, old-lady shoes, riding her bike purposefully and carefully. I was amazed, thinking back to how young Mom was when she died, just 67, and how unfit she was, how feeble, at such a young age.
Later I saw another older woman, this one probably closer to 80 but even more fit looking than the one on the bicycle. She was very thin, with very short, spiky white hair. She was wearing skinny jeans and running shoes, and she was walking with great vigor. I thought, “Mom. How different might your life have been if you had lived here. Or maybe if you hadn’t let your world shrink so much.” From a vital, fun-loving woman who had traveled and lived abroad, my mom became a homebody whose world was confined at best to small regions of two southern US states and at worst, to two tiny counties in the smaller and lesser of those two states.
Both my mom and her mother became unfit at early ages. I suppose it was due to several factors. First, they smoked. That was probably a big part of the problem. Second, they both moved when they were in their early 60’s to places where there were kind of isolated, where they didn’t have a lot of reason to get out of the house much, didn’t have many friends. As a result, they stayed inside, didn’t have much of a social life, and didn’t get exercise. Finally, things happened with their health and personal lives that depressed them and sucked some of the life out of them, and health issues made it harder for them to leave their houses and the rest of their small worlds.
As happy as I am here in Belgium, I still think of Mom so often, and I have so many wishes that she might’ve done things differently, that she might’ve lived longer, better, and more healthily. Makes me think about my own choices, about keeping fit, about not overeating or drinking too much.  But really, how much power do we have over that part of our destiny?  The husband of one of my friends, a health-conscious, fit man, not yet old, died in his sleep a few years ago. The truth is, when it’s time to go, it’s time. Still, I wish Mom had been able to be like that woman with the spiky white hair, walking with strength in her step and a light in her eyes, in spite of her advanced age. We might’ve traveled to Europe again. I would’ve liked that. She would’ve, too.

Hold onto the Old; Welcome the New

2011 was a year of change and adventure, and a year of sadness. I moved yet again, back home to New Hanover County, without doubt the most beautiful area in the world: sun, tall pines and live oaks, dunes, the ocean, sunrises that stun the senses and sunsets over the water on the EAST coast. (Yes, it’s true[i].) I visited Iceland, land of severe and startling beauty. I met interesting people and developed lasting friendships. I accepted a position with DODEA and am preparing to move to Europe, another homecoming of sorts. And I have wanted to share it all with my mom, who is really and truly Home, but to whom I wasn’t ready to say goodbye when she went to be with Jesus just over a year ago.
 In the blog entry from June 19, 2011 I said, “Life is precious, life is sweet. And sometimes it is bittersweet.” I would amend that now to say “often” instead of “sometimes.” This recent move to Wilmington has been filled with bittersweet reminders of the years we spent together here when I was a child —
The USS North Carolina:  I recently visited the noble vessel with friends, something that I had done with Mom when I was about eight; she taught me to admire the sailors who served on her, to the point that I even served in the US Naval Reserve myself. The smells on the ship are overwhelming memory inducers, and this recent trip took me back to that first visit.
Carolina Beach:   The tiki bar is one of my favorite places. It sits on what is left of Center Pier, across from the land that once held the motel that Mom owned. Eons ago, when I was about seven, she walked me all the way out on Center Pier during a strong gale. She was terrified of hurricanes but loathed the thought that I would be, so we walked in the furious wind, my hand held firmly in hers, and she talked with me as if everything were perfectly normal. Only later would I learn that she was absolutely beside herself with fear, but so sternly determined that I not be afraid of wind storms that she swallowed her terror, and I, because of her sacrifice, have literally slept through category 3 hurricanes.
Wrightsville Beach: Standing on the sand, watching the waves and the fishermen, I remember Mom casting the line from the shore. At 5’4″ and 110 pounds, she could cast as well as most men. She taught herself to throw a cast net and gig for flounder, too, which she filleted and cooked like nobody else.
The Intracoastal Waterway: Every time I pass over an ICW bridge, I can almost taste the oysters we gathered and ate, standing on the sand. I still feel weight of the knife I held in my hand and how it scraped against the oyster bed as I mimicked her motions, learning to pull the individual shells away from the bed and then open. If I lick my lips, I taste the salt.
These and countless other landmarks, smells, and tastes cause memories to flash in my mind of things we did together here over the course of my life. She shared her love for this beautiful and varied place with me. It will always be home to me, as it was to her.
Now the move to Europe floods me with thoughts of her; she and I made a similar move many years ago, to Germany, and I so want to hear her thoughts. Just a few nights ago, as I was driving to a New Year’s celebration, I thought of calling her to ask her advice. After over a year, I still reach out for her frequently. The past thirteen months have been filled with memories of Mom, thoughts of what I want to say to her or ask her about, of things I wish I’d done differently, of questions about what eternity is really like.
2011 was a tough year. I have worked really hard at my job, and I’ve moved once and begun a second move. I’ve embraced my singleness, letting go of most of the vague dreams I once had of some fictional Prince Charming, realizing I am pretty content in my life with my pets and my friends. I’ve done all of it while mourning the loss of my mom. I have confronted everything with enthusiasm, in Mom’s example. So, in spite of the pain, I’ve begun to be relatively happy again.
There is a saying, “out with the old, in with the new.” I prefer “hold onto the old, welcome the new.” The old must never be tossed out; it makes us who we are. We must hold onto it, cherish it, nurture it, so that we are open and ready to enfold the new into us, and assimilate it all into a new whole.  As I face 2012, I resolve to hold onto the memories of my mom and all she meant to me, as well as all the rest of the good and bad of my past, and welcome the new adventure that is in front of me. There will be difficult days ahead, but life is still precious, sweet, and bittersweet. I am grateful for all I’ve been given. God is still good, and I am still His.


