Today is New Year's Eve, and as that big crystal ball slowly approaches its drop tonight, I have been inspired to think of things to improve for the new year. I am not calling these "New Year's Resolutions," because no one ever sticks to those, but rather, "New Year's Improvements." They are not things I am completely changing or starting from this point, just things I hope to encourage more of within myself and things I will accomplish in the years to come.
1. I will floss twice a day instead of just once.
2. I will pluck my eyebrows without letting them grow in all wild...I know this one sounds stupid but because of all the tragic and stressful things that have happened to me and my family this year, I have seriously neglected little things that make me feel taken care of. i.e. plucking my eyebrows. In fact, I would like to revise this one to "I will make a solid effort to maintain myself so I feel taken care of without verging on the border of 'vain' or 'self-conceited.'"
3. I will continue to maintain the laughter and sense of humor aunt Polly taught me all the years I was lucky enough to enjoy with her.
4. I will finish school, finish my thesis, get a job, get a place of my own, and finally feel like I am moving in the right direction.
5. I will buy my wedding dress.
6. I will continue to grow in my relationships with my aunts and love them like my mom did, like sisters.
7. I will honor my mom's memory at cancer walks and 5Ks and continue to run like she encouraged.
8. I will continue to give back to the American Cancer Society, Hope Lodge, Making Strides Against Breast Cancer, and the Relay for Life, although it may be challenging at times for me to return to these events.
9. I will avoid drama that lurks around every corner. I will keep my mouth shut the majority of the time, but I will speak up when the time is appropriate and I feel I am being misrepresented, taken advantage of, or walked all over. I will stand up for myself and not worry about those who chose to tare me down because of their own insecurities. I feel sorry for these people, and I will not behave the way they do.
10. Most importantly, I will continue to grow in myself and live the way my mom and aunt Polly did. They were two of the most beautiful people I have ever met, and I hope to be as loving, kind, generous, gentle, funny, and determined as they were. I will be conscious of the choices they would make when I am faced with my own, and as long as I continue to keep their love and memory alive, I will always make the right choice for myself. I hope to be just like them.
Goodbye 2009. You will not be missed.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Merry Christmas from Heaven
It is two days after Christmas, and today, for the first time in a long time, I picked up the phone to call my mom. It occurred to me that I hadn't talked to her in a while and reached in my purse to find it, then reality set in. It didn't hurt as bad this time. In fact, each time that happens, it hurts less and less. Which, really, is all I can ask for at this point.
Christmas was very nice, and I spent it with my family and friends, and I enjoyed it so much. Christmas eve was busy, and I helped my aunt Janny get things ready for her special dinner, and I spent the night. Because many of the babies in my family missed out on getting to know aunt Polly, my aunts had these special bears made out of some of her old Jiminy Cricket shirts. They were very special, and I helped her wrap them. Giving them to the babies and watching them open their gifts, even though now they don't realize how special they are, was amazing to watch and it really was so wonderful. After our big family get-together, we went back to aunt Janny's house and had our own Christmas exchange, and it was so much different than I expected it to be.
Usually what happens on Christmas eve is my mom's side of the family gets together at someone's house. We have a huge meal and unwrap our presents and sit around for hours and have tons of fun. Because things are so different this year with both my aunt Polly and my mom gone, some of us were not into the big get-together. Mainly me and my aunt Janny. But that is ok, because everyone has to deal with things like this in their own way, and this is what we chose to do. We did partake in the family get-together but only for about an hour, just to give the babies the special aunt Polly bears. Then, my fiance and I went back to aunt Janny's house and we all exchanged our presents with each other and we had a very quiet night together. We wanted things low-key this year.
I am an only child, and typically, I will admit, I am very spoiled on Christmas. I think my mom just could not help herself and always bought me presents like I was five. I'm not kidding. I always thought it was so funny how she'd tell me that this year was going to be "different" and that she didn't go "all out" like she did the year before. Of course, I thought that was ok, seeing as I'm in my twenties and do not go crazy over Christmas like a little kid does...and every year the family room would be filled with presents. Tons of presents. This, actually, is almost embarrassing to say. But she spoiled me to death on Christmas. This year, my aunts felt the need to take over this role, and before I knew it, I was surrounded by presents, sitting on aunt Janny's living room floor. I had a gift for Adrian and a gift for her, and I felt so embarrassed that I did not reciprocate in any way to the monumental amount of gifts they got me. And I cried. Like a child. I knew what was going on, and I just felt so sad. The presents were from my aunt Janny but also from my aunt Becky and aunt Rita, too. They were trying to take over for mom. I cried a lot. In fact, just thinking about it and trying to describe it makes me cry again. I just thought everything was going to be low-key, and it wasn't at all what I pictured and it really caught me off-guard. We all took turns opening presents, and so many of mine were so special that I continued to cry all night long. Needless to say, I will not even have to have a bridal shower...Adrian and I are set when it comes to our future kitchen.
Side note: Food is my life. I'm getting a Masters in Nutrition and Dietetics and think very seriously every year about going to culinary school. I watch Top Chef, the Food Network, and regularly search for new recipes and cookbooks just for fun. There is nothing more fun to me than making pasta by hand for hours...I love food. Love it.
They showered me with all things culinary and fabulous. And I loved it. And I cried.
One of the last things I opened was a tall box and the tag said, "To: Julia. From: Angelface." If you remember from a previous post, I often refer to my mom as Angelface, especially since I love that picture of her so much with her funny angel wings on. I knew right away whatever was in this box was going to push me over the edge. Wow, was I right.
I took the lid off and removed the sparkly, red tissue paper and I saw the top of a bear. And I recognized the fabric almost immediately. My mom's robe. They had a bear made for me out of her robe. It is the robe she always wore when she walked up and down the halls of the hospital to get her daily exercise and the robe she wore the morning my aunt Polly died. It is a very light robin's egg blue and has embroidered flowers on both sides. The bear's face and chest are lined with these flowers, and it even kind of smells like her. I cried so much my mascara ran down my face and I was afraid to touch her in case I got mascara all over her. I wiped my hands off and pulled her out of her box and hugged her like she was real. Aunt Janny was crying too, and she said, "You can add her to your nest."
"My nest" is my bed that is now filled with my mom's clothes. Her Tinkerbell sweatshirts and some of her nightgowns, ball caps, and t-shirts. And now my bear. I just love it. How special.
Another thing I got was an ornament that said, "Merry Christmas from Heaven." My aunt Rita got these for a bunch of us since aunt Polly and mom are gone this year. It came with a poem that I really liked, also called "Merry Christmas from Heaven," by John William Mooney, Jr.
I still hear the songs
I still see the lights
I still feel your love on cold wintry nights
I still share your hopes
and all of your cares
I'll even remind you
to please say your prayers
I just want to tell you
you still make me proud
You stand head and shoulders
above all the crowd
Keep trying each moment
to stay in His grace
I came here before you
to help set your place
you don't have to be
perfect all of the time
He forgives you the slip
If you continue the climb
To my family and friends
please be thankful today
I'm still close beside you
In a new special way
I love you all dearly
now don't shed a tear
Cause I'm spending my
Christmas with Jesus this year.
I really like the part about going to Heaven early to set up a place. I don't like that she's gone. But she is. And I like that she got there before me so she can come get me when I'm ready. I hope that is not for a very long time and that I get to do all the things she wanted me to do and all the things she didn't get to do herself. But I will be so happy to see her again when that time comes.
