I am sitting in my bed with a marble candle holder sitting on my chest, with my chin down, holding it in place while I type. Kind of like that game you played when you were little where you had to hold a foam ball in the crook of your neck and carry it somewhere. It is cold, it is heavy, a light sand color with browns and blacks swirled through…and it has a portion of my mother’s ashes sealed inside. It is sitting over my heart. I feel so calm.
Tonight when I got home, it was sitting on our kitchen counter in a blue, velvet box. Dad asked, “Did you see your thing for mom there?” I didn’t really understand what he was asking, but when I saw the box I understood and my heart dropped. Just another reminder that she is gone. I picked it up and pressed it close, and all of the sudden I let this wave of emotion swarm over me, all different kinds of emotions. I was so heart-broken, so sad for her still, but so happy to have even just a small piece of her so near me. Regardless of its form, it is her. All I’ve wanted to do is hug her or touch her or just be near her. This candle, while it is not her, is what I have of her. She is sitting over my heart. I feel so calm.
Tonight as I waited for my psychologist appointment, I watched a mother and a daughter in the waiting room. They looked exactly the same. The daughter was filling out paper work. The mother was reading a magazine. As the daughter finished her paper work, she yanked it off the clipboard and tossed it onto her mom’s magazine. Her mom would glance at her daughter, pick up the piece of paper, and stack it neatly on top of her lap. They repeated this about six times, each time frustrating me more and more. Of course, I do not know their history or why they were also sitting in a psychologist’s office. But I do know that I was sad for them. Mostly for the mother. I wonder how she feels when someone tells her she looks just like her mother. I love when people tell me that. So many times I see girls treat their mom’s terribly, and it is repulsive to me. It always has been, but now, it stirs a little more significance into the mix. What if that mother and daughter drove out of the parking lot and were involved in a horrific car accident, taking the mother’s life. Would she regret treating her mother the way she did? Would she even care? I’m so saddened to see these types of relationships. I feel so bad that they lack what my mom and I had. I truly believe that my love for her, beyond what some mothers and daughters, sadly, will ever even know, is why I am able to be so strong through all of this.
My mom and I had the most perfect connection, strengthened by her breast cancer diagnosis nine years ago. It only grew stronger with each day that followed, until March 16th of this year. On that day, as we heard the word, “leukemia,” that bond was poured with cement and sealed shut. Nothing was going to separate me from my mom. Not chemotherapy. Not sleeping in different cities. Not a long-distance relationship. Not fear. Not cancer. I believed that. Until three weeks ago from tonight. That night, as I looked at my mom’s face, and saw her struggling, and heard the word “sepsis,” I knew we were going to be separated. She said, “I’m scared. I don’t want to die.” Sometimes, “Please help me. I don’t want to die. Please…” as she cried. I watched her fear emerge, more and more each hour, and my heart hurt so badly for her that it never occurred to me that within a day’s time, I might find my heart hurting for itself. As I sat in the waiting room, shaking and shattered, my heart was left in her room, gone from this Earth along with her spirit.
I pray that others see how my mom and I were together or were somehow lucky enough to understand our bond. I hope that people who unfortunately did not understand walked away from her funeral knowing full-well its greatness. My words, during her service, and my words now and in previous posts, hold her memory alive and keep our love strong, but hopefully will display a different perspective on a mother-child relationship. I hope that, while people may be sad for my mom and I to be separated, they can strengthen their own relationship and strive for what we had. Because, there is nothing more uplifting and more fulfilling than the undying love of a mother and when a child returns that love for her in exactly the same way. Nothing more heartfelt than a moment between a mother and her daughter, saying their final good-byes and I-love-yous years before they were meant to come. I will never understand why such a love was interrupted. My mom used to tell me that my age was the “most exciting it will ever be. Now is when you grow up, move out, and become who you want to be.” This time in my life couldn’t be more sorrowful. More devastating. More heart-breaking.
My 24th birthday is next week. I graduate in May. My boyfriend and I are talking about getting married. I am working on starting a career path. I want a job, financial stability, a career I love, a safe, quiet place to call my own. I want to get married, and I want to adopt at least one child. This is the most exciting time of my life?
I will not get to glance at my mom in the stands as I walk across the stage to get my diploma for my Masters. I will not get to call her and let her know of our engagement, “Guess what? You were right! I can’t believe it! I can’t wait for you to see it!” (She had a funny prediction of when he might propose). I will not get to see my mom with a stack of bridal magazines in front of her, pouring over images and ideas of ways to make everything perfect, as she always did. I will not get to see her choke back tears as I try on my wedding gown for the first time, which would no doubt have been one that I didn’t even consider but she begged me to try on---and it was the perfect one. (This is how all of our prom dress shopping trips turned out, and how I pictured the sacred mom-and-daughter wedding dress trip). I will never get to tell her, “Oh my God, I got the job! The one I was dying for!” I can nearly hear her now, “Ugh, thank God. I knew you would. I’m so proud of you, I always have been. OK, now, let’s go shopping.” I wanted to introduce her to her grandchild, and whether it would be my own or adopted, she would be so thrilled and instantly in love. I will never get to watch her cradling a baby in her arms, in a way only a grandmother could, renewing her love for me all over again and kindling a newer love for the baby. I think out of all the things we will miss out on as a mother-daughter pair, the wedding and the baby are what kill me the most. I am not a mother, but I am completely 100% positive that a large part of the reason she fought so hard was to be alive to see these two moments in my life. I still, three weeks later, have even more sadness for her, that she was so abruptly taken and will miss out on so many things we still had left to do.