[i] Because NC’s coastal geography juts in, then out, then back, some of its coasts are western-facing. Little known and lovely fact.

Mom’s Car

I sold Mom’s car yesterday. It’s a good thing because I had cosigned on the note, and we were totally upside down on it. But it’s bittersweet. Seeing that car pull away pulled at my heart.
I had become accustomed to seeing it parked in my carport, and it was somehow comforting and painful at the same time; it was almost as if I expected to find her inside when I got home.  Mom loved that car so much; she had always admired big, fancy cars.  When her Intrepid’s engine gave out about a year and a half ago, she found this Cadillac, a 2000 Deville. It was a gorgeous car: silver, shiny, and beautiful. Mom was in love. I can still hear her voice on the phone when she got the car home:  “You should see my beautiful car!”
Mom didn’t get to drive her Cadillac very much. Her health deteriorated a bit soon after she bought it, so she didn’t feel up to getting out a lot, and she had a little trouble with the car, too. She put about six thousand miles on it, and then she had to put it in the shop for about two thousand dollars’ worth of work. That’s why we were upside down on the loan; she had to refinance it to pay for the work.
The last year of Mom’s life was even more stressful than the preceding ones: the deaths of two important family members, the instability of my sister and her children, my issues, her very crabby, jealous and opinionated husband, her financial struggles. Now even her car wasn’t right. She was such a lover of her independence, and for a few months, that independence was severely impaired. She was really happy when the car was finally repaired and running as it should. Unfortunately, she died less than a month later, even before the first payment on the refinance was made.
I know I had to sell the car. And I’m very grateful that God sent a buyer so quickly. Nevertheless, it’s another piece of my mother that is no longer with me. I noticed when I was preparing the car to sell that there was a rabies tag on her keychain – it was Annebelle’s. Annebelle, a poodle we’d gotten when we lived in Germany, was a piece of Mom’s heart, that one-in-a-million companion animal that Mom loved as much as she did her children. She died in the 90’s after some 20 years with Mom. Her rabies tag is on my keychain now. Mom would be happy about that. It makes me happy, too. Or at least less sad.

