Looking for some sleep & peace

I’ve been awake since somewhere around 4am. I can’t be sure of exactly when I woke up because I refused to look at the clock; I thought by not looking I would go back to sleep but that did not work in my favor at all today.  And then Emily woke up as Rob was leaving, that was around 5:15.  At least she was in a good mood this morning, even as I discovered she had ripped apart the lining in her diaper and all of the little wet white pieces of who knows what fell out all over the carpet that I tried to vacuum up but I am pretty certain it’s still in there and will be for a long, long time. (At least it wasn’t poop, right?) Yeah, it’s been a fun day so far….

Being this tired, especially since I think on some small part I am still adjusting back to this time zone, just makes me a zombie and it makes me prone to emotional outbursts.  I hit my foot with the door to the refrigerator this morning and it brought me to tears.  There was something else this morning that almost made me cry – oh, I forgot my coffee at home.  Both of those were worthy of tears and once I start these days, its hard to stop because there is always something I can cry about.  Work is okay, home is okay, but there is all of this other stuff that isn’t – besides my foot and lack of caffeine.  And those thoughts and images crop up on their own without exhaustion being a factor so on days like this, they seem to come fast and furious.  Earlier this morning, I checked my pay-stub on line for something, and they keep a running account of what your time was charged to for the year on there.  Right there, second line, was my bereavement time. 40 hours of bereavement.  It’s hard to believe that it was almost three months ago that she died; it doesn’t feel like it.  Three months sounds like it should feel much longer than it actually does. Three months is a quarter of the year, but it doesn’t feel like it.  A quarter of my year has been spent mourning my mother’s passing, but it doesn’t feel like a quarter of my year has passed let alone that much time between now and the time she left us.  It’s still really hard for me to say that she’s gone or that she died.  There’s this part of my brain that still doesn’t believe that it’s real; this happened to me when my friend Donna died, too. She was killed in a car accident, so in a moment I went from knowing she was in this world and boom, she was gone from it.  I would never hear her voice again, or her laugh, I would never see that weird thing that she did with her hand when she walked.  And even though I was there when they lowered her casket into the ground, it still didn’t feel real; I still remember saying on the phone “Donna? Donna who?”, because there was no way it could have been her and there are some days that still feel that way.  Maybe this is the way my brain is protecting me or maybe I’m just in denial.  Let me tell you, denial (at times) ain’t so bad.

I know that things happen for a reason and people come into and out of your life for a reason.  I really do believe that and I also believe that you may never know why something happened, or you may not know for a long time.  And I think the only reason I can come up with is that it’s brought us closer to my dad, but that’s a pretty crappy way to have that happen.  There are way better avenues than this one, I would imagine. Other than that, I have yet to figure out why it happened, when and how it did.  I guess the how isn’t all that difficult – no one should really suffer through that fight if the end result will be the same, and maybe, in order to save my dad some grief and pain, we didn’t know until almost the end.  He didn’t have to sit by and watch her go through surgery, treatments, more pain than she had already endured by the time it was over.  He didn’t have to become more of a care-giver than he had already in the past month or so of her life.  She didn’t have a very enjoyable or happy life overall, so maybe that’s why she was spared the ‘fight’.  I just want it to make sense in some way, somehow. I need it to have a reason.  I need to know that she is in a better place and that’s why she isn’t here. I need to know that she’s okay, that she’s happy, healthy, that she’s okay and it was the right time for her to go.  I feel robbed.  I feel robbed for myself and for my daughter.  I need to feel like it had some meaning, some reason.

From My Trip Home

I had written some things during my trip that I haven't posted yet so, here's the one from my flight home.....


I'm sitting in my seat,heading towards home after a great week. I like to take pictures of my travels; like my actual travels so the views from the trains this morning, the plane that sat next to mine at the gate, clouds, the country side from above, that sort of thing.  I was just flipping through the ones I've taken so far and it's so hard to look at a few of them. They're the Irish country side - green, cloud covered, beautiful sea-side and coast lines. And I could almost hear her in my head, as if she was sitting next to me on the couch in her living room in New Jersey. I don't know if I should, or can, show these to my dad.  I can hear what he would say, too.  "Your mother always wanted to go there, she would have really liked these pictures." All the while, fighting back tears. I know it because my voice, in my head, is doing the same thing.

I've had signs this week, signs that Donna was around. Which is pretty freaking cool because I know she would have been there if she was still alive.  Random song, pictures, people, just odd things that were almost too random to explain away as simple coincidence. The first few times, maybe, but multiple times a day just doesn't seem coincidental to me. My now married friend had her name mentioned during the service & included her picture in a montage of those that couldn't be there. It was nice to see her smiling face, even if it was just in a picture. I continue to look for my mom, haven't seen or felt signs from her yet. Still waiting on that.  There's a sort of that wonders if she's hanging out, watching and not doing anything to show herself because she's either a)trying to save us from more grief or b)just being a bitch and not doing what we, or at least I, want her to do. I wouldn't be surprised if it was option b.

Planning ahead for fun things – vacations, mostly – keeps my mind busy and focused on the good stuff that lies ahead.

I’m going to turn 40 this year, so are a number of my closest friends.  One of them and I are heading to Disney World together this Fall for the Food and Wine Festival.  It is a guaranteed good time!  Right now we’re trying to sort out the restaurants we want to eat at; since we’re on the dining plan we want to make the most of it, so we need to get the restaurants figured out so we can book them in April.  I will have some time to myself next week, so I’ll have that on my ‘to do’ list.