Christmas was bittersweet this year. I tried my best to stay brave and happy for everyone, and it wasn't too hard because that's really how I felt. It didn't need to be forced. I try to be really strong for her so she knows I'm mostly ok without her. I don't want her to feel bad that she's gone. I want her to enjoy Heaven and not worry about me very much. Even though I worry about her all the time. I hope that doesn't bother her.
Not everyone will understand this last part, and really, it is only for one person in particular, but I hope that everyone is aware that these posts are in no way to be used as ammunition against others. If you feel the need to read them and share them with others, I hope you do it in a way that is of the utmost respect so my words are not twisted or misconstrued. Drama is everywhere we turn these days, and with the pressure and stress I and my family have been under, no extra is needed. So, I request, with all do respect, that if you are reading this purely out of nosiness rather than care and curiosity, do not spread my words around to mean something they do not. Mind your own business. Be respectful. Thank you.
Christmas was very nice, and I spent it with my family and friends, and I enjoyed it so much. Christmas eve was busy, and I helped my aunt Janny get things ready for her special dinner, and I spent the night. Because many of the babies in my family missed out on getting to know aunt Polly, my aunts had these special bears made out of some of her old Jiminy Cricket shirts. They were very special, and I helped her wrap them. Giving them to the babies and watching them open their gifts, even though now they don't realize how special they are, was amazing to watch and it really was so wonderful. After our big family get-together, we went back to aunt Janny's house and had our own Christmas exchange, and it was so much different than I expected it to be.
Usually what happens on Christmas eve is my mom's side of the family gets together at someone's house. We have a huge meal and unwrap our presents and sit around for hours and have tons of fun. Because things are so different this year with both my aunt Polly and my mom gone, some of us were not into the big get-together. Mainly me and my aunt Janny. But that is ok, because everyone has to deal with things like this in their own way, and this is what we chose to do. We did partake in the family get-together but only for about an hour, just to give the babies the special aunt Polly bears. Then, my fiance and I went back to aunt Janny's house and we all exchanged our presents with each other and we had a very quiet night together. We wanted things low-key this year.
I am an only child, and typically, I will admit, I am very spoiled on Christmas. I think my mom just could not help herself and always bought me presents like I was five. I'm not kidding. I always thought it was so funny how she'd tell me that this year was going to be "different" and that she didn't go "all out" like she did the year before. Of course, I thought that was ok, seeing as I'm in my twenties and do not go crazy over Christmas like a little kid does...and every year the family room would be filled with presents. Tons of presents. This, actually, is almost embarrassing to say. But she spoiled me to death on Christmas. This year, my aunts felt the need to take over this role, and before I knew it, I was surrounded by presents, sitting on aunt Janny's living room floor. I had a gift for Adrian and a gift for her, and I felt so embarrassed that I did not reciprocate in any way to the monumental amount of gifts they got me. And I cried. Like a child. I knew what was going on, and I just felt so sad. The presents were from my aunt Janny but also from my aunt Becky and aunt Rita, too. They were trying to take over for mom. I cried a lot. In fact, just thinking about it and trying to describe it makes me cry again. I just thought everything was going to be low-key, and it wasn't at all what I pictured and it really caught me off-guard. We all took turns opening presents, and so many of mine were so special that I continued to cry all night long. Needless to say, I will not even have to have a bridal shower...Adrian and I are set when it comes to our future kitchen.
Side note: Food is my life. I'm getting a Masters in Nutrition and Dietetics and think very seriously every year about going to culinary school. I watch Top Chef, the Food Network, and regularly search for new recipes and cookbooks just for fun. There is nothing more fun to me than making pasta by hand for hours...I love food. Love it.
They showered me with all things culinary and fabulous. And I loved it. And I cried.
One of the last things I opened was a tall box and the tag said, "To: Julia. From: Angelface." If you remember from a previous post, I often refer to my mom as Angelface, especially since I love that picture of her so much with her funny angel wings on. I knew right away whatever was in this box was going to push me over the edge. Wow, was I right.
I took the lid off and removed the sparkly, red tissue paper and I saw the top of a bear. And I recognized the fabric almost immediately. My mom's robe. They had a bear made for me out of her robe. It is the robe she always wore when she walked up and down the halls of the hospital to get her daily exercise and the robe she wore the morning my aunt Polly died. It is a very light robin's egg blue and has embroidered flowers on both sides. The bear's face and chest are lined with these flowers, and it even kind of smells like her. I cried so much my mascara ran down my face and I was afraid to touch her in case I got mascara all over her. I wiped my hands off and pulled her out of her box and hugged her like she was real. Aunt Janny was crying too, and she said, "You can add her to your nest."
"My nest" is my bed that is now filled with my mom's clothes. Her Tinkerbell sweatshirts and some of her nightgowns, ball caps, and t-shirts. And now my bear. I just love it. How special.
Another thing I got was an ornament that said, "Merry Christmas from Heaven." My aunt Rita got these for a bunch of us since aunt Polly and mom are gone this year. It came with a poem that I really liked, also called "Merry Christmas from Heaven," by John William Mooney, Jr.
I still hear the songs
I still see the lights
I still feel your love on cold wintry nights
I still share your hopes
and all of your cares
I'll even remind you
to please say your prayers
I just want to tell you
you still make me proud
You stand head and shoulders
above all the crowd
Keep trying each moment
to stay in His grace
I came here before you
to help set your place
you don't have to be
perfect all of the time
He forgives you the slip
If you continue the climb
To my family and friends
please be thankful today
I'm still close beside you
In a new special way
I love you all dearly
now don't shed a tear
Cause I'm spending my
Christmas with Jesus this year.
I really like the part about going to Heaven early to set up a place. I don't like that she's gone. But she is. And I like that she got there before me so she can come get me when I'm ready. I hope that is not for a very long time and that I get to do all the things she wanted me to do and all the things she didn't get to do herself. But I will be so happy to see her again when that time comes.
Christmas was bittersweet this year. I tried my best to stay brave and happy for everyone, and it wasn't too hard because that's really how I felt. It didn't need to be forced. I try to be really strong for her so she knows I'm mostly ok without her. I don't want her to feel bad that she's gone. I want her to enjoy Heaven and not worry about me very much. Even though I worry about her all the time. I hope that doesn't bother her.
Not everyone will understand this last part, and really, it is only for one person in particular, but I hope that everyone is aware that these posts are in no way to be used as ammunition against others. If you feel the need to read them and share them with others, I hope you do it in a way that is of the utmost respect so my words are not twisted or misconstrued. Drama is everywhere we turn these days, and with the pressure and stress I and my family have been under, no extra is needed. So, I request, with all do respect, that if you are reading this purely out of nosiness rather than care and curiosity, do not spread my words around to mean something they do not. Mind your own business. Be respectful. Thank you.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Karma
Something really interesting has occurred to me tonight and I want to write about it because it is one o'clock in the morning and I hoped to be sleeping nearly two hours ago, and if I don't get it out I will think about it all night long, making another sleepless night for me. For the 350th odd night in a row...
I, and my family, have been dealing with all of this stuff for literally (gasp) an entire year. You see, today is Christmas Eve of 2009, with only about one week left in this awful year. January of 2009, Aunt Polly was put on hospice. March 2009, my mom was diagnosed with leukemia. April of 2009, Aunt Polly finally died from cancer. Summer of 2009, we began the search for a bone marrow transplant for mom and by September she was in the Cleveland Clinic beginning extensive chemo because they found a "perfect match." October 8, 2009, she died. October 11th was her birthday. October 12th was her funeral. November 5th was my 24th birthday. This Christmas will be the first of many more Christmases without her.
