Everything Is Revealed In Exactly The Right Time

I have said many times that this past year has been HARD.  All Caps HARD.   The dark seemed to linger for an exceptionally long time.  I don't know when the light started coming through again, but I can look back and see the difference in the past couple of months.  Of course, from my current perspective, it's easy to say that I always knew the light would come.  But if I'm being honest, I KNOW there were many long periods of time when I didn't believe that.  And it was scary.  And excessively dark.  

As I've also said many times, the dark and I have never really been friends.  I was scared of the dark as a kid and I honestly still feel scared of it now.  I know...the stars shine the brightest in the dark.  I know you can hear your self think in the dark.  I know things slow down in the dark.  But...when I hear myself think, my stories are scary.  I don't like to slow down.  If I can keep a fast pace, I don't have to hear the stories in my head.  I understand all of this rationally.  It doesn't make me any less scared of the dark.

I never felt safe as a kid.  I don't think my parents ever intended to make me feel that way.  I came out of the womb scared.  I'm sure of that.  I was born to a woman who didn't want kids.  I recently spent 15 hours at a workshop confirming everything I have known to be true for decades...that what happens in the womb lasts a lifetime.  This is NOT my mother's fault.  I do not blame her AT ALL.  It is simply my story.  And I have to learn how to work with it.  My second son was inside on me on 9/11 and he came out scared too.  That wasn't my fault.  But he will always have to figure out how to work with it.  I see the difference in my two sons.  The first one lived in a womb of protection and love and he knew he was wanted.  I quit bonding with my second son on 9/11 because I was told very clearly that if there was an anthrax attack, my choice was to take the antibody and kill the baby or not take the antibody and kill us both.  I needed to live for Jonathan.  So, at 5mos pregnant, I quit bonding with Christopher.  I didn't know if he was a boy or a girl at the time and I think that helped the process for me.  It's no wonder he hung in for a full 42 weeks and then was born quickly and dramatically.  A long birth process was not what he needed.  He didn't need time.  He needed to make the transition quickly into my arms.  And from the time he was placed in my arms, on the outside of my womb, angels sang and I loved him in a way I didn't know I could love another baby.  But for four months in utero, he was incredibly alone.  

I say all that to explain that I don't blame my parents.  My mom did the absolute best she could having to face a life she didn't want.  She gave up her life for me and my brother.  She sacrificed everything.  I will never blame her for who I am.  But it is in part because of her sacrifice and me understanding it on a deep level, that I knew I wasn't wanted.  And that's a scary place to be born.    

I remember lying in bed countless nights when I was little, wide awake, scared and paralyzed in my bed.  I remember that when I did call out, I was met with aggravation and comments like, "your ears are playing tricks on you".  There wasn't empathy or validation.  And so I stopped calling out.  And I stayed alone and scared.

So, that was a bit of a tangent to get to the real point of all this.  Last night, I laid in the dark, in my bed, while Olly was packing for a cross-country trip.  I laid there with my heart racing and tears welling up.  I felt the anxiety in my chest.  And there was nothing I could do about it.  I couldn't ask him to stay.  This was happening.  But I laid there trying to figure out why it bothers me so much.  And then I had an epiphany.

I live in a world of death and grief.  I was anointed and the doors opened and I was welcomed into this world.  I thought this happened when my mom died, but I now believe I was anointed early on.  Maybe even at birth.  When I look back at my life, I was always fascinated with death.  I LOVED cemeteries, even as a small kid.  I could spend hours in the old section of the Roslyn, WA cemetery pushing back over grown bushes off headstones and reading them and wondering about the people behind those dates and names.  I would sit and wonder how they died.  I could do this for hours and hours.  Death and grief have never felt foreign to me. 

When my mom died, I held death in my hands. And I thought that's when I was anointed, but now I see that it was my wake up call.  That it was time to take all I know and put it to work.  To speak.  To spread the message.  I didn't realize at the time that my entire life had been training for the work I was going to be called to do.  I honestly didn't see that until last night, lying in bed, trying to figure out why I was so incredibly anxious about Olly leaving.  

Because what really struck me was that when someone leaves me, or I leave my family, or friends, or anyone, I actually don't believe that I am ever going to see them again.  That is an incredibly stunning revelation and yet, it's how I have lived my entire life.  I remember at a very small age being left at a day care for a day while my mom had an event.  I was probably 4 or 5.  I sat in the corner all day and I remember feeling like this was my life now.  That my mom was never coming back to get me.   

I went to a LOT of funerals as a kid.  And as I sit here typing this, I don't remember my brother going.  I remember going with one parent.  Why did they take me?  Did they know I understood?  I can't imagine they did.  But why did they only take me?  Because I was the oldest?  I just remember being told that when someone dies, you go to the service out of respect.  It was just what I knew.

