More on Grieving, Sorry (L)

Sorry to not be able to just continue on the path that Marty has so kindly began for us. I am still to tied up in my own process, need to vent, and this