She is not here to see my engagement. She will not be here to watch me graduate, get a job, move out, and be on my own. She will not be there when I search for wedding dresses. She will not be there to pick out the ugliest one on the hanger that just happens to be the perfect one once I try it on. She will not get to help pick out flowers or invitations or music or decorations. She is gone. I still don't understand why. I guess I never will. But she is gone, and not understanding doesn't change it. She always said that now would be "the most exciting time of my life." This feels like nothing more than a slap in the face these days. No matter how good things are, they will never fully be as good as they could be. She was such a big, magical part of everything. Things do not feel the same anymore without her in my life.
I realized how many awful things have happened this year when I was laying in bed watching a movie. I have a headache. I always have a headache. This is not an exaggeration. My head always hurts. And I am always so tired. This imaginary light bulb went on over my head. Ding! No wonder I feel the way I feel. The recap of 2009 is enough to make anyone shudder. And to make things a little trickier, I am in a Master's in Science program and a full-time internship. I now marvel at the fact that I am still alive. How have I not had a coronary or an embolism or a stroke of some kind? The body is an amazing thing to be able to endure so much. All the times I heard people say, "You're such a rock, you know that?" or "If that were me I'd be dead by now." I just laughed to myself, they can do this too. I'm sure of it. "Julia, you're such an inspiration." Whatever. Don't we all deal with the situation at hand? I will never back out of something or turn my back on something because that's the easy way to do things. I think it's odd that people actually act like this is surprising.
What I really do think is surprising, however, is how it never occurred to me that the reason I have headaches all the time or the reason I'm tired all the time or why I can barely run without passing out now or why I have weird pains in my stomach is some type of medical problem when all it really is is a heart problem. Not that kind of a heart problem. The other kind. Simply-it is broken. It has been broken since January. And instead of giving it the chance to heal, it was further tortured and smashed with nearly every month that has passed since.
No wonder I feel the way I do. My body just can't take it anymore.
2010 cannot come any faster if it tried. If there is such a thing as karma, me and everyone one of my family members will win the lottery.
I, and my family, have been dealing with all of this stuff for literally (gasp) an entire year. You see, today is Christmas Eve of 2009, with only about one week left in this awful year. January of 2009, Aunt Polly was put on hospice. March 2009, my mom was diagnosed with leukemia. April of 2009, Aunt Polly finally died from cancer. Summer of 2009, we began the search for a bone marrow transplant for mom and by September she was in the Cleveland Clinic beginning extensive chemo because they found a "perfect match." October 8, 2009, she died. October 11th was her birthday. October 12th was her funeral. November 5th was my 24th birthday. This Christmas will be the first of many more Christmases without her.
She is not here to see my engagement. She will not be here to watch me graduate, get a job, move out, and be on my own. She will not be there when I search for wedding dresses. She will not be there to pick out the ugliest one on the hanger that just happens to be the perfect one once I try it on. She will not get to help pick out flowers or invitations or music or decorations. She is gone. I still don't understand why. I guess I never will. But she is gone, and not understanding doesn't change it. She always said that now would be "the most exciting time of my life." This feels like nothing more than a slap in the face these days. No matter how good things are, they will never fully be as good as they could be. She was such a big, magical part of everything. Things do not feel the same anymore without her in my life.
I realized how many awful things have happened this year when I was laying in bed watching a movie. I have a headache. I always have a headache. This is not an exaggeration. My head always hurts. And I am always so tired. This imaginary light bulb went on over my head. Ding! No wonder I feel the way I feel. The recap of 2009 is enough to make anyone shudder. And to make things a little trickier, I am in a Master's in Science program and a full-time internship. I now marvel at the fact that I am still alive. How have I not had a coronary or an embolism or a stroke of some kind? The body is an amazing thing to be able to endure so much. All the times I heard people say, "You're such a rock, you know that?" or "If that were me I'd be dead by now." I just laughed to myself, they can do this too. I'm sure of it. "Julia, you're such an inspiration." Whatever. Don't we all deal with the situation at hand? I will never back out of something or turn my back on something because that's the easy way to do things. I think it's odd that people actually act like this is surprising.
What I really do think is surprising, however, is how it never occurred to me that the reason I have headaches all the time or the reason I'm tired all the time or why I can barely run without passing out now or why I have weird pains in my stomach is some type of medical problem when all it really is is a heart problem. Not that kind of a heart problem. The other kind. Simply-it is broken. It has been broken since January. And instead of giving it the chance to heal, it was further tortured and smashed with nearly every month that has passed since.
No wonder I feel the way I do. My body just can't take it anymore.
2010 cannot come any faster if it tried. If there is such a thing as karma, me and everyone one of my family members will win the lottery.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Just like always
Dear Mom,
You were right. You were always right about everything. I remember when we went to go look for prom dresses, and I was dead-set on one I saw in a magazine, and you picked one out that I thought was just awful. “Humor me,” you said, and so I put it on for you. And it was perfect. You were right. Like always.
We are less than a week away from Christmas. I like not having a Christmas tree this year. Some people think it’s sad that we haven’t put one up, but I think the less stimulation in the house, the better. Neutral is the way to go this year, and maybe for a while until things feel somewhat normal again. I have been getting a lot of Christmas cards from people, and so many of them have their phone numbers scrawled inside. “Call me so we can get together and talk.” Things like that. I’m not sure if people realize that I am a lot better off than they seem to think. I suppose I appreciate their sympathy and concern, especially around the holidays, but I will always miss you and be sad in my heart and dwelling on it will not bring you back. I do not want to think about you in the ICU or how you were so scared, and “talking” about it with people won’t change anything.
I would like to remember you, instead, listening to my music and dancing in the car and then gasping in surprise when you would hear a bad word. And I would laugh at you. “I didn’t write the song, mom!” You were so prim and proper. I thought you were so cute. You will never understand what I thought of you. I liked going to weddings with you and when we would dance together, or when we would get a laughing jag somewhere and laugh for hours about everything, even if it really wasn’t that funny to anyone else. I liked teaching you slang and I especially liked hearing you say it at the most unexpected times. And I liked how you would be so proud of yourself afterwards. There were so many little things I loved about you. I was telling my best friend tonight about how you barfed all night long after eating mexican a couple years ago. My ears were trained to be able to hear you walk from your bed to the bathroom, since I had to get used to it when you had breast cancer and were sick from chemotherapy. I could tell where you were in the hallway by the creaks in the floorboards. That night, I heard you get up and go into the bathroom, and when I realized you were sick, I got up to check on you. You were crying, knelt down by the toilet, and I asked you what was wrong. “I’m never gonna eat that shit again,” you sobbed. And then you started to giggle, and before too long, both of us were hysterically laughing together at one o’clock in the morning in our bathroom.
Little things make my heart hurt, like going to the grocery store. When I was little, I hated going to the grocery store with you because it took so long. But as I got older, I loved to go absolutely everywhere with you and help you in any way I could. I loved walking with my arm around you or patting your butt, and you got so embarrassed! You were just so cute, I couldn’t keep my hands off of you. I did feel bad sometimes, but for the most part, I never thought anything of it. But I know you loved it, even if you never admitted it! I think that it is sad when mothers and daughters do not touch and love like we did, even if it was somewhere stupid like the frozen foods isle. So what? I just liked you so much. In fact, that is what I miss the most about you. Not being able to touch you. Now, whenever your picture pops up on my desktop slideshow, I touch your nose with my finger and make a goofy noise. “Boop!” I miss picking on you and harassing you and embarrassing you in the grocery store and making you laugh. I just want to pinch your cheeks and pet your head. Ugh-I can’t get over the ridiculous amount of love that still lingers inside me, like you’re sitting here next to me.