Rob and I are taking the baby on a short vacation this summer and I’ve started to plan for that. We’re going to Maine. It’ll just be a few days but we can hike, go out on the water, let her play outside and just enjoy the good (hopefully good) weather.

I have to start planning for Emily’s 2^nd birthday this June.  I can’t believe she’s going to be 2; although there are times that I look at her and I think to myself “she looks like she’s 6 or 7 already” let alone how old she acts sometimes.  She’s tall for her age, smart, started speaking in sentences the other night – short ones but still – and sometimes it feels like 6 years since I brought her home.  The difficult thing about a June birthday is that the weather can go one of two ways here in NJ – beautiful and sunny or ridiculously hot and sunny.  Makes planning a birthday party for some 2 year olds difficult.

I also have to keep the Dominican on my radar, too. We might be going on a big family trip with his parents and siblings towards the end of the year, which would be nice especially if we were able to go around his birthday.  

Next year, I think I may go to Ireland, as long as I have the funds to do it.  My mom always wanted to go there.  Ireland and Italy were her big ones and unfortunately, she never got to either of them. So I am thinking about trying to go for her birthday next year.  Not sure if I can swing it, or if that’s a place I want to go by myself; Rob and I have talked about going and hiking/backpacking there but it doesn’t mean I can’t make a trip on my own.  I might see if my sister would be up to going with me.  We used to go to New England once a year together and we haven’t done it in many years; the last time we went up to Vermont it was a trip we took our mom on.  I think my mom would be happy if we both went to Ireland for her birthday, but I’m not so sure if my sister would go without her husband.

If I don’t go to Ireland, I need to find somewhere to go next year.  I think we should each take one trip a year solo; this year I’m doing two since he’s taking such a big trip this summer with his son.  I should make a list of the places I would like to go, or revisit – Ireland, Italy (my mom always said she wanted to see Pompeii before it got buried again and Venice before it sunk), there’s a part of my brain that’s saying “Bali, that would be nice”, Tahiti – I MUST go back there, Hawaii (I really want to see an active volcano up close), Alaska, Seattle again, Mt. Rainier and Mt. St. Helens again, not sure where else.  Oh, Arizona or New Mexico. And Montana. Ever since I saw “Legends of the Fall” I’ve wanted to go there. (sure I’d like to find a young Brad Pitt lookalike but really, it does look beautiful)

It’s funny that I can think of my mom’s birthday next year and not feel sad, but when I think of the one that is coming in a few weeks it totally changes my mood.  I guess my brain is assuming that next year’s birthday will be much easier than this one.  Boy do I hope my brain is right and it’s not just lying to me. I hate when that happens.

This Morning's Installment

 I am waiting for my friends to arrive. We'll head off to the wedding in the country tomorrow but today is our day of fun in the city. I can't wait to see them and enjoy the day filled of tourist attractions, shopping, afternoon tea and whatever else we happen to stumble upon. Not to mention the brownies I bought last night for them as a Welcome to London gift. :)

I've spent some time in my room, watching Netflix and also looking at pictures and just thinking through things. I have to be okay with the fact that no one else will understand fully what I go through every day. Even if they've gone through it, it's different for everyone. I am lucky enough to have women in my life that understand as best they can; they are not lucky for having gone through this themselves. I am so supremely grateful for them. But still, everyone's experience and perspective is different. I have to go along this road fairly solo, although there will be stops along the way with friends and family. I'll appreciate, as best I can, what they share with me and the advice they give.

Rob doesn't seem to understand why my birthday is a big deal to me this year; why that entire time period is a big deal to me this year. There's a part of me that doesn't want to spend my birthday with my family. I don't want to sit around yet another table, the third in a week, that reminds me that there's an empty seat that should be occupied by my mom. That isn't what I want. I don't know what I want, but I know I don't want that. But I know that's what they'll want.  At Christmas I told my mom that she could make lasagna for my birthday, since she couldn't make it for Christmas as she did every year. I hate that I said it because I knew she wouldn't be here. I guess I was being optimistic for everyone, including myself. There'll be no lasagna, probably not a lot of happiness this year; I suppose I'm not the first woman turning 40 to be unhappy on her birthday.  It's hard to be happy when you look around and see she's gone and there will be no birthday call, no birthday dinner, and definitely no lasagna.

My Flight Log - A Little Late

As I sit in my window seat on a flight to London for one of my dearest friends weddings, I start to see the sun rise on the horizon. I was hoping the sun would be up so I could see Ireland as we flee over, but no such luck this time. Yesterday was St. Patricks Day, a day that was sacred in our house growing up. Although most people wouldn't have guessed it right off the bat my mom was 100% Irish. I think her grandmother came over during the famine. In hindsight, I wish I had named my dughter McKenna, after my great-grandmother. I love that name and I think it would suit my crazy little lady.

I had talked about making his trip for months before my mom died or before we knew she was even sick, so I hope hat where ever she is she knows I'm going. This trip is serving more than just one purpose. I get to see one of my best friends marry a man that makes her so happy ands that gives me so much joy it's hard to put into words. But this time also gives me a chance to be alone. This is be first time I'm away from my daughter since she was born. It's been a very long two years. And since my mom died I've been so focused on everything else around me - my dad, my sister, my job, my daughter - that I will finally be distraction free and a fable to grieve as much or as little as it want to.