But what if death and I reconnected at every service?  What if each one was bringing me one step closer to the work I was ultimately meant to do?  And what if it took me 47 years to realize how close I carried death with me?  All the time.  It's sort of like Hotel California.  I can check out any time I like, but I can never leave.  And it occurs to me that I walk this world feeling death is nearby at all times.  And I feel it.  It feels so close.  All.The.Time.

Call it anxiety if you will.  I know anxiety too.  But it would make sense to have anxiety if you feel death is just right around the corner at all times, right?  And sure, I suppose you could tell me I'm over-reacting and making much out of nothing.  But the message that came to me last night was quite clear.  I believe every time I say a good-bye, it will be final.  And if I really go deep, I can see how this was instilled in me in the womb.  I believe that death was nearby me the entire time I was in the womb because I think, until I was born, and maybe even for a while after, I was living in both the worlds of life and death, trying to figure out which way I was going to go.  I chose life.  But I brought death with me because it had been so close for so long.

Now, I live in the day-to-day world like everyone else.  I can go about my day.  It doesn't paralyze me.  But I do have a belief that each day could be the last for me or many people I love.  Which, of course, is true.  Yet, it does make each good-bye bigger.  And when Olly travels and I won't see him for several days, it feels much, much bigger because I don't get that closure of seeing him every day.  I don't get to feel as though "today wasn't the day" and have a little grateful moment before having to do it again the next day.  It's almost that I experience a mini-grief episode every time I say good-bye to anyone.  That is a LOT to carry.  That is compounded grief on a whole new level.  It is no wonder I have such enormous feelings about Jonathan turning 18 and the potential of him leaving.  LEAVING.  Good-byes.  Grief.  This is big stuff.

I have said for years that I am, in some ways, in a friendship with death.  As I say this tonight, I realize that I'm not actually all the way there.  And then I googled "Making Friends with Death" and there's a book with that title.  It's based in Buddhist practices which I relate to on such a deep level.  And because I believe there are no coincidences, I ordered the book.  

I want to be friends with death.  But I also don't want to have to grieve a fresh grief every day.  In some ways, it's a great thing that I speak to people as though I'm never going to see them again.  I want to leave each interaction on a positive note.  But it is SO much to believe that I am going to lose people every single day.  There is a balance here somewhere.  Perhaps truly making friends with death can help me find that balance.  

I sit here typing all this and there is a stirring within me.  It is a significant stirring.  There are big changes happening.  And it feels as though it's coming with Fall.  With the season I have dreaded and feared.  And it begins with the same thing it always begins with.  Surrender.  But you know how just when you start figuring out a puzzle or can see the plot playing out in a movie and things just start falling together?  That's what feels like is happening.

I am reminded of the day my grandmother (my mom's mom) died.  Our phone rang early in the morning.  My dad was up getting ready for work.  I was 7 years old and the phone woke me.  My grandmother wasn't ill.  She had a massive stroke and died on the side of the road.  There is no way, at 7, I could have had any inkling that my grandma was dead.  But I knew instantly.  I just knew.  After my dad walked out of my parents' bedroom, I called out to him in the hall.  He came in and I said, "Did grandma die?"  He stood there and looked at me, not knowing what to say or why I would ask that question.  And then he just said, "Yes." And suggested I go back to sleep.  And so I did.  Looking back, I can see several stories like this in my life.  

It's as though I'm looking at myself from outside...from a tiny baby to now and I can see that I have NEVER been alone.  Death has been walking with me all along.  I know for those of you who don't like death, that sounds creepy or weird or just...No.  I know that some of you may think I'm confused and that I was actually walking beside some sort of God.  But to me, there is no doubt that it is death and it is so clear for me that it brings tears to my eyes.  I don't dislike death.  It's part of this life journey we're on and I know it intimately.  I know the amazing pain it can cause and I know the incredible growth it can inspire.

But until this moment, until I could see clearly that death has always been at my side, I believe I felt death and it felt scary.  Because I didn't understand.  Death isn't here to hurt me.  It's here to teach me.  

Maybe it's not a terrible thing that I think that every good-bye is forever.  I just have to figure out how not to let it cause me an unnecessary grief response.   

I honestly don't even know what any of this means just yet.  All I know is that it  feels huge to me and I haven't been able to get through this blog post without a lot of tears.  

  

I have a lot of sitting with this to do.  

And surrendering to what is.

But what I do know is that I suddenly feel incredibly less alone.

Boy is this life journey full of incredible twists and turns.  

Jonathan Turns 18

I was never a fan of children in my early and mid-twenties.  When people would ask me if I wanted to hold their baby, I would always say ‘no’ as politely as possible, but it was if they never heard me because they inevitably put their baby in my arms.  The baby, much more in tune with energy, would immediately start crying because it knew my arms weren’t a safe place.  And thus, I deemed that I wasn’t fit for motherhood.