But you’re not.
I don’t like it. Not at all. I hope you liked watching
I am doing my best to watch over everyone the way you always did, especially your sisters. They have always meant so much to me, you knew that. I like to keep tabs on them and make sure they are doing alright. I know Christmas will be hard for them. They were all excited to hear about the engagement, and I think helping to plan a wedding will be a good distraction for Aunt Janny, and also for me too. It’s very encouraging to have something to look forward to, since everything else feels so up in the air now.
I know that things will fall into place eventually. But it’s very stressful to still be waiting after so long. I am not even sure I’m going in the right direction anymore. What I wouldn’t give to have you here to guide me and encourage me like you always did. Nothing from anyone means as much as it always did from you. No matter what the issue or worry was, you could erase it with just a few words. I could definitely use some of them now. I want you back in my life so much. But I know that is unrealistic, so I’m trying to think of how I can still have you here with me, so to speak. I have ideas for how I’ll keep your memory alive at my wedding and when I get a house and can decorate it. I want to have something specifically just for you so you feel really special and tremendously loved. And it will feel like you are here, even if I can’t see you or touch you. Or pinch your butt in the grocery store.
Just so you know, you were my best friend. I’m pretty sure you knew that. And you were right. Like always.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Who knew
Today marks the two month anniversary of my mom's death. It feels very weird, mostly because it feels like it happened only yesterday. I don't really know how to describe this exactly, but even though I am getting better and better everyday, it still feels like yesterday was her last day on earth. It is still so vivid and so real, not quite a memory yet.
I celebrated, if you will, by singing really loud in my car on the way to school. We always sang together in the car. Then, I read a cute little book called "Grief Therapy" that my psychologist gave to me last night. It's by Abbey Press from a series called "Elf Help" because the book is illustrated with little elves doing things and the books range from grief to mourning during the holidays to self-esteem and so on. They are very cute. Each page has a little tid-bit of information or encouragement about grieving a loved one and I could so easily identify with each item that it almost shocked me. I loved it. I would definitely encourage it for anyone who feels the way I do. It only took about 15 minutes to read yet it left a monumental impact on me. Luckily, I am doing many of the things they suggest, like talking with others who are in my situation and surrounding myself with friends and focusing on a new hobby or simple pleasures like rain or tea. I am also struggling with things they say it's normal to struggle with like being angry at God and letting go of bad memories and thoughts.
This is the worst part for me. They sneak up without any warning at all. Tonight, I went to open mic night at my favorite coffee house with my friends and out of nowhere I was taken to my mom's ICU room. They had just intubated her and let us back into see her. Her body was in shock and her heart had stopped and they had to shock it to get it back in rhythm. Her eyes were taped shut and she gagged against the tube down her throat and her body jerked with rejection. This image flooded me as I listened to the music and I fought hard against it but I didn't win. I walked outside to get some fresh air, and I stood on the porch as it rained a cold, December rain. I breathed slowly and took several long, deep breaths. I choked back tears and swallowed hard. It eventually went away as I controlled my breathing and focused on my legs holding me up, starting with my toes, then my feet, then my ankles, then my calves and so on. It sounds silly, but it works. It "realigns" everything. Then I walked back inside and had no problem the rest of the night. It's weird to me how things like that can leave as quickly as they came.
One of the ladies I used to work with at the hospital has a brother-in-law who was down the hall from my mom in the transplant unit. He completed his transplant successfully and was discharged several days before my mom died. Several weeks ago I learned that he had an infection and they confirmed that it was Graft Versus Host Disease. This is where your body rejects the new bone marrow and it begins to attack itself, and it can happen anywhere in the body but main areas are usually the skin, eyes, and GI tract. Unfortunately, the GVHD was in Stage 4, the most severe, and consumed his entire GI tract. She told me that he was very sick and they estimated he would survive only two weeks or so if the medication didn't work.
He died this afternoon.
One thing I don't understand is why we are surrounded by the things that are so prominent in our lives while it is happening to us. Meaning, before my mom had her transplant, I worked with so many people who successfully completed bone marrow transplants while I worked in my internship at the Cleveland Clinic. I would marvel at how wonderful they looked and how healthy they were and it offered me so much hope. My mom would look at me with worry across her face and ask, "What do these people look like? I mean...are they ok?" And she'd crinkle her nose and curl her lip, nervous that she would be left completely ruined afterwards. "They look so great! I promise." She always thought I was lying or embellishing to make her feel better. I wasn't. "Really. They wouldn't do it if it wasn't worth it. You're going to be just fine," I'd try to reassure her. She would always cry after this type of conversation, which we had several times. I would hug her and pat her little bald head and tell her she was going to be just fine. Sometimes I actually believed it.
As I anticipated her admission to begin the transplant, I was so surprised by how many transplant patients I worked with and how many of them were back to normal life and beginning their new journey to being cancer-free. Now that she is gone, all I see is others losing loved ones or hearing stories of similar tragedies. My friend's dad lost his battle to colon cancer. A community figure that was announced "terminal" only a month ago lost her battle with breast cancer. Now this man too, my friend's brother-in-law, taken by a despicable infection that comes without warning.
Sometimes I think it is more of a crime than the actual cancer that they lose their lives after a successful bone marrow transplant. Yeah, the cancer is terrible, but what they have to go through to even receive the bone marrow is far worse. I can't imagine how awful that kind of chemo and radiation must be, the whole time anticipating having someone else's bone marrow pumped inside you. I think it is much more cruel that they lose their battle after working so hard. Just cruel.
It makes you wonder if it's even worth it. I'm not sure that it is. I am angry about this. I have never seen someone work so hard in my life. For it all to be taken away? I am so angry.
Luckily, my little Elf Help book tells me it is ok to be angry about these types of things and that even though it seems negative, it is part of the healing process. It says that we cannot move onto the good things unless we first deal with the bad. Okie dokie. I'm on my way.
I don't like to be angry. I think that reading this you may think that I am angry all the time. This is far from the truth. Mostly, I'm happy, and I laugh and have a good time and enjoy myself with my friends. Very rarely do I feel awful or sad, and I think it seems more so in these posts because that is when I feel compelled to write.
Unlike my last post, I will end this one on a good note. Yesterday while I was having my resume analyzed by career services at school as part of a class grade, I met a girl who lost her mom to cancer as well. I asked her the best way to explain a transition into medical sales from a deeply clinical background because of my mom's death...without sounding mentally unstable to a potential employer. Her eyes got really big and she gasped and said, "My mom died too. Three years ago. She had cancer. I had to do the same exact thing. Just be up front and honest and tell them." We began talking about our moms and our similar stories. "No one really understands. It's your mom. It's so different from losing someone else. I was four months pregnant when it happened," she said. I nodded and identified with absolutely every word that came out of her mouth. I smiled and laughed, "Oh, we're definitely friends," and she gave me her phone number and email and asked me for mine. I think that this is so interesting. You never know who you will meet in your life that share such similar stories. We could finish each other's sentences. And minutes before that, she was just the girl in career services critiquing my resume. Who knew.