I brought with me the pictures I gave the funeral home for her wake; they did this wonderful video of all the pictures we found. She looked so happy in pretty much all of them; one of my favorites was her with her friends back in the 50s in Coney Island. She had a drink in her hand. That was my mom.  I brought them because I haven't been able to get myself to look at them since and I think I need to. I tried once. That ended with me in tears after one or two pictures. I think looking at them, remembering her face ands some do the good times will be a catharsis for me, at least on some level. I need to remember her face, I can't forget what she looked like. When I got married in 1999, when my sister got married in 1998, when my daughter was born - these were all happy events and I want to remember her happy. I don't want to always remember how sick she was and her voice when she told he oncologist in the ER that she was afraid to be sick because she had a grand daughter that she had to be well for. That's not a memory I want in he forefront t of my brain anymore.

Home Away From Home is Just a Meal Away

This morning, I am having a late breakfast in Notting Hill. It's a nice, neighborhood place full of locals. It's 11:25 but the place is packed; I was lucky to get a seat. I came here specifically for the ricotta hotcakes and I am hopeful that they will live up to their internet-based reputation.

A place like this, that is full of families, couples and friends makes me long for the company of mine. I would love to sit here with my girls, my "wimmens" as we call each other. We could occupy one of the larger tables by the front window for hours, drinking coffee, bloody Mary's, wine, and eating everything we could get our hands on between laughs and outbursts that would be hard to blend into the rumble of other conversations and may disturb every diner around us. It wouldn't be the first time we did that. In college, we scared away many people that sat adjacent to our table. We were often so loud that the tales of our miscellaneous shenanigans could be heard on the other side of the dining hall; we had some juicy and some silly shenanigans to share those days. These days it's tales of children's schools and report cards, our jobs, our relationships, our divorces, deaths, illnesses.  Gone are the days of drunken nights with boys that gave out free beer at the bar where the boy that we had a crush on was playing with his band. Man were those great days.

(Just a side-note: as I typed "great"in the last sentence, I had a typo that caused the word to auto correct to the name "Greg". That wasn't the name of the boy in the band, but he was a part of many a tale that haunt me still....I will always wonder what happened to that beautiful blue-eyed boy.)

So many people would hate a place like this. The noise, the annoyingly sweet couple sitting directly in front of me holding hands and talking closely as they lean towards each other over their plates of food, the obnoxious and pretentious woman next to me that insisted on plugging in her iPhone so she could get phone calls about reserving a villa somewhere fabulous because she just doesn't travel enough.  But I love it. I love the noise and sharing the personal experience of a meal. Sitting alone in a room like this isn't lonely at all. Here, I am part of the larger group.  A part of the crowd that has gathered here to share a meal, share stories and experiences; the highs ands lows of their days. Here feels like home.

Alone in the Dark

Today, I am in London on vacation all by myself. It's an odd feeling. I'm alone for the first time in two years. There are moments, like when I saw the family with the little girl at Hampton Court, when I just miss the hell out of my family so much that it brings me to tears. And there are also moments, like when I was able to sleep until almost 9am, when I have been grateful for the solitude.

I spent a lot of time walking the grounds at Hampton Court today. It truly is one of the most beautiful and serene places I have ever been to. In one of the gardens, not the formal ones, there were a number of magnolia trees. We had one in our yard when I was growing up; as far as I know it's still there. My mother loved that tree & wanted to take it with her when they moved. I took a number of pictures today of those trees, just for her. I know she would have enjoyed the pictures of the gardens and of the palace.  As much as she hated the English - she was very Irish - she loved their history. She would have loved this trip. She wouldn't have been able to come, her legs weren't in the best shape even before the cancer, but she would have enjoyed my stories. It sucks that I have to tell them to a ghost now.

Tonight I saw Wicked, which was brilliant. I've always wanted to see it and seeing it here in the West End was actually cheaper than Broadway. I had forgotten about this song, a song that is sung between the two main characters - the good and bad witches - and it's about being a better person having known one another. At first, I thought of my best friend from college. She died almost five years ago in a car accident. I am a better person because of her. I don't know if I had ever laughed that hard before I knew her, or if I had truly trusted and leaned on anyone before her. Not a day goes by that I don't miss her and wish I could see her one more time. She was funny, a brilliant singer - although flat a lot (unlike her chest...those were big boobs), she was kind and thoughtful and the day she died I found out what it felt like to loose a sister. That song also made me think of my mom. I am a better person because I knew her, as well. I wouldn't be this person good or bad, if it hadn't been for her - good or bad. I wouldn't have this grey streak in my hair and I wouldn't be as independent and strong if it wasn't for her. Not a day has gone by that I haven't missed her and wished for just one more day, one more phone call, just one more chance so I could tell her I love her.

As they sang that song, I sat there and cried in the dark. I cried because I miss them both so very much. I know that no amount of tears will bring either of them back. But for tonight, and for that song, it brought me some comfort to let the sadness out. All alone, in a darkened theater, where no one knew me or the reason for my tears. Sometimes, comfort isn't found with those you know. Sometimes, you need to sit with strangers so you can comfort yourself.