However, my biological clock told me it didn’t matter if I didn’t want children.  I needed children.  My body needed to carry a baby.  And so, at 28, I planned to get pregnant.  I was good at planning.  I figured I’d plan to have a child in my life.  I would have a boy.  Planning life was perfection. 

Ah…the innocence of my youth is sweet.  

41 weeks and 34 hours of back labor later, a slippery, goopy, little baby boy was placed on my sweat soaked chest and all I could think was “please, someone, catch him when he slides off of me”.  I couldn’t even say it out loud.  My words were gone.  I felt raw and vulnerable and overwhelmed and oddly alone in a room full of people.  The baby I had bonded with over 41 weeks of pregnancy, the little boy I had planned and ultimately wanted so very much, was finally in my arms and no angels sang, there were no rainbows and unicorns.  There was blood and sweat and tears and stitches.  And it was loud and bright and overstimulating.  I wanted to be alone with my son, but I could barely hold him. 

That was his entrance into the world.

Within hours, we started getting to know each other.  What neither of us knew was he was born to a mother with anxiety.  I didn’t understand it because it was all I knew.  He didn’t understand it, but it was scary to him.  He didn’t sleep.  He nursed constantly.  He cried a lot. And I never put him down.  Ever.  I wouldn’t let anyone hold him because I was 100% responsible for this baby and if someone else held him and something happened to him, that was my fault. 

I never left him for two full years.  Ever.

We were incredibly attached to one another.  When I did begin to leave him he would throw himself on the floor and cling to my leg and cry and cry.  And then I would cry the entire car ride to wherever I was going. 

I had no idea he would teach me more than I could possibly ever imagine teaching him.  Because of him, I found myself so I could be better for him.  Although I birthed him into the world, he gave me life.

And now, I want to throw myself on the floor and wrap my arms around his leg and cry and cry as he prepares to fly.

That baby boy was placed on my chest almost exactly 18 years ago.  Where in the world has 18 years gone?  Wasn’t I just 18 myself?  How did I blink my eyes and he turn into this 6’2” tall man with a deep voice and a hairy face?

And it occurs to me that I am grieving.  This has been an incredible year of grief for me.  My dad died almost 11 months ago.  The anniversary of his death is approaching and I feel it coming.  I thought that’s why I’ve been sick.  I thought that’s why I have been crying every day.  I thought that’s why my lungs feel so heavy.  And then I was standing in the shower one morning and it was as though the universe smacked me on the head and said, “Hey…your baby is turning 18.” 

My baby is turning 18.

He’ll officially be an adult.  We came home from Victoria to find his Selective Service registration in the mail.  Happy Birthday kid.  :o  He will vote in his first Presidential Election (quite a first journey into politics this year).  He can get his own credit.  He can book his own hotel room.  He can buy a lottery ticket.  He can serve on a jury.  He can buy cigarettes (please don’t smoke, my son).  He can purchase porn (please don’t think that’s what sex is all about).  Effectively, he can do whatever he wants.  And my job now is to completely let him go.

Surrender.

There it is again.  That damn word that repeats over and over and over in my life.

I need to surrender to the grief that washes over me as I try to come to terms with being no one’s daughter anymore.  I need to surrender to the grief of soon being the mother to all adults.  This is journey number one into that foray.  Will it be any easier in three years when the last baby I bore turns 18?

What does it mean to be the mother of adults?

I don’t know.  I only know that he will teach me.

As I sit here sobbing at my keyboard, feeling the combined grief and pride, 18 years in the making, wash over me, I find this quote from a book called “The Secret Love of Sons: How We Men Feel About Our Mothers and Why We Never Tell”:

“The relationship is a double-crossover, combining all the closeness and distance between men and women  with all the links and gaps between parents and children. On the one hand, our mothers are our most irrelevant onlookers, since no matter what crooked and climbing paths we take in life, we will never be moms. On the other hand, mothers are our first and oldest friends, the coholders of an intimacy that will not be equaled for the rest of our lives. Being a son involves a deft sleight of hand, as he must swallow his deep attachment to his mother in order to fend for himself and thus please her. The mother of a son has job that's even more challenging: to prepare and rehearse her child for manhood, the . . .  crowded party to which she is never invited. Given the unique push and pull between sons and mothers, it's no wonder that our treatment of mothers is extreme. The most soft-spoken homebody will lash out ferociously against his mom; the very toughest guys among us turn to mush in her presence. . . . Men treat their mothers more callously and more tenderly than anyone else they know. . . . We want them off our backs and let them under our skins, but we very rarely tell them what's on our minds--even, and especially, when our thoughts dwell on our mothers themselves.”

Yes.  That feels about right. 