The bonds between people, even strangers, can be amazing and even shocking. Regardless of how awful things can be and how difficult life is sometimes, the wonders of people and how they can be connected will never cease to amaze me. How wonderful it can be to find someone who knows every single inch of what your heart is feeling at this very moment. I love it. The world, and the people in it, really is wonderful sometimes.
I celebrated, if you will, by singing really loud in my car on the way to school. We always sang together in the car. Then, I read a cute little book called "Grief Therapy" that my psychologist gave to me last night. It's by Abbey Press from a series called "Elf Help" because the book is illustrated with little elves doing things and the books range from grief to mourning during the holidays to self-esteem and so on. They are very cute. Each page has a little tid-bit of information or encouragement about grieving a loved one and I could so easily identify with each item that it almost shocked me. I loved it. I would definitely encourage it for anyone who feels the way I do. It only took about 15 minutes to read yet it left a monumental impact on me. Luckily, I am doing many of the things they suggest, like talking with others who are in my situation and surrounding myself with friends and focusing on a new hobby or simple pleasures like rain or tea. I am also struggling with things they say it's normal to struggle with like being angry at God and letting go of bad memories and thoughts.
This is the worst part for me. They sneak up without any warning at all. Tonight, I went to open mic night at my favorite coffee house with my friends and out of nowhere I was taken to my mom's ICU room. They had just intubated her and let us back into see her. Her body was in shock and her heart had stopped and they had to shock it to get it back in rhythm. Her eyes were taped shut and she gagged against the tube down her throat and her body jerked with rejection. This image flooded me as I listened to the music and I fought hard against it but I didn't win. I walked outside to get some fresh air, and I stood on the porch as it rained a cold, December rain. I breathed slowly and took several long, deep breaths. I choked back tears and swallowed hard. It eventually went away as I controlled my breathing and focused on my legs holding me up, starting with my toes, then my feet, then my ankles, then my calves and so on. It sounds silly, but it works. It "realigns" everything. Then I walked back inside and had no problem the rest of the night. It's weird to me how things like that can leave as quickly as they came.
One of the ladies I used to work with at the hospital has a brother-in-law who was down the hall from my mom in the transplant unit. He completed his transplant successfully and was discharged several days before my mom died. Several weeks ago I learned that he had an infection and they confirmed that it was Graft Versus Host Disease. This is where your body rejects the new bone marrow and it begins to attack itself, and it can happen anywhere in the body but main areas are usually the skin, eyes, and GI tract. Unfortunately, the GVHD was in Stage 4, the most severe, and consumed his entire GI tract. She told me that he was very sick and they estimated he would survive only two weeks or so if the medication didn't work.
He died this afternoon.
One thing I don't understand is why we are surrounded by the things that are so prominent in our lives while it is happening to us. Meaning, before my mom had her transplant, I worked with so many people who successfully completed bone marrow transplants while I worked in my internship at the Cleveland Clinic. I would marvel at how wonderful they looked and how healthy they were and it offered me so much hope. My mom would look at me with worry across her face and ask, "What do these people look like? I mean...are they ok?" And she'd crinkle her nose and curl her lip, nervous that she would be left completely ruined afterwards. "They look so great! I promise." She always thought I was lying or embellishing to make her feel better. I wasn't. "Really. They wouldn't do it if it wasn't worth it. You're going to be just fine," I'd try to reassure her. She would always cry after this type of conversation, which we had several times. I would hug her and pat her little bald head and tell her she was going to be just fine. Sometimes I actually believed it.
As I anticipated her admission to begin the transplant, I was so surprised by how many transplant patients I worked with and how many of them were back to normal life and beginning their new journey to being cancer-free. Now that she is gone, all I see is others losing loved ones or hearing stories of similar tragedies. My friend's dad lost his battle to colon cancer. A community figure that was announced "terminal" only a month ago lost her battle with breast cancer. Now this man too, my friend's brother-in-law, taken by a despicable infection that comes without warning.
Sometimes I think it is more of a crime than the actual cancer that they lose their lives after a successful bone marrow transplant. Yeah, the cancer is terrible, but what they have to go through to even receive the bone marrow is far worse. I can't imagine how awful that kind of chemo and radiation must be, the whole time anticipating having someone else's bone marrow pumped inside you. I think it is much more cruel that they lose their battle after working so hard. Just cruel.
It makes you wonder if it's even worth it. I'm not sure that it is. I am angry about this. I have never seen someone work so hard in my life. For it all to be taken away? I am so angry.
Luckily, my little Elf Help book tells me it is ok to be angry about these types of things and that even though it seems negative, it is part of the healing process. It says that we cannot move onto the good things unless we first deal with the bad. Okie dokie. I'm on my way.
I don't like to be angry. I think that reading this you may think that I am angry all the time. This is far from the truth. Mostly, I'm happy, and I laugh and have a good time and enjoy myself with my friends. Very rarely do I feel awful or sad, and I think it seems more so in these posts because that is when I feel compelled to write.
Unlike my last post, I will end this one on a good note. Yesterday while I was having my resume analyzed by career services at school as part of a class grade, I met a girl who lost her mom to cancer as well. I asked her the best way to explain a transition into medical sales from a deeply clinical background because of my mom's death...without sounding mentally unstable to a potential employer. Her eyes got really big and she gasped and said, "My mom died too. Three years ago. She had cancer. I had to do the same exact thing. Just be up front and honest and tell them." We began talking about our moms and our similar stories. "No one really understands. It's your mom. It's so different from losing someone else. I was four months pregnant when it happened," she said. I nodded and identified with absolutely every word that came out of her mouth. I smiled and laughed, "Oh, we're definitely friends," and she gave me her phone number and email and asked me for mine. I think that this is so interesting. You never know who you will meet in your life that share such similar stories. We could finish each other's sentences. And minutes before that, she was just the girl in career services critiquing my resume. Who knew.
The bonds between people, even strangers, can be amazing and even shocking. Regardless of how awful things can be and how difficult life is sometimes, the wonders of people and how they can be connected will never cease to amaze me. How wonderful it can be to find someone who knows every single inch of what your heart is feeling at this very moment. I love it. The world, and the people in it, really is wonderful sometimes.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Angelface
I have a small "picture frame" in the corner of my desktop that scrolls through pictures like a slide show, and this one that is just so utterly precious of my mom popped up just seconds ago, and instead of getting happy, like I usually get when I look at her face, I got so incredibly angry that I could almost barely breathe. I don't understand why this happened. I could feel my lips pinch together and my eyes squint hard, and I looked up to the sky and asked, "Why did you do this to me? How could you do this?" I do not understand why God took her away. I am so angry at him. I will never understand.
I am shocked at this kind of emotion, after I have been feeling so solid for so long now. I know it hasn't even been two months since she died, but I was starting to feel comfortable with the idea, because, obviously, there's nothing else that can be done at this point except to accept it and move on. It will never change. She is not coming back.