Known Only as His Wife

My mom always hated that she was referred to as “Angelo’s wife”.  There were many instances when that’s how she was introduced; there were times when she wasn’t even given a first name.  Plenty of people in the parish and around town only knew her by that moniker.  And she hated it.  I think every year it got a little bit more painful for her because she complained more and more about it.  She thought it would be gone, for the most part, when they moved away but that didn’t last very long. As my dad became involved in his new parish and in his new community, it came back.  And then, she died.  And on the homepage of our home parish was the announcement of her funeral mass – “Eileen O., wife of Angelo”.

My dad was quite the presence at that church, and is one in his new parish.  Everyone knew my dad at the old parish and because of that, everyone knew us.  I still remember when the boy I was kind of dating in high school, who knew my dad for many years because he was an alter server and worked in the parish office, found out that was my father.  We had been dropped off at church after a youth group activity and he saw my dad; I remember saying “oh, there’s my dad now” and his face went white.  He was a very tall, very Italian boy so for him to go white was pretty impressive.  The sound of his voice when he said, “THAT’S your DAD?” was something that remains with me still, and it still makes me giggle like the 15 or 16 year old girl I was then.  I was his daughter, she was his wife, that’s just how we were known.  But she never liked it.  My mom was very independent, which was a rarity for women her age, and I think that’s what caused some of her struggles.  She wanted to go to college, but couldn’t.  She wanted to have a job, but couldn’t.  She wanted a lot more out of her life than what was allowed because of the time that she was born in.  And that’s a shame.  I hope that legacy is one that never gets revived; much like bell bottom jeans, it belongs in the past or in the bottom of someone’s closet collecting dust. 

I hope that she knew, or knows, that she was never just Angelo’s wife to us.  As my  mom, well, she was my mom.   She wasn’t the typical or TV mom that everyone wishes they had.  We never had a heart-to-heart conversation, she never sat with me as I cried over a broken heart.   Hell she didn’t even tell me about the birds and the bees; she asked I had learned about it at school but that’s as far as that conversation went.  But she was there with shock and amazement when I told her I was pregnant, she was there with the phone next to the bed every night as my due date approached and she was there to listen when I called to tell her and my dad that my best friend from college was killed in a car accident along with her mom and her aunt.  She was there as best she could be; I wonder now if she had ever really wanted to be a mom.  She wasn’t the most maternal woman in the world.  When I sit on the couch in the morning with my daughter, enjoying the quiet snuggles that we share, I can’t imagine her doing that with any of us.  Maybe my brother because he was the first, but I wonder if she only wanted children because that’s what everyone wanted and did back then.  Everyone got married young, had a family, the woman stayed home and the man worked.  That’s just what you did.  I hope that my daughter never feels like she has to conform to some social norm like my mom did.  I have to wonder if my mom would have turned out to be a different person, a happier person, had she followed her dreams instead of expectations.

A sign is sometimes just a sign

Every morning I drive past at least two or three signs for the hospital that is around the corner and down the street from both my office and Emily’s daycare.  It is the hospital that my sister and I decided my mom should be admitted into; they are affiliated with, and have in-house, a very well rated Oncology program.  We thought it was the best place for her so we could get her connected to a good Oncologist right off the bat (she did see one in the ER and he was wonderful).  In hindsight, I realize that it didn’t matter what hospital she was admitted into. I think somehow her body knew that it was okay to let go once she was admitted; she could easily have gone into respiratory failure at home. But that would have meant a traumatic (well, more traumatic) experience for my dad which I think she didn’t want.  She might have died had it happened at home, especially if it was that night since it snowed and the roads weren’t plowed until the next morning.

Driving past those signs every day used to be routine; occasionally I would wonder what it was like for people who had loved ones there, or had loved ones that passed away there.  And now, I know.  It’s hard some days, seeing those blue and white signs pointing me to the last place I saw my mom alive and happy.  She had a good, although sometimes not so nice, sense of humor and it was good to see her laugh that night before she went into respiratory failure.  She was in a good mood, actually ate her dinner and actually wanted to eat dinner which was a first in a long time.  I also saw some joy on her face that Saturday, when she was lucid enough to look at pictures of my daughter.  Those memories are happy ones and I hope that they pop up along with those hospital signs more often than the other memories I have of our time there.

The memories that pop up when I see that hospital sign tend to be some of the more mundane ones.  Standing at the window by the snack machines in the waiting room for ICU, just waiting for someone else to come up or waiting there so my dad could have some time alone with her.  Standing at that window, watching the snow or rain fall, talking on the phone to my best friend as he did what he could to make me laugh – we joked a lot about the quality of snacks there in the waiting room.  Personally I am a strong believer in high quality beverages and snacks in the ICU waiting room but it would seem that hospitals don’t agree with me.  I remember weird stuff like that, along with all of the other stuff that I do my best to not remember.  Being the first one at the hospital after she was put on the respirator, being the one there to talk to the doctor about her condition and lack of improvement, watching my dad sit by her bedside day after day hoping for a miracle, all the stuff that you really don’t want to remember but your body forces you to in order to grieve and move on.  I know that I’ll always remember those days but I hope they become hazy after a while.  They’re pretty bright and clear right now, much like those hospital signs I pass daily, and I’d like them all to fade out so they are a fuzzy blue blob behind me.

Mantra'ing

Today will be a good day…..today will be a good day……today WILL be a good day….

That was my mantra until about 8:35am.