Many people, women, in particular, have become awfully emotional with me as we discuss this exact thought. Missing out on a daughter growing up, with all of the big moments in life still yet to be completed. All of them tend to react the same way. They cock their head to the side, put their hand up to their chest, their eyes get teary, and they shake their head as they say, “Oh, I just can’t imagine. I’m in my fifties, and I still have my mom. I don’t know what I would do without her. Or if my daughter had to be here without me.” (That last part gets them pretty good—thinking of their own daughter). This somehow makes me sadder, provoking such a sad realization for other people, some I barely even know. However, it is nice to know that they are sad for me, and not just in a disconnected, pity-type of way but in a mother-daughter-type of way. I am happy to know that there are others who care just as much as I do and worry about facing the same things. There are just some things that, no matter what, will be mother-daughter things. I, unfortunately, will never know these types of things. I certainly hope that, when I finally get to do them myself, they will not lack the excitement and wonder they were meant for. Without my mom there, I’m sure they will not be as shiny as they could have been if she was sitting next to me.
However, I know she’ll always be “there,” next to me, but in a completely different sense.
My candle is still sitting my chest. If I sit still enough, I can watch it shake slightly with every heartbeat. This weekend I bought pumpkin spice tealights for it. She loved Fall, and she had several different pumpkin candles in our house. They were her favorite. I figure I should probably put only her favorites in her candle, since “her candle” now has an altogether new meaning to it.
Yesterday I had a really rough day, which was pretty clear in my last post. Today, it started a little rocky and really hit its peak of fabulousness when I locked both sets of keys in my car today while I was running. Luckily, I was able to use my friend’s phone to call the police. Boda-bing, boda-boom. Open in less than a minute. My frustration, though, from realizing I had done something so ridiculous mixed with my usual tension and anxiety, helped me run two solid miles today. And it was a good run. I felt great afterwards, with energy still, even from so many hours ago. On a negative note, my iPod froze shortly after saving my workout and didn’t load into my training program. Huge bummer. But at least I know I did it. Today was a much better today.
This morning, on my way to school, a woman pulled up behind me, and she was singing with such animation, and all of the sudden, she started to move her hands to the tempo, not dancing, but directing a choir. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. When I sing in my car, I feel awkward singing when I know people can see me, especially sitting at red lights. But not this woman. She acted like an entire concert choir was crammed into her Acura SUV and she was directing them like they were performing at the Grammys. I found this so intriguing to watch and so lovable. Oh, to be this happy.
I, incidentally, have not sung in my care in nearly a month. My heart hasn’t been in it. What’s great about singing in your car is that it’s just you, no one to judge you, no one to impress, just you. Singing comes best through the soul, when you are feeling completely content and full of joy. It is felt with heavy metal, oldies, rock and roll, whatever. Singing is singing. The privateness of your car allows you to sing in a completely raw, unrehearsed way that is able to fill your heart to the brim with all things good. I watched that woman this morning and I thought, “Whoa. She is super happy!” And I felt my heart twinge. I hadn’t sung in so long. I wasn’t happy. Seeing people in their element sometimes really shows you how much yours is lacking.
Tonight, I sang on my way home. As loud as I wanted to, to whatever I wanted to, and I didn’t try to be good, and I wasn’t. But I was happy. Such a little moment, singing in your car. It may be nothing to some people, so unconscious and completely unnoticed. But when you realize you haven’t done it in so long, sang quietly by yourself in your car, you start to realize that this small act strongly parallels with being happy. I am taking this as a very good sign that I am starting to be happy again. Here and there. But that’s enough, for now. Better than none at all. Thank you Electric Touch, Sara Bareilles, and Missy Higgins.
My candle holder has been sitting to long on my chest it has made a circle-shaped imprint on my skin. I am going to take it off of my skin, and to be honest, while I know she is not actually touching me, which I would give anything for, it is not healthy to attach ourselves to objects that hold such strong memories. I literally feel a slight pang of panic knowing it won’t actually be touching me anymore, so I can put it on my night stand and light it. That just doesn’t feel close enough to me. However, the blanket, sweatshirt, pair of pajamas, and two hats of hers that are in my bed don’t feel close enough to me either. I think this is the hardest part of accepting loss is accepting the fact that you will no longer again touch their skin. I miss her touch so much it aches, and as I am left without her touch every day, my heart, what’s left of it, sinks lower and lower. I think my first step towards acceptance is to take this candle holder off of my chest and place it on a coaster on my night stand. She would be mad if I sat it directly on the wood without something underneath it. I will light a pumpkin spice candle, lovingly snuggled into the marble holder, and I will be comforted by the warm glow of the flame and the soft scent that is so appropriate for this time of year, and I will feel comforted, knowing that I am enjoying a moment that she would have equally just as much enjoyed. Fall. The scent of spiced pumpkin. A warm glow in the darkness. She is near me.
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