This picture is so incredible, this one of her that made me feel this way. Usually, when I look at it, I get this feeling of comfort and contentment that sweeps over me and warms my heart in such a way that I actually feel happy from the inside out. Sometime in August, on one of her breaks from the hospital, we decided to venture out and take a trip to go see her sisters at a garage sale they were having. Several years ago, she got a tinkerbell t-shirt that was too small for her, which embarrassed her, and she kept it in the bottom of one of her drawers and never wore it, although I know she wished she could have. Because she lost so much weight, she decided to try it on, and not only did it fit, but it was actually a little too big for her. She came out of her bedroom and said, "Look! It fits!" She was so excited. I don't know why I got the idea to ask her to wear fairy wings, but I had them in my closet from an old Halloween costume, and they went along so well with the theme of her shirt. I can't believe she agreed to put them on, she usually was so afraid to do silly things like that. But she put them on, and my heart just melted. She had on perfectly white tennis shoes, dark blue jeans, her white and lime green tinkerbell shirt, a lime green ballcap, and these purple fairy wings. She even wore them to visit her sisters at the garage sale, and she smiled and laughed and I don't ever think she realized just how tooth-achingly sweet she really was that day. She was standing in front of some bails of hay, and as she turned around to look at me, I saw the joy and happiness perfectly etched on her face, happy to be in the sunshine and with her sisters. I asked if I could take a picture of her, fairy wings and all. I still can't believe that she agreed, and I took the picture and managed to capture that amazing joy and glow she had about her that day. This is my favorite picture of her. My absolute favorite. She is my little angelface, and she is just perfect.
What was so great about our relationship is that we loved each other just the way we were. She was always so cute, and she always wanted to wear "cool" clothes, but she was a little overweight and couldn't fit into everything she wanted to buy. I never thought she looked anything but as sweet as she always did. I just adored her. Several months before my mom was diagnosed, she started Weight Watchers and she really tried hard. I was so proud of her, because you could see how determined she was. I don't think she always had the best self-esteem, and it was really nice to finally see her paying attention to herself. She respected herself, and she was starting to see how great she could be. I can't tell you how happy this made me to see her have some faith in herself. Right before she was diagnosed, she hit the 30-pound mark. 30 pounds. Every Monday after her meeting, she'd call me and give me her results, too excited to wait until she got home to just tell me there. "Another pound and a half!" she'd say. I would explode with surprise and happiness, making sure to let her know how thrilled I was for her. I tried to be her own personal cheerleader, to help her in any way I could. She was diagnosed on a Monday. During the time she should have been in her Weight Watchers meeting, she was being told she had leukemia.
I know this sounds so weird, but one of the things I was most mad about when I found out was that she had finally realized she was worth that kind of effort to lose weight and get herself healthy again. She was really doing it, really trying as hard as she could, and she was so successful. I don't know why this was taken away from her. I don't understand why she couldn't be left alone, to see how far she could go all by herself. What amazing things it would have done for her to know that she could do anything she wanted, even something as hard as losing that kind of weight. Her blood pressure was going down, her cholesterol was going down, her sleep apnea was completely gone. She was starting to see the benefits of all of her hard work, and we even started going shopping for "cool" clothes. She was so proud of herself.
And it was all taken away.
She started to lose weight from chemo. From not eating. From being sick all the time. Because she couldn't taste her food, or she couldn't smell it, or because just looking at it made her want to throw up. Her muscles were wasting, and you could see her collar bones and how long and skinny her legs were. But not a good kind of long and skinny. The other kind. She was so thin and fragile. She was not fit and healthy and happy, like she wanted to be. I think of all the things I am angry about, this most definitely takes the top prize. She was finally getting there. Finally taking care of herself, because, for whatever reason, whatever triggered it, she finally realized she was worth it. I am so angry it was all just shattered right in front of her.
All I ever wanted was for her to be happy. Especially with herself. I have pledged my education and my volunteer work and my career to making people feel healthy and happy with themselves. I believe in food and exercise, in drive and determination far over dieting and surgery and pills. I believe in it so much that sometimes it is frustrating to see people defeated by it, because it works, and it makes people feel like they can do something. I always wanted her to realize how special she was and how much she deserved all the things life had to offer. For as long as I can remember, she always wanted to wear nicer things made for a more slender body, and she finally had that chance. She enjoyed things so much more, like going shopping with me. She had more energy, and you could tell something inside her really changed. She was so different, and I loved to see her confidence and her self-esteem soar. She smiled more, and she was genuinely happy with herself. It was contagious. I will never be able to fully describe how much I loved her, and 30 pounds lighter or not, I just couldn't get enough of her. I was so happy for her.
When she was diagnosed, I felt that confidence break, I could see it break inside her. She knew all of her efforts were being taken away. All of her hard work. All of her freedom. I will never understand how she felt at that moment, and I hope I never do, but I can imagine that it feels something like staring down the barrel of a gun. Life or death. In the blink of an eye. I hate that she felt this, and not just for a second, but over and over again. I hate that she was worried and scared all the time, and I hate the she had to be sick and stuck in the hospital for the majority of the last six months of her life. She was in remission. She could have come home and enjoyed her last several years, if it came to that, home and happy, with us, and with her sisters. But she chose to have the transplant, to fight for her life as hard as she possibly could, to give up so many things just for another chance. I am so angry that we didn't have her for longer. We could have and we didn't. It is a choice that I'm sure most people would make, but for me, from the beginning, it felt like a death sentence. I was so scared to lose her, and after the first meeting up in Cleveland Clinic about all the risks and potential complications, I felt like my time with her was limited. She was so much more positive and so much more faithful and upbeat than I was. I'm sorry she had to deal with me like that. I was too scared to function in any other capacity, I guess. I'm so angry that she was as scared as she was too, and that I didn't help more than I did. I'm so angry that she tried so hard and was so brave for all of us, more than for herself. I'm so angry at whoever was working there that brought in that strand of virus that is "only found in the hospital" that would ultimately end her life less than a week later.
I'm so angry that I cried the way I did in front of her the first day I saw her like that. She was so scared, and she knew exactly what was happening to her. I know she did. And I am angry that I am finally accepting that, because I denied it for so long, that she didn't know, that she was confused, that she couldn't hear us, that she wasn't in any pain. Bullshit. All of it. She knew. She knew everything. How naive we all were to try to protect ourselves into thinking she didn't. All I am thankful for is that I spent almost three hours alone with her, all by myself, and even though they were mortifying and they now haunt me more than I'd like to admit, they were still us together. I wouldn't want the nurses to have such a job. That kind of job is only for someone who loves you so monumentally that they would face it so you didn't have to be alone. I wouldn't trade it for the world that I got to pet her head and hold her hands and try to calm her every couple minutes when she would try to take her breathing mask off. I wouldn't trade the chance to tell her I love her over and over and to comfort her when she said she was scared. "I don't want to die" she'd say every so often, and I would just whisper quiet but empty promises to her. "I know, momma. You're going to be just fine." But I knew "just fine" meant Heaven, and even though it turned out for the worst, she really is just fine now, I suppose. But I am angry that she had to go through all of that and that she was so scared. The only thing I would trade it for is for me to take her place. Without a doubt, without a second thought, I would have agreed to it right then and there. I have thought that ever since our lives changed on March 16th when she was diagnosed. I would have given anything for it to be me instead of her. Anything.
I am mad, most of all, that she went through all of it for nothing. Absolutely nothing. I am so angry tonight, I am actually in complete and utter shock at myself.
I can't end this on a positive note, not tonight. I don't feel like it. I painted my nails dark gray.
I am shocked at this kind of emotion, after I have been feeling so solid for so long now. I know it hasn't even been two months since she died, but I was starting to feel comfortable with the idea, because, obviously, there's nothing else that can be done at this point except to accept it and move on. It will never change. She is not coming back.