Then, Come on Eileen came on the radio as soon as I dropped off Emily at daycare.  She HATED that song with such passion, it’s hard to describe.  Her name was Eileen (it’s hard to say “was” instead of “is” in that sentence; to me, that’s still her name and it always will be but I guess the right verb to use is past-tense instead of present at this point)  and when a song finally came out with her name in it, I think her words were – “A song with my name finally comes out after all these years and it’s trash” or something along those lines.  Knowing my mother she probably used a more colorful word than “trash”; I am pretty sure she used to snarl when it came on the radio, that’s how much she hated it.  Hearing it was hard. My first reaction was to turn it off, just ignore it, but I left it on.  Listened to the whole thing with a pit in my stomach.  And then, a song by the Electric Light Orchestra – ELO – came on.  ELO happens to be my daughter’s initials.  I think it’s just coincidence, I don’t think this was my mom coming through to me via the 80s station on my satellite radio. But it still made me sad.  Not regular sad…..just blah kind of sad.  It’s that feeling that something sucks really badly, but there is nothing you can do about it so you’re just gonna deal with being sad, maybe cry a little bit (with your head down, in your car, sitting in the parking lot outside of your office, just for example), and then move past it.  And that’s what I’m trying to do now, at 9:39am at my desk.  Move past it and return to my mantra (with a slight change) – the REST of the day will be a good day…the REST of the day will be a good day.

And overall it wasn't too bad. I got some work done, I picked up my daughter and happily brought her home and had a nice family dinner with her and Rob. It might not have been a happy or "good" day, but it certainly wasn't bad or evil  I'll take it. 

Long Day - Is My Brain on Vaca Without Me??

This morning started at around 4:15, with Emily whining and asking for both of us…”dada…..daaaaada….mom…..mooooma….mom….dad…..”.  Hearing that in the darkness is not a welcoming sound, even when she sounds happy and giggles between the different requests.  She drifted in and out of sleep, and me along with her, until about 5:45 at which time I got up to get her. She sat in the middle of her crib, and giggled when I walked in as if to say “haha woman, I win!”.  She’s lucky she’s so stinking cute on days like this or she would have been sold to the Amish a very long time ago.

I cried in the shower this morning, good and hard.  I think it was a combination of things – exhaustion, feeling like I had to be everything to everyone (mommy and caregiver, partner (and caregiver), dedicated employee that would be on the top of her game and present to an important audience today on only a few hours of sleep) and thoughts from the prior day.  I know that I shouldn’t get fixated on Easter, her birthday, my birthday but damn it is hard not to.  The past few days have just been consuming with thoughts of that empty chair at the dining room table and the lack of my annual birthday phone call.  I know I shouldn’t let it take over my brain; no good ever comes of it but I do it anyway.  Kind of like when you were a freshmen in college and you knew you shouldn’t hang out with the guy that’s walking around giving out free beers, but you do it anyway and when you wake up the next morning sick as a dog and unable to remember your own name.  You knew it was a bad idea, you knew what the next day would bring, but you did it because you were there (and hey, what freshmen is gonna pass up free beer???).

I’m not trying to insinuate that I’m a glutton for punishment; although there are days that make me wonder if that’s my problem.  I dwell and dwell and can’t let go of something until it’s driven me to the point of uncontrollable sobbing.  I try to let go and get passed certain things – like remembering her waiting for us every Thursday and how she couldn’t wait to see Emily, remembering what she looked like that day at the doctor’s when I knew it was bad and what it felt like in that moment to know that she was on borrowed time – but there are things, new things, all the time and that’s tough to deal with some days.  Almost every day I think of something she will miss, or I remember something that makes me miss her more, and that’s hard.  I get beat up day after day by my own mind and my own emotions and I can only get hit so many times before I start to hit back, and those are my bad days. 

I am doing my best to find joy where ever I can.  My daughter, thankfully, is a big goofball and keeps me laughing.  Just last night, she figured out how to tumble (I think my mom would have called it “ass over tea-kettle” – which I just remembered she used to say) and that had me in stitches.  I was so proud,  you would think she had just won a gold medal at the Olympics.  She’s funny and smart and absolutely beautiful and she is my joy (just as she was my mom’s).  I try to find joy in sitting on the couch with Rob at the end of the day, quietly watching some stupid TV show together.  I try to even find joy while I’m at work – even if it means the only joy is the music that’s popping up on my iphone (one of my favorites – Marry Me by Train is on right now).  I miss just being happy because I’m naturally happy in my life; happiness shouldn’t be this hard to find.  Sometimes I don’t find it at all and those are my most miserable days; thankfully I haven’t had one of those in a bit.  But still, I don’t expect them to be gone.  It’s been two months today and yet, it feels as if it hasn’t even happened yet.  Today, it just doesn’t feel real but also feels all too real at the same time.  When I talk about my parents, I sometimes have to correct myself and say “my dad” instead of “my parents” because I don’t have two of them anymore.  And even as I write those words, there is still this part of my brain that’s saying “WHAT?? What do you mean you don’t have two of them anymore????” as if that part of my brain was in the Caribbean on a beach somewhere (being fanned by a hot pool boy) for those two weeks.  If a part of my brain was on a beach with  a hot pool boy and it left the rest of me here, man, I am going to put that brain part on punishment pronto.

Cloud of Uncertainty

Today was a busy day at work; we have an important meeting tomorrow with a new group of business partners so today will be nuts.  The day before is always crazy – last minute changes to PowerPoint presentations, last minute changes to hand-outs, new hand-outs being created and copied, last minute questions about process that need to be worked out, yada yada.  It’s all a lot of work in a very short amount of time.