Nothing is changing here.  Tomorrow at 18y1d, it will look the same as today, but my role feels as though it has changed immensely.  It’s hands-off from here on out.  I’ve been working on that for years, but now it’s all in.  I’ll always be here if he needs me (and he still does…you know for things like food and housing and to pay for random stuff ;) ), but I have to back off and let him find his way, which means watching him fall, over and over.  Just like I did when he was learning to walk. 

It is, and has always been, about surrender.  About 17 ½ years ago, I found myself walking the halls in the middle of the night with a screaming baby.  I was 6 months into motherhood and I was confused and exhausted and on this night in particular, quite angry.  And then, I had an epiphany, from whomever or whatever it is you may believe in.  It told me, “Kelli, one day 16/17/18 years from now, you’re going to still be up in the middle of the night.  You’re going to be waiting for this baby to come home.  Hold him now.” And I sat down in a chair and cried and held and rocked that baby tight in my arms.  I knew that message was right.  And it is what got me through many long nights after that one.  I can’t hold him in my arms anymore and rock away his tears and his struggles.  I can’t protect him from all that life is going to throw at him.  I can only believe I’ve given him some of the tools he needs to survive.  I didn’t have half the tools he has and I’ve made it this far. Although I’d love for him to struggle less than I have.

But, I surrender to what is and what will be.  Because that’s all there is to do now.

I don’t have to like it.  And I’m going to cry a lot today (not in front of him).  And I’m not going to do it perfectly.  But I am going to surrender. 

I never knew what love was until he was given to me.  And now to love him the best, I must let him go.

Dear Kelli

I have been participating in an April Love project on Facebook again this year.  Today is obviously the last day and today's cue is appropriately titled, "Dear {Your Name}.  I don't know how many other people are lucky enough to be doing April Love and ending it on their birthday with the prompt to write a letter to their self, but I am definitely that person.  

And so I decided to blog it, because it feels bigger than just a FB post.

So, here goes:

Dear Kelli,

Today we turn 47.  FORTY SEVEN!  How the hell did we get here?  And how is it that we still feel 16?  Well, maybe not 16...but 27...yes...we definitely feel no older than 27.  But the calendar says we're twenty years older than that.  And okay, our body says it at times too.  We don't lose weight like we did at 27.  We don't have the energy we did at 27.  Our bones creak and snap more than they did at 27.  And we definitely moan and groan when we bend over to pick something up.  But in our heart, we definitely don't feel 47.  Or maybe we do.  We definitely look at the world completely differently than we did at 27.  Damn, we wouldn't even recognize us at 27.  The amount of life we've lived in the past 20 years is sort of staggering.

We hadn't birthed a baby yet.  

We hadn't experienced a postpartum mood disorder.

We hadn't become a birth doula or a childbirth educator.  Nor did something like that even cross our mind.

We hadn't birthed our second baby at home, in our living room, in a birth pool.  

We hadn't been through a life-changing, difficult divorce and hadn't experienced any of the humbling experiences that came with it or the eventual, incredible, growth.

Our mom hadn't had cancer and she hadn't died, nor could we have imagined surviving that or becoming "friends" with death and grief.

We didn't have a bachelors degree.  

Or a masters degree.

We didn't own our own business and have a main office AND a satellite office.

Our dad wasn't living in assisted living. We weren't taking care of him and learning absolutely everything about Parkinson's we could learn.  We hadn't lost him yet.

At 27, we definitely hadn't met the love of our life.  Although, he was only 16 then.  ;)

Damn, looking at all of that...we've been through a lot in 20 years.  So, although we may feel 27, we've got to be pretty darn glad we're not because without all of those experiences, and all the others in between, we wouldn't be who we are today.  And we're kinda awesome.  :)

We have two amazing children (we've managed to get one to almost adulthood!), an equally amazing step-son, a remarkably wonderful husband, a home (and super awesome car!) we love and a career that we built and that we love so much.  

Of course, we also live with anxiety and depression and grief that come and go at times.  But we lived with most of that at 27 too.  We just didn't have names for all of it.  We didn't understand it.  And we didn't respect the emotions for the growth they provide.

So, maybe we feel like we can't possibly be more than 27.  But, we know the truth is that we'd never want to go back.  47 is pretty awesome.  Admittedly, we kinda don't recognize our body in the mirror anymore.  But it's still a strong body.  It can hold a 2 minute plank, it can hold yoga poses and ride a stationary bike and hula hoop like nobody's business.  

And this 47 year old still listens to our car stereo louder than anyone of those boys we live with likes to hear it.  And we can still scream like a 16 year old at every Def Leppard concert (although our ears ring for days instead of a few hours now. ;) ).  

Being 47 doesn't mean we can't still have fun.  

So, let's talk about that for a minute.  46 has been rough.  We know this.  And fun has been hard to come by.  Let's promise to find it again in this upcoming 48th year.

Let's worry less and dance around the house more.

Let's sleep in and snuggle instead of jumping out of bed to get things done every day.  

Let's create more laugh lines on our face.