This picture is so incredible, this one of her that made me feel this way. Usually, when I look at it, I get this feeling of comfort and contentment that sweeps over me and warms my heart in such a way that I actually feel happy from the inside out. Sometime in August, on one of her breaks from the hospital, we decided to venture out and take a trip to go see her sisters at a garage sale they were having. Several years ago, she got a tinkerbell t-shirt that was too small for her, which embarrassed her, and she kept it in the bottom of one of her drawers and never wore it, although I know she wished she could have. Because she lost so much weight, she decided to try it on, and not only did it fit, but it was actually a little too big for her. She came out of her bedroom and said, "Look! It fits!" She was so excited. I don't know why I got the idea to ask her to wear fairy wings, but I had them in my closet from an old Halloween costume, and they went along so well with the theme of her shirt. I can't believe she agreed to put them on, she usually was so afraid to do silly things like that. But she put them on, and my heart just melted. She had on perfectly white tennis shoes, dark blue jeans, her white and lime green tinkerbell shirt, a lime green ballcap, and these purple fairy wings. She even wore them to visit her sisters at the garage sale, and she smiled and laughed and I don't ever think she realized just how tooth-achingly sweet she really was that day. She was standing in front of some bails of hay, and as she turned around to look at me, I saw the joy and happiness perfectly etched on her face, happy to be in the sunshine and with her sisters. I asked if I could take a picture of her, fairy wings and all. I still can't believe that she agreed, and I took the picture and managed to capture that amazing joy and glow she had about her that day. This is my favorite picture of her. My absolute favorite. She is my little angelface, and she is just perfect.
What was so great about our relationship is that we loved each other just the way we were. She was always so cute, and she always wanted to wear "cool" clothes, but she was a little overweight and couldn't fit into everything she wanted to buy. I never thought she looked anything but as sweet as she always did. I just adored her. Several months before my mom was diagnosed, she started Weight Watchers and she really tried hard. I was so proud of her, because you could see how determined she was. I don't think she always had the best self-esteem, and it was really nice to finally see her paying attention to herself. She respected herself, and she was starting to see how great she could be. I can't tell you how happy this made me to see her have some faith in herself. Right before she was diagnosed, she hit the 30-pound mark. 30 pounds. Every Monday after her meeting, she'd call me and give me her results, too excited to wait until she got home to just tell me there. "Another pound and a half!" she'd say. I would explode with surprise and happiness, making sure to let her know how thrilled I was for her. I tried to be her own personal cheerleader, to help her in any way I could. She was diagnosed on a Monday. During the time she should have been in her Weight Watchers meeting, she was being told she had leukemia.
I know this sounds so weird, but one of the things I was most mad about when I found out was that she had finally realized she was worth that kind of effort to lose weight and get herself healthy again. She was really doing it, really trying as hard as she could, and she was so successful. I don't know why this was taken away from her. I don't understand why she couldn't be left alone, to see how far she could go all by herself. What amazing things it would have done for her to know that she could do anything she wanted, even something as hard as losing that kind of weight. Her blood pressure was going down, her cholesterol was going down, her sleep apnea was completely gone. She was starting to see the benefits of all of her hard work, and we even started going shopping for "cool" clothes. She was so proud of herself.
And it was all taken away.
She started to lose weight from chemo. From not eating. From being sick all the time. Because she couldn't taste her food, or she couldn't smell it, or because just looking at it made her want to throw up. Her muscles were wasting, and you could see her collar bones and how long and skinny her legs were. But not a good kind of long and skinny. The other kind. She was so thin and fragile. She was not fit and healthy and happy, like she wanted to be. I think of all the things I am angry about, this most definitely takes the top prize. She was finally getting there. Finally taking care of herself, because, for whatever reason, whatever triggered it, she finally realized she was worth it. I am so angry it was all just shattered right in front of her.
All I ever wanted was for her to be happy. Especially with herself. I have pledged my education and my volunteer work and my career to making people feel healthy and happy with themselves. I believe in food and exercise, in drive and determination far over dieting and surgery and pills. I believe in it so much that sometimes it is frustrating to see people defeated by it, because it works, and it makes people feel like they can do something. I always wanted her to realize how special she was and how much she deserved all the things life had to offer. For as long as I can remember, she always wanted to wear nicer things made for a more slender body, and she finally had that chance. She enjoyed things so much more, like going shopping with me. She had more energy, and you could tell something inside her really changed. She was so different, and I loved to see her confidence and her self-esteem soar. She smiled more, and she was genuinely happy with herself. It was contagious. I will never be able to fully describe how much I loved her, and 30 pounds lighter or not, I just couldn't get enough of her. I was so happy for her.
When she was diagnosed, I felt that confidence break, I could see it break inside her. She knew all of her efforts were being taken away. All of her hard work. All of her freedom. I will never understand how she felt at that moment, and I hope I never do, but I can imagine that it feels something like staring down the barrel of a gun. Life or death. In the blink of an eye. I hate that she felt this, and not just for a second, but over and over again. I hate that she was worried and scared all the time, and I hate the she had to be sick and stuck in the hospital for the majority of the last six months of her life. She was in remission. She could have come home and enjoyed her last several years, if it came to that, home and happy, with us, and with her sisters. But she chose to have the transplant, to fight for her life as hard as she possibly could, to give up so many things just for another chance. I am so angry that we didn't have her for longer. We could have and we didn't. It is a choice that I'm sure most people would make, but for me, from the beginning, it felt like a death sentence. I was so scared to lose her, and after the first meeting up in Cleveland Clinic about all the risks and potential complications, I felt like my time with her was limited. She was so much more positive and so much more faithful and upbeat than I was. I'm sorry she had to deal with me like that. I was too scared to function in any other capacity, I guess. I'm so angry that she was as scared as she was too, and that I didn't help more than I did. I'm so angry that she tried so hard and was so brave for all of us, more than for herself. I'm so angry at whoever was working there that brought in that strand of virus that is "only found in the hospital" that would ultimately end her life less than a week later.
I'm so angry that I cried the way I did in front of her the first day I saw her like that. She was so scared, and she knew exactly what was happening to her. I know she did. And I am angry that I am finally accepting that, because I denied it for so long, that she didn't know, that she was confused, that she couldn't hear us, that she wasn't in any pain. Bullshit. All of it. She knew. She knew everything. How naive we all were to try to protect ourselves into thinking she didn't. All I am thankful for is that I spent almost three hours alone with her, all by myself, and even though they were mortifying and they now haunt me more than I'd like to admit, they were still us together. I wouldn't want the nurses to have such a job. That kind of job is only for someone who loves you so monumentally that they would face it so you didn't have to be alone. I wouldn't trade it for the world that I got to pet her head and hold her hands and try to calm her every couple minutes when she would try to take her breathing mask off. I wouldn't trade the chance to tell her I love her over and over and to comfort her when she said she was scared. "I don't want to die" she'd say every so often, and I would just whisper quiet but empty promises to her. "I know, momma. You're going to be just fine." But I knew "just fine" meant Heaven, and even though it turned out for the worst, she really is just fine now, I suppose. But I am angry that she had to go through all of that and that she was so scared. The only thing I would trade it for is for me to take her place. Without a doubt, without a second thought, I would have agreed to it right then and there. I have thought that ever since our lives changed on March 16th when she was diagnosed. I would have given anything for it to be me instead of her. Anything.
I am mad, most of all, that she went through all of it for nothing. Absolutely nothing. I am so angry tonight, I am actually in complete and utter shock at myself.