I’m thankful, sometimes, for days like this.  It keeps my mind busy and focused on something other than the not so warm and fuzzy stuff – the Easter dinner/impending would-be 80^th birthday for my mom, my impending birthday that I will be celebrating without her.  Rob wants to be with his family the week after Easter – which I understand since he doesn’t see all of them often at all –  and I don’t know if I’m up to it; he offered to take the baby and go on his own so I can be alone but I don’t know if that’s the right decision either.  I think he will go with or without me, which kind of makes me angry and I feel kind of unsupported by that fact.  But still, I apparently have a decision to make. Do I stay home, all by myself and deal with the left-over feelings from that weekend or do I go, be surrounded by people and probably (for at least some of the time) put on a happy face and pretend that I’m okay when all I want to do is sit by myself and cry. All the while also trying to come to terms with the fact that she won’t be here for my birthday the following weekend, which is also something I am trying desperately to not think about.  I don’t know what the right answer is and I’m afraid that no matter how much I think and this and look at it from every which angle I can think of, I won’t come up with the right answer. 

The uncertainty that this has caused in my life was unexpected; I didn’t think that something as simple as a family vacation would come into question just because my mom is no longer here.  Other things – like whether or not to celebrate her birthday – seem normal to contemplate, but not this.  I didn’t see this one coming.  We were supposed to go to Florida in February but it was postponed and his family completely understood; I’m very lucky that his family is so wonderful to me and have welcomed my family into theirs (his sister and her husband came to the wake and sent beautiful white roses, too).  I think that there is a part of me that’s afraid to go. Afraid to see his mom, have her look at me and ask me how I am, knowing that there is a high likelihood of my breaking into tears as soon as the question is even posed.  I am tired of crying.  I know that it’s part of the process and that, if I don’t, I will end up breaking down into a messy puddle somewhere TOTALLY unexpected and inappropriate like the middle of the food store when I see her favorite ice cream or at a table at Cracker Barrel where she insisted they didn’t make ‘real’ chicken and dumplings.  But I’m tired of feeling this way – tomorrow it will be two months – I feel this overwhelming sadness sometimes that is just too much to bare and I wish I could make it go away more than I wish to hide under my desk and cry. Which is quite a bit some days.

Just Wine

This morning, after my shower, I started thinking about Easter. My dad is very religious; we all went to catholic school, my sister and I went for 12 years. He goes to church every Sunday and was so active in the parish in my hometown that they threw him a dinner at a hotel ballroom when my parents moved away. That was where my mom's funeral was; our pastor said more than once that it wasn't how he wanted to welcome us home but it was still good to have us there and it would always be our home.

I feel that way, to some extent about my parents' house. They moved from my childhood home about six or seven years ago. That house will always be home to me. But at holidays, going to their house always felt like going home. We were all together, we sat around the table and shared a meal and then sat around and talked until it was  time for coffee and cake. My dad is Italian so our dinner traditions are very much his. Dinner in the afternoon. Coffee and cake and conversation the rest of the time. Thankfully we don't do the seven courses or anything like that, but I digress.

But now, it's different. We haven't sat around that table together since Christmas. We all have our assigned seats; no idea how they came about but I always sit in the same place, as does my sister. And now, next to both of us at the opposite head of the table from my dad will be an empty chair. A chair that is big, was always too big for my mother's small frame; a chair that will look overwhelmingly big on Easter and probably every holiday thereafter.

My dad has decided that he wants us to have dinner at the house that day. I'll do whatever he wants, no matter how hard it it for me. My sister feels the same although she's said she really doesn't want to do it.  She said to me "how am I going to go through her birthday and then cook in the woman's kitchen the very ext day?"  My mom was very protective of her kitchen, especially when she cooked. We usually weren't allowed into the room when she was cooking. If you dared to enter, it better be purposeful and quick and God help you if you got in her way. But this year there will be none of that. None of he threats to take away our dinners or to walk out and let us cook it on our own. That's all gone now. And I will miss every bit of it.

I'm not sure how I'll get through it and I don't expect any of us to do a stellar job that weekend. I want to celebrate her birthday; I think she would have wanted us to and I want to honor her with that.  I want to be happy that weekend, like we usually are when we're all together. But I know that it won't be all wine and roses. Probably just wine. She would have wanted it that way, too.

Surviving Conversations

It might be hard to believe but I don't like to talk about my mom being gone. I write this blog to help get certain things out of my head; it helps me to process what all of these thoughts and feelings mean. But yesterday I took the plunge and started the conversation. Surprisingly enough, I didn't drown.

I don't really know how the conversation started, I guess that's inconsequential. I told him what it felt like as best I could. It feels like she doesn't exist, that's what I said. Because I don't know how else to say it. I also said that I didn't know how my sister was; we talked about our dace all the time but never how we were doing. My sister is a lot like my dad - doesn't really talk about how she feels unless it's necessary. That conversation prompted one with her which I think was necessary.