Let's look at that list above and realize all we've been through.  And remember that we've survived it all and come out stronger.  Every.Single.Time.

And let's look down at that tattoo on our foot and remember that Everything will always be OK.  And we can believe it because for 47 years, it has been true.  There's no reason to believe that will ever change.

Today we celebrate US.  Albeit, we're doing it at a video game tournament, but that's what moms do.  :)  We still celebrate all 47 of the past years and we look forward to the next one.  We honor where we've been and where we're going.  Yes...this is the first year without either of our parents on this earth.  That sucks.  It stinks to not have the people who created us here to celebrate us.  But that just means it's time to do a better job of celebrating our self.  Not just today...but every day.

But today, my friend, put that tiara on, wear it proudly, embarrass your children just a little bit (thankfully, they're pretty cool with it), pull those shoulders back, stand up straight, own each and every one of those 47 years like the bad ass you are.  

Happy Birthday to ME!  Here's to 48 being the best year yet!  :)

Birthdays and Holidays

It's been a while since I've blogged.  Wanna know why?  No?  Okay, you can close this now.  Otherwise, I'm going to tell you why.  ;)

Confession time: I haven't been able to blog because I haven't been okay.

Yep.  That's me.  Not okay.  Well, I'm okay.  I'm just sorta not okay.  Got that?  ;)

I was so close to the pulling myself up over the edge of the pit last time I posted.  And honestly, maybe I actually did pull myself over.  But then I collapsed at the top and laid there for a month or so.  Unable to move.  Unable to recover from my climb.  Unsure how to move forward. 

And it was ugly.  And hard.  And scary.

And I fought it.  And then I let myself feel it.  

And now I feel like I'm up and on my feet and maybe have taken a step or two in the direction of the next mountain which seems to be awfully close.

And that mountain looks like my birthday, and mother's day and father's day.  All jumbled up into one big clump of mountains.  

My birthday is this Saturday, mother's day is a week later, and then father's day a few weeks after that.  

It kinda makes sense why I've been avoiding my birthday.  Because if I can avoid that mountain I don't have to do the others.  Right?  

No?  That's not the way it works?  Crap.

So, here's the thing.  This is my first birthday on this earth without both the people who gave me that birthday.  The reality is that seven years ago, on my 40th birthday, I knew things would never be the same.  My mom was just a week out of a week-long, scary hospital stay.  She had just come home with hospice care.  I drove up to see her because I knew it would be my last birthday with her.  And she didn't know it was my birthday.  The next six birthdays weren't all that monumental either.  Dad remembered the first couple, but 3 years ago, we had just moved him to assisted living two days prior to my birthday.  I spent my birthday with him trying to help him acclimate himself to his new world.  And then the two following birthdays, I had to remind him what day it was.  So, it's not as though my parents were making a big deal out of any of the past 6 birthdays.  But this one...there is no expectation.  They aren't here.  Maybe not having that expectation will be a good thing.  I won't know until Saturday is here I guess.  Thankfully I'll be busy and preoccupied at a video game competition with my kids.  (I'm a damn good mom...my kids better talk about the time I spent my birthday at their video game competition when they're writing my eulogy. ;) ).  

And then there's Mother's Day which has been kind of rough since mom died.  And then my first Father's Day without my dad.  This is all piling up.  I know it's all coming.  

I spent a lot of money and a lot of time with my ND yesterday working on my hormones.  Getting my adrenals back in working order.  I left feeling joyful for the first time in a long time.  And I do feel better today.  

I have a big Mother's Day blog in my head.  I don't know if I'll get it written.  We'll see.  I start a vacation today.  A vacation of just spending time with my kids and my husband.  Nothing special.  But just lots of time with the most important people in my life.  We'll see if the blog makes it in there.  

But if you're the space holding kind...I'd love if you could hold a little for me as I start taking steps towards that big cluster of mountains ahead of me.  I'm determined to continue to find joy on this journey.  But in order to find that, I know I have to feel the pain.

Memories

Seven years ago, I started a blog about losing my mom:  Here is post 1. 
 http://findingmymom.blogspot.com/2009/03/day-1-cancer.html?m=0

This showed up on my Facebook feed today in my Memories of this day along with this post from last year:

"I can't let the day end without marking this day in my history. Six years ago, my life stopped...I was dropped to my knees... And my world started rotating on a different axis. Six years later, looking back... Gosh... I am such a different person than the girl who started this blog. Reading this still makes me cry for what I've lost, but it also makes me deeply honor the growth I've experienced because of my loss. I GRIEVED. I walked every ugly, painful step. I'll never stop missing my mom but I know I've done my grief work. And as painful as this day was six years ago.... Today I can honor the day for what it was...the beginning of a very difficult, but incredibly powerful, journey. And that's what life is all about... Many different journeys rolled together into one amazing life."