I can't end this on a positive note, not tonight. I don't feel like it. I painted my nails dark gray.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Pink Toenails
Today for some reason, more so than others, I miss my mom terribly. I went to the bank to take her name off of my savings account, and I had to fill out some paperwork. A couple of signatures later, the man helping me pointed a finger at my mom's name and said, "And write 'deceased' here." He winced and apologized, and I was flooded with that tired feeling of having to face it all over again. I can't believe how things like this can drag on. Deceased. I wrote it, and I left.
You know how you see those "goth" kids around, the ones that wear black and have black hair and eyeliner and nail polish? I never really thought too much about any of that stuff, I just figured they were trying to express themselves or maybe they were depressed or maybe they didn't want to be paid any attention. Oddly enough, I have gone from the girl who wore pink and and purple and bright blue with energy and laughter practically exploding out of me to the girl who looks at those kids and thinks, "I get it." I totally get why they want to dress like that. I'm not sure what it is, but I can say with confidence it's not depression. The other night, all I wanted to do was wear a black sweatshirt and paint my nails dark. I know, obviously, that doing so wouldn't in any way make me feel better or relieve any stress or bring back my mom. But sometimes, it feels good to blend in and go unnoticed and just be dark. I guess we don't always have to be bright and bubbly if we don't want to be.
Last night, I decided to have some quality time to myself and watch a movie and paint my toenails. I pulled out the darkest color I could find, and it occurred to me: Don't let this win. I looked at my dark-green-almost-black polish and thought how sad it was that my once favorite color turned into a pathetic interpretation for the dark, cloudy feeling I have inside me. It's not that I'm sad, it's just that I'm not as happy as I was before this all started. But, believe it or not, I still am happy, just not as much as I used to be. I picked up my dark nail polish and tossed it back into my drawer, and I pulled out the brightest, hottest pink I could find. I wanted to put something bright back into my life. It may be forced, but it's there.
This morning, when I looked down at my feet, I looked at the curly, thin scrawl of my mom's handwriting across the top of my right foot, permanently there to remind me I'm not without her, framed perfectly below my hot pink nail polish. I smiled and felt light. Success.
I'm sure that some people may read this and think how pathetically childish it is that a bright color of nail polish could really help someone move on from such a monumental loss. Yeah, ok, my mom died. I watched her die. I listened to her scream my name and yell for help and ask not to die. I stood beside her and held her hands down and patted her head and lied to her and told her she would be fine. I encouraged her to be strong, I told her I loved her. I watched as the nurses turned the alarms and monitors off, knowing that their work was a lost cause. Who knows why we feel comfort in some things and not others. I choose to make up pictures in my head of her and Aunt Polly together, and I choose to think that she knows every second of what goes on in my life even though she is not here anymore. I choose to think that my tears and sobs and nightmares and fear do not phase her, that all she feels is happiness and love and joy in Heaven and can not be bothered by negativity and loss and heartache. To some, this may be make-believe and it may be fairytale, but for others, this is hope. For me, it's hope. I will not let life stop and I will not let this defeat me and take away all that I have worked for. I choose to paint my toenails hot pink in December to make myself feel better that my mom is dead. You may not get it. You don't have to. I don't get it either, but it's working. No matter what, I will always be myself, pink toenails and all.
She loved me just the way I was. It is sometimes hard to feel comfortable in your own skin when the one person you could always rely on for support is no longer near you. I doubt so many things I do these days, and since I am anticipating a huge job interview on Friday with a national company, I wish now more than ever she was here with me. To help me and encourage me and make sure I know that I am still ok to be me, even if they didn't like me or want to hire me. Don't get me wrong- I understand that no one can make me feel happy with myself but me, but sometimes, those words are so comforting when they're from your mom. I really loved her so much. I still love her. I do not understand why she had to get sick. Even though I am always trying to remain happy and upbeat about the fact that her and my Aunt Polly are now together, I can't help but feel cheated sometimes. Sometimes I feel as though my tears will never end. I am crying, just thinking about how much she loved me. I am so glad I knew all these years how much she loved me. She would have rolled her eyes at my tattoo, but she would have loved my hot pink nail polish.
You know how you see those "goth" kids around, the ones that wear black and have black hair and eyeliner and nail polish? I never really thought too much about any of that stuff, I just figured they were trying to express themselves or maybe they were depressed or maybe they didn't want to be paid any attention. Oddly enough, I have gone from the girl who wore pink and and purple and bright blue with energy and laughter practically exploding out of me to the girl who looks at those kids and thinks, "I get it." I totally get why they want to dress like that. I'm not sure what it is, but I can say with confidence it's not depression. The other night, all I wanted to do was wear a black sweatshirt and paint my nails dark. I know, obviously, that doing so wouldn't in any way make me feel better or relieve any stress or bring back my mom. But sometimes, it feels good to blend in and go unnoticed and just be dark. I guess we don't always have to be bright and bubbly if we don't want to be.
Last night, I decided to have some quality time to myself and watch a movie and paint my toenails. I pulled out the darkest color I could find, and it occurred to me: Don't let this win. I looked at my dark-green-almost-black polish and thought how sad it was that my once favorite color turned into a pathetic interpretation for the dark, cloudy feeling I have inside me. It's not that I'm sad, it's just that I'm not as happy as I was before this all started. But, believe it or not, I still am happy, just not as much as I used to be. I picked up my dark nail polish and tossed it back into my drawer, and I pulled out the brightest, hottest pink I could find. I wanted to put something bright back into my life. It may be forced, but it's there.
This morning, when I looked down at my feet, I looked at the curly, thin scrawl of my mom's handwriting across the top of my right foot, permanently there to remind me I'm not without her, framed perfectly below my hot pink nail polish. I smiled and felt light. Success.
I'm sure that some people may read this and think how pathetically childish it is that a bright color of nail polish could really help someone move on from such a monumental loss. Yeah, ok, my mom died. I watched her die. I listened to her scream my name and yell for help and ask not to die. I stood beside her and held her hands down and patted her head and lied to her and told her she would be fine. I encouraged her to be strong, I told her I loved her. I watched as the nurses turned the alarms and monitors off, knowing that their work was a lost cause. Who knows why we feel comfort in some things and not others. I choose to make up pictures in my head of her and Aunt Polly together, and I choose to think that she knows every second of what goes on in my life even though she is not here anymore. I choose to think that my tears and sobs and nightmares and fear do not phase her, that all she feels is happiness and love and joy in Heaven and can not be bothered by negativity and loss and heartache. To some, this may be make-believe and it may be fairytale, but for others, this is hope. For me, it's hope. I will not let life stop and I will not let this defeat me and take away all that I have worked for. I choose to paint my toenails hot pink in December to make myself feel better that my mom is dead. You may not get it. You don't have to. I don't get it either, but it's working. No matter what, I will always be myself, pink toenails and all.
She loved me just the way I was. It is sometimes hard to feel comfortable in your own skin when the one person you could always rely on for support is no longer near you. I doubt so many things I do these days, and since I am anticipating a huge job interview on Friday with a national company, I wish now more than ever she was here with me. To help me and encourage me and make sure I know that I am still ok to be me, even if they didn't like me or want to hire me. Don't get me wrong- I understand that no one can make me feel happy with myself but me, but sometimes, those words are so comforting when they're from your mom. I really loved her so much. I still love her. I do not understand why she had to get sick. Even though I am always trying to remain happy and upbeat about the fact that her and my Aunt Polly are now together, I can't help but feel cheated sometimes. Sometimes I feel as though my tears will never end. I am crying, just thinking about how much she loved me. I am so glad I knew all these years how much she loved me. She would have rolled her eyes at my tattoo, but she would have loved my hot pink nail polish.
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