When she and I spoke that night, I said things like "I don't know how you feel but this is what's going on with me...." Which got her to tell me how she was. Turns out we're pretty much on the same page.
She stays away from people as much as she can on her bad days and she doesn't know what to say when someone says "so how are you doing". I know there are days when I'm tempted to tell people the truth, but I refrain from that conversation with coworkers and other casual acquaintances. We both even struggle to find the right words for when someone asks about our dad. I don't think anyone really wants to hear the reality of how he is. It hits too close to home. How many of us would turn his story into their own - for their own parent, for themselves. I know that I tend to personalize the stories of others, especially when they're relate able like I think this is. We aren't the first family to go through this. We won't be the last. You just never think you'll be that family that everyone feels sorry for. Being the center of that type of attention isn't something even the biggest attention whore would revel in.

Waiting to Hear

For some reason, I decided to listen to a YouTube video by James Van Praag; he’s a fairly famous psychic.  I don’t necessarily believe in the whole spirit communication/after-life communication stuff that he and other psychics like John what’s-his-name from NY practice.  I don’t know if there is something after this.  But I will say that there’s been some odd stuff that has happened to me over the past almost five years since my best friend died.  Songs come on the radio when I need them to – when I need to feel like she’s still with me, she’s still supporting me and she knows that I need her or that I’m missing her more than usual…they just come out of nowhere. And it’s not just random radio stuff, it happens on my iPod all the time.  Just this morning, I was thinking about my mom and wondering if her and Donna had met up and I turned on my music to find THE song from college that always makes me think of her.  It’s the first one that came up; another one came up right after that.  I can’ chalk that up to coincidence.  A few years ago, I was driving my dad to see the heart surgeon, thinking that we would get horrible news, I thought to myself “I don’t want to do this” and that song from college came on the radio.  It’s from the 90s, it’s not a popular song; I chalk that up to her being there when I needed her most.

There was one time that I think I actually heard her voice, which was the strangest thing in the world but also most amazing thing.  I was in the car, on my way to physical therapy and I said something to her out loud – what it was, I don’t remember – but through the speakers in my car I heard a woman’s voice say “yea”.  I know it was her.  Who else could it have been in the middle of song??  It wasn’t my phone, I didn’t have my Bluetooth on, it was her.  I have no other explanation for it.  Some of you may be reading this and thinking “okay, this chick is nuts” and maybe I am, but I find a lot of comfort in feeling that she’s still here and she knows how much she’s missed and loved.  Losing her was like losing a sister; it was the most traumatic loss I had experienced until my mom.  So those little things that might sound crazy, but they help me to cling onto hope and sanity.

So during this YouTube video interview thing, the psychic says that in his experience, when a death is difficult – the person has struggled with an illness for a long time, dementia/cancer, it takes them longer to reach out to their loved ones here than if someone passed quickly with no energy diminishing illness prior to their passing; the sicker they were, the longer it takes for them to recharge after they pass.  My mom was sick for a very long time, we just didn’t know it.  She probably had that tumor on her kidney for at least a year, possibly more.  I hope that this is why I don’t feel like she’s here at all; I felt like she left her body before she died and I don’t feel her here now.  But hopefully I will soon.  This Saturday it will be 8 weeks; two months on the 11^th.  I wait and hope and pray every day for that moment when I know that she’s here and that she’s okay.  Even as I write those words, my eyes fill up with tears.  I hate feeling like she’s just gone; I have a hard time remembering her face because to me, in my head and in my heart, she’s just gone. I can’t explain what it feels like to one day know that she’s there, and the next to just not feel her anymore.  I found a picture on my phone last night of her with my daughter and it made me so sad because I couldn’t remember what she looked like in my mind.  I don’t want to forget my mom, especially not so quickly.  When/if she does come around, I just want to know that she’s okay and she’s happy and she can see us. I want her to know that we’re okay, my dad is okay, and that my daughter is amazing and wonderful and growing every day and can say more words now than at Christmas when she saw her last.  I just want to know that she’s here because right now, I feel such a void….it sucks.  More than I could ever put into words.  There’s no way to describe this feeling.  It’s a vacant feeling when I think of her – I can’t remember her face exactly, I don’t feel her, it feels like she’s been gone for so long and it’s only been 8 weeks.  I hope to hear her soon.  

My Head Is a Scary Place

Some days I just hate being needed. At home, at work, everywhere in my entire life. I just hate it.  This morning, my toddler work up before 4am.  Rob had to go to the gym around 4:30 (yes, he ‘had’ to go…lucky him).  She was awake and asleep until around 5 when I finally had enough and went into her room. She was sitting in the middle of her crib, asking where her Curious George was. He was right next to her.  Did she want to go back to sleep?  Uh uh.  She wanted “up”; she went to watch Sesame Street and color and play with stickers.  I had to change her diaper, get her breakfast, make myself coffee (which ended up making me sick – hi, coffee on an empty stomach is just a bad idea for me and I should have known better), take a shower, keep her entertained while I was in the shower…blah blah blah.  So since before4am, I have been needed.  I needed to give certain information to her teacher when I dropped her off at school, I had to go to a meeting at 9am, I have to answer emails and questions….I am needed all over the place and I really don’t want to be.