And today's musings...seven years after the day I wrote that first blog post.  I did grieve.  So much.  I did SO much work.  I AM a different person than the girl who started that blog seven years ago.  Completely different.  Death and I came to an understanding.  A kinship almost.  And then death took my dad.  And I felt angry and hurt and betrayed by this entity I had come to honor.  But, of course, death was going to have to take my dad at some point.  I just wasn't ready.  And it was a reminder that we're likely never ready. And then grief was in my life again.  Uninvited.  Unwelcome.  But here nonetheless.  And all the work I had done was sort of tossed up in the air and strewn about and left lying on my floor for me to work my way through again.  But it was even messier this time.  That was unexpected.

I'll be honest, I am just starting to feel like I have dug my way out of the deep, dark ugly part of grief.  I describe it as having my fingers over the top edge.  I can't quite see the top, but I can feel it.  And I'm hanging on to this place for dear life.  It's hard right here.  There's still so much work to do to pull myself up over that edge.  But I don't want to let go either.  I don't want to fall back into the pit.  So...I hang here.  Feeling hopeful that I'll find the energy to pull myself up and over.  Knowing that at the top, once I pull myself out, I'll find myself face to face with multiple mountains that need to be crossed before I find my way out of this grief journey (not that it will ever truly end, but the mountains get smaller and smaller and smaller...).  But those mountains don't scare me.  They're above ground.  Occasionally the sun will shine as I'm crossing them.  Now and then, people can walk beside me in support as I make my way. This pit has been hard, and dark, and scary, and lonely.  Because I had to be there alone.  No one could join me.  They could offer their support from the top of the pit, but they couldn't crawl my way out for me.  

As it does for all of us, life keeps going on.  Thank goodness for my work and my safe and comforting office.  That's the one place where I feel like ME and alive.  I'm grateful for that safe haven every single day.  But I'm looking forward to feeling some peace outside of my office as well.  Not to say there hasn't been any...but I do feel like a dark cloud has been with me pretty much every day since my dad died.  

I'm ready for spring.  I'm ready for more sun and longer days.  I NEED that.  Flowers are blooming.  Birds are chirping.  The northern hemisphere is awakening.  I am hopeful my awakening is coming too.  

I am no longer angry at death.  I am better able to look grief in the eyes and remember that it brings great gifts.  You have to muddle through the mess it brings to find them, but they're there.  :)

It's hard to believe it's been seven years since that first blog post.  It's hard to believe I've survived six and a half years without my mom.  But now, I've also survived almost five months without both my parents.   In the big scope of time, that's nothing.  But when you spend those five months with a black cloud following you and trying to climb out of a dark, scary pit of despair...it feels like forever.  

But posts like these remind me how much I have survived.  And I know I will survive this too.  And that great growth is happening and will continue to occur along this road.  First I have to get all the way out of this pit.  I'm "this" close.  I can feel it.  :)

A Visit with Mom and Dad

Today was a rough one.  It's a day I've been sort of subconsciously avoiding for a long time, but I knew it needed to be done.  My schedule, for some reason, was completely open today.  I took that as a sign that I needed to make this happen.  So, I worked up the energy to make it happen today.  Last night I fought off anxiety.  This morning, I fought off the urge to just go back to bed.  But then I got up, got ready, got in my car and drove north (after a coffee stop with friends, which was the highlight of my day :) ).

After coffee, I had two stops to make.  The cemetery to see dad's name on the niche for the first time and then to Chase Bank in Arlington to open mom and dad's safe deposit box.  Arlington is a drive and combined with the emotions of it all, it took a lot to muster up the strength to will myself to go forward.

But I did it.  I drove.  It was gorgeous out today.  When I got to the cemetery, I stopped at the end of the pathway that leads to their niche, I took in the beauty of this place that has always brought me a sense of comfort.  And I took this picture. 

And a deep breath.  

And then I walked. 

As I got closer and closer, I could see both names and soon dad's became clear.  As I reached their niche, I put my hands on his name and dropped to my knees and sobbed.  

{In the interest of full transparency, I just walked away from my computer after typing the above sentence and poured myself a glass of wine while the tears started flowing again.}  

So many emotions flooded me at that moment.  Seeing how fresh my dad's name was and how much mom's has faded over the past 6 1/2 years was profound for me.  It made me sad.  And then I sat there and looked at those two names together and a surprising wave of peace washed over me.  They're together again.  Things are complete.  Final.  Closure.  They're both gone.  I'm parent-less.  And in some ways, it's still shocking.  And in others, there is a pure sense of peace.  I expected the hurt.  I expected the tears.  I didn't expect the peace.  It was a welcome surprise.

I stayed for a bit and then headed north to Arlington to the Chase Bank branch where they have the safe deposit box.  It's pretty much the last thing I need to do on my to-do list since dad died.  But I've been putting it off.  I haven't been to Arlington since we sold my dad's house in August of 2013.  The drive up contained waves of emotion. I decided at the last minute to swing by their old house just to see how it's doing.  