The Last Goodbye

I’ve been reading a little book by Henri Nouwen. In Memoriam is a tiny volume that he wrote in response to the death and life of his mother. In it, Nouwen describes his mother’s last days, and her death in a hospital bed, with all of her family around her, making her comfortable, talking with her and with each other, and with God. It beautifully expresses his love for her and his gratitude for the life of faith that she shared with him.
As I read it, I have this horrible, selfish sense of having been cheated out of something precious. Mrs. Nouwen and her family knew without doubt that she was dying. She heard and felt their expressions of love for her during her final days and hours. Her family got to say goodbye in word and actions. My mom died suddenly, unexpectedly. While she had not been well for some time, no one, not even her doctor, thought she was so sick she was in imminent danger of dying. So while I had spoken with her on the phone the day before, I hadn’t been with her, and if I had known just how sick she was, I would’ve been.
And yet, I can’t justify complaining too much. Several of my friends have mothers who have recently died or are now struggling with Alzheimer’s. Can anything be more heartbreaking than not being recognized by your own mom? And anyone who has seen someone lie in a hospital bed for months knows that the manner in which my mother went Home was in most ways a blessing. Those who die long, drawn-out deaths, tubes invading their bodies, pricked with needles and in a drug-induced stupor suffer indignities and physical and emotional torment that ought not be. My dad’s mother died that way, and her children suffered greatly right along with her. My mom did not have to endure such agony. She died where she had lived: among her pets, in her living room, comfortable in her own chair. Her best friend, who was called to the house before Mom’s body was taken away, remarked that she seemed to be smiling. I think it may have been the first time in many years she was not frightened or worried.
Would I rather she had become ill enough to go to the hospital, where she would have been poked and prodded, robbed of her privacy and dignity? Would it have been preferable for her to have spent her last days or hours worried about her pets at home without her? Would I be happier now knowing I had been with her when she died, in spite of all that? No. I hope that I could never be that selfish. As precious as it would have been to have been able to pray with Mom, to have held her hand and kissed her goodbye, it is far better that she died as she did. God knows best and He did what was best for her and for us. My last goodbye to my Mom was on the phone, the day before she died, and that will have to do for now.

Remembering Gratitude

For most of my life, I have embraced gratitude. I have known that I am blessed beyond measure, that I have so much in terms of both tangibles and intangibles. I have had an interesting life; I have lived in and have traveled to a lot of great places, and as a result I have lovely and generous friends all over the US and in Europe. I have a dad who still thinks to look after me, even now, and I had wonderful relationships with my grandparents. I have, and have had for years, darling pets that bring me a lot of joy. I value the creativity God gave to me and to others. My car runs well, I have nice clothes, a great job, a comfortable place to live, music in my stereo and in my heart. My health has been good, and better still is my life in Christ; I sense His presence and I know He hears me when I pray. That is irrefutably a life to be thankful for.
So how is it then that I look around at all that, and what overwhelms me is the hole that is left where my mom used to be? My relationship with her was, from my earliest childhood, one of the very things for which I was grateful, every day. Even during my difficult and rebellious years, we talked and laughed and enjoyed being together. I am still profoundly thankful that we were such incredibly good friends. But almost all I see now, in spite of all of that and all the good that remains in my life, is the loss of her. It permeates everything. It refuses to be ignored or forgotten, even for a moment.
I teach my classes, and then my students leave, and the first thing I think as they are walking out the door is, “Mom.” I leave school, and I reach for my phone; I used to call her when I was on my way home. My pets do something funny, I laugh, and then while the laughter is still on my lips, I remember how she was with them, or worse, that she died before she met Maggie, my Maine Coon mix. I get an email with cute pictures of pets, and I want to send it to her. I hear a song, and it reminds me of her; I see an ad for a television show she liked or a movie I wanted her to see, and I think of her. There is practically nothing in my life that doesn’t remind me that she is gone.
Don’t get me wrong: I remain grateful for all that is beautiful in my life. I know there is so much, and I am mindful of it and of the One who provides for me. I will continue to thank Him for everything. I simply want to remember to be thankful that for all of my life, Mom was a great friend, that she is finally happy and truly whole, and in the Place all creation yearns for (Romans 8), and that I will be with her again one day. I hope that soon, the overarching theme of my life will again be gratitude, instead of this pervasive sadness that has been marking my days since she left.

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.