Since my mom died, I’ve had days that make me feel like I can barely take care of myself…let alone anyone else; saying this out loud has become a bit of a routine for me as of late.  Rob kept asking me to rub his back; he loves when he can sit on the floor in front of the couch and I sit on the couch and rub his shoulders.  He’s always loved it and it’s been 11 or 12 years for us now.  But I stopped when my mom got sick.  I hated feeling like I was taking care of yet another person; I was taking care of my dad, my sister, trying to take care of myself and taking care of my daughter – enough was enough.  And it got to the point when I had to tell him why I stopped; he wouldn’t stop bothering me about it.  “I need a back rub….if someone loved me they would rub my shoulders for me….can you rub my shoulders tonight….” On and on and on until one day I asked if he knew why I wasn’t doing it anymore.  I told him that I can barely take care of myself some days so I really don’t want to take care of yet another person at the end of my day most days.  He finally stopped asking, although it’s recently started up again.  This whole mourning thing takes the wind right out of you; I am exhausted most days. I feel like I have been up three times with a crying infant most days because it’s just that hard to do.  It’s hard to work full-time, be a mom, be a partner, be a regular generally non-dysfunctional person, and mourn the death of your mom all at the same time.  I wish there was a way to prep for this – a course, a webinar, something.  But there isn’t; and I guess I wouldn’t have had time for it anyway.

I was talking to someone the other day who, in response to me saying “well I have bad days and good days” said – “Michele, you’ve been through a trauma, you have to give yourself time to get through that and process it”. For the first time, I thought “someone gets it”.  (That person was my boss; I am very lucky to work for someone who just gets me and what I go through professionally and personally.) My mom didn’t just die.  I found out 19 days before she died that she was sick – just sick, no diagnosis, nothing more than “there’s nodules on her lung and possibly a tumor on her kidney”.  I found out five days before she died that she was terminal.  I sat and watched a part of my family die with her over those days and weeks; a piece of our history, a piece of our traditions and a piece of our planned future died with her. I can’t just wake up and be okay. I can’t just go about any piece of my life without any sort of fall-out from that.  It took me at least 8 months to recover from that accident with a drunk driver; there were physical scars from that and they might totally heal one day.  I think emotional scars take longer to heal and some will never totally heal, but hopefully they’ll get a little less noticeable as time goes on.  I don’t want to be this emotionally ugly for very long.  It sucks worse in my head than it will ever suck for anyone else around me.

Doesn't Matter What Kind of Mom She Was

Today is a sad day.  It could be because my mom’s sweatshirts are sitting next to my bed, and I saw them as I grabbed the blanket to toss on the bed for the cat this morning.  It could be that, as I was doing my hair and I was hanging my head upside down, I was remembering what those days in the hospital were like.  It could be that yesterday was a sad day and it’s just continued on into today.  It could be that it’s Monday and it’s snowing.  Who knows.

 

But I’m trying to not be sad today, and I don’t know if that’s a good idea or not but I’m trying.  There’s this whole thing about  not suppressing your grief and emotions but, the fact of the matter is that I can’t sit at my desk and cry all day. That’s just not an option.  And I can’t not be at work today –although it did snow, there’s not enough snow out there to warrant not being here.  I think being here is better than not.  At least that’s my thought at 10:06am.

 

God I miss her.  I really just miss her.  And we didn’t have the best relationship on the planet, but I have learned that it doesn’t matter.  She was still my  mom.  For all of her flaws and craziness (which there was a fair amount of) she was still my mom. She was still the woman that bitched and moaned about EVERYTHING (if I heard her complain one more time about her electric stove I think I would have screamed…yeah, I said that after every major holiday), she was still the first grandparent to hold my daughter, she was still the one that helped me zip up my wedding gown, she was still the one that bought my silence as a child by getting me Carvel sundaes when she went to buy her weekly bottle of scotch, she was still the one that walked me to band practice and back once a week when I was in 4^th grade, she was still my mom.  And I miss her.  I’ll always miss how she called me “Sweetheart” and I’ll never forget the sound of her voice on the phone the day after my car accident, when my dad put the phone down and said “Michele’s on the phone, she got into an accident and her car got totaled last night”.  She may not have been the best, but she was my mom and I will always miss her.  I just hope that one day, it doesn’t hurt as much and it doesn’t make me feel as empty as I feel at this very moment.  It’s amazing how losing your mom, even one that was like her, makes you suddenly feel all alone in the world – especially when it’s a sad day.

Getting a New Wardrobe

Apparently, when your mother dies, you get to inherit her clothing.  At least that's what's happening to me.  My dad came over yesterday to spend time with my daughter, and he brought me the sweatshirts my mom had from my college - one was emblazed MOM across the front, clearly stating that she had a child that went to that school.  She was so happy to have that one, and wore it for years.  It's stained, possibly beyond anything my laundry skills can fix, but I know I'll keep it forever.

I now have my mother's clothes, and her coffee creamer in my house. I don't know if I'm supposed to find comfort in either or not.  I'm happy my father didn't throw these things out, but I don't know if I'm ready to have her stuff in my house like this.  It just makes it more real, more painful.  I'm not ready to open my closet and see her clothing sitting there, because she's not here.  Just not ready.

Yesterday, my dad said that he wants to get one of those flower vase things that are stuck to the front wall of the mausoleum, that way he can give my mom flowers for her birthday; he always bought her carnations.  She would have been eighty this year, and my sister and I were going to throw her a big party. She never had one and said time after time after time....after time...that she wanted one.  Easter is the day after her birthday this year, something she always hated because we would have dinner for the holiday not her birthday.  Although I may not necessarily miss her bitching about it, there will be something missing because I won't hear anything like "well it's just another year that some religious holiday is more important than my birthday...". Nothing will ever be more important than her birthday now, which is ironic.  The day that you celebrate her birth is now more important since she's gone.