 It's been well cared-for and that was nice to see.  It would make mom happy.  :)

So, then on to the bank.  Although, I have wanted to get this last thing done and NEED to get it done to move forward, it's still the LAST thing.  All that's left to do after that is grieve.  But I'm ready to grieve.  I NEED to grieve.  So I was ready to get this all done.  I had called the bank to make sure I had everything I needed so I was expecting a pretty easy, albeit, potentially emotional process.  I don't think there's anything in that safe deposit box of any significance.  I'm just expecting a marriage license or social security cards or something like that.  Michael and I joked that there might just be a lot of gum (in case of the apocalypse ;) ).  

Notice, I say that I still don't know what's in that box?  Because I don't.  Because they wouldn't let me in.  Even after explaining that I spoke to someone who told me what to bring.  I had a death certificate, dad's will, a small estate affidavit, BOTH keys, a bank statement and my ID.  What I didn't have was mom's death certificate.  And Chase's corporate legal department would NOT budge on that, even though dad's death certificate states "widowed".  The gal at the branch did go to bat for me.  I will say that.  But she has a job to do and she knew there was no use arguing with corporate.  So, there I sat, at almost 47 years old, and completely raw.  And I started to cry.  The tears wouldn't stop.  The gal at the desk grabbed me kleenex and told me to sit and cry as long as I wanted.  So I did.  And then I thanked her, told her quite loudly that I cannot stand Chase bank (just to make myself be heard), packed up all my papers, and went and sat in my car and let the tears flow.  

There's no way to make it pretty.  I was a wreck.  It felt like months of grief and anxiety flowing out of me.  And pain.  Some serious pain.

I went to Target to use the bathroom before the long drive home and I'm pretty sure I looked like an addict.  I'm surprised someone didn't follow me out and ask me to empty my pockets.

I NEEDED that safe deposit box done today.  And it's still not done.  And I put 200 miles on my car (and sat in a lot of traffic) for nothing.  Except a lot of tears.  And I could have done the tears at home.  

So, here I sit tonight.  I'm not going to lie.  I'm hurting.  I can't adequately express what the last 4 months (tomorrow) have been like for me.  But what I do know is that I would like to start moving forward.  But my body isn't ready.  I am TIRED.  So tired.  I don't know that I've ever felt like this.  I want to move it, to work out, to start dropping some of this weight I'm carrying.  But my body just keeps saying, "sit down, my friend, there's other work to be done."  The work of grief.  And I have to honor it.  

But I'll admit.  I'm fighting it.  I know I am.  Because it's scary.  And hard.  And I'm human...trapped in a grief counselor's body.  

Today was a HUGE step for me.  It felt like the BIGGEST step.  And the step I needed to make to move forward.  And it ending the way it did has rocked me today.  

I came home and ordered mom's death certificate.  And now I have to work up all the energy and figure out another time to make that 200 mile trek again.  

I know tomorrow is a new day.  I get to be at work.  Thank goodness for my work!  Dark and I still aren't friends so it wants to tell me stories right now.  But I'm trying not to listen and I know I'll move forward.  This will just be a part of the story some day.  But tonight.  Tonight I'm hurting.  And I don't like to hurt any more than the next person.  But I do know I need to feel it.  So, I will.  But it sucks for me as much as it does for everyone else.  

Today was a rough one.  Tomorrow will be better.  But tonight, I need to sit with today's events and let the feelings flow.  

136 Days

It's been 136 days since my dad went into the hospital.  I'm not keeping track.  I had to count.  But the reason I wanted to know is because, here, on February 16th, it feels like I am just starting to be able to take a step forward.  It's been a long Fall and Winter and I am exhausted.  My body feels tired and heavy.  So, I wanted to count and figure out what my life has looked like since that day my dad suddenly ended up in the hospital. 

So, here's the chronology:

October 3rd - 6th, 2015 - Dad spends 3 days in the hospital.  I am there for most of that stay.

October 6th, 2015 - October 24th, 2015 - Dad returns to his assisted living community.  I bring in 24/7 care because it's clear he's not recovering the way I had hoped.  What follows is 18 days of worrying and wondering and waiting and sitting vigil until dad dies on the 24th.

October 25th - October 31st, 2015 - 7 days of cleaning out dad's apartment, making arrangements for memorial service and having daily conversations with multiple people informing them of dad's death.

November 1st - November 14th, 2015 - 14 days of phone calling and e-mailing.  Closing accounts.  Talking to insurance companies, banks, etc.  Daily conversations with funeral home.  Dad's memorial service is held on the 14th.

November 15th - November 28th, 2015 - 13 days of continued conversations.  Dad's cemetery service is held the day after Thanksgiving (I don't even remember Thanksgiving).

November 29th - December 13th, 2015 - 15 days of semi-peace.  Life starts settling in.  Shock is wearing off.

December 13th, 2015 - January 10th, 2016 - 29 days of sickness at our house which included an ER trip for Christopher.  Christmas and New Years were illness field.  Which I guess gave a good distraction from the emotion of the holidays and dad's birthday.  

January 11th - January 30th, 2016 - 19 good days which included Christopher's birthday and a week of vacation to spend with my kids.  Life starts feeling back on track.

February 1st - February 14th, 2016 - I'm hit with round two of the cold from hell.  It hits me like a brick.  I'm a mess.  My body is shot.  

So, here we are today, February 16th.  Yesterday, I finally started feeling like the cold had passed and I was recovering. 

When I look back over the past 136 days, there are about 35 semi-decent days.  That leaves 101 that weren't all that great.  I hardly remember any of it though.  It's a blur of phone calls and e-mails and kleenex and doctors and supplements.  136 days.  That's a lot.  And it's also nothing. 

What I can tell you I haven't done in that time is grieve.  I thought I was grieving.  But I wasn't.  I was distracted.  And the grief was building up.  And based on conversations with my naturopath and my therapist, it's clear that this last round with the cold was my body's way of stopping the distraction.  It can't carry any more grief without some sort or release.  

On January 31st, I was up all night trying to figure out what was happening to me.  It felt like my heart was aching.  I was doubled over from the pain and pressure in my chest.  I am very much into the metaphysical aspects of physical illness and looking back, it seems so clear that my heart WAS aching.  It was begging to be heard.  

And the next day I was sick.  REALLY sick.

I have a great book that discusses this belief system I have in metaphysical causes of physical illness.  Some brief comments on the physical problems I was experiencing look like this:

Sore Throat: "Pain upon swallowing is the body's way of asking you outright, 'What person or situation can't you swallow?'.  Perhaps there is some specific emotional trauma that you are having difficulty in getting past or are simply unable to swallow...the outcome of a situation."

Lungs (chest congestion): "There is an underlying sadness, a feeling of being suffocated by someone or a situation that is keeping you from taking in the life force you need.  You may have a feeling of discomfort, as though you don't have enough room to maneuver in order to get out of the situation.  There may be a fear of suffering or death or of seeing someone else suffer or die."

Sinus stuff: "As air is a symbol of the life force and fundamental to life on a physical level, difficulty in taking in breath through the nose is directly linked with taking in life.  You tend to cut yourself off on a sensory level for fear of feeling your own suffering or the suffering of someone you love.  It will get you nowhere to tell yourself that you feel nothing in order to avoid facing a situation."

Cough: "Your body is telling you that your heart would like to see you more tolerant, especially toward yourself."

Common Cold" " A cold will often manifest as a result of congestion on a mental level, especially when there is so much going on in your head that you don't know which way to turn.  The onset of a cold is a message from the body that it's time for you to let go...."

You don't have to believe in all of the above, but that book rarely steers me wrong.  And the people I know who have purchased the book have a similar love/hate relationship with it.  We don't want to believe all it says, but it's almost so spot on, it's impossible to ignore the message.

So...today I'm feeling better.  I listened to my body these past two weeks.  I did a lot of self-care and worked on my mental health as well as my physical health.  I also got mad and annoyed and sick and tired of being sick and tired.  Sleep deprivation is just not a pretty thing. 

On Thursday night, I had an epiphany with my therapist.  It's not something I can figure out quickly, but it was an epiphany nonetheless.   

I'm ready for spring and for longer days.  The dark and I need to break up for a while.  I'll be prepared when it comes back next fall, but right now, I need daylight. It's coming.  I know this.  I feel it.  I'm ready to move forward.  

Slowly.

My instinct is to do everything at warp-speed.  I'm learning to slow down.  This is my season of life right now.  I don't have to run my way through it. 

I've been awfully hard on myself lately.  I'm carrying extra weight.  I feel weaker than I have in a long time.  I feel lazy which is NOT a normal feeling for me.  But I know it's not so much lazy as it simply is allowing my body and heart to rest.  It still feels like lazy though... 

But again, it's a season.  It won't always feel like this.  And I don't have to like it.  But I do have to honor it.  There are lessons to be learned here.  Big ones.  

So, it's time to move on to days 137 and beyond since my life turned upside down.  It is my hope that there are more good days than hard days to come.  I don't know that I can take many more hard days.  But, then again, I survived the last 101, I can probably survive more.  I've survived a lot actually.  I'm good at surviving.  I'd like to work on thriving.  

Here's to slow, baby steps.  

And self-care.  

And patience with myself.  

And maybe, just maybe, a little fun.  I miss fun.

Just as dark and I need to break up for a while, fun and I need to reconnect.

And it will all happen in time.  One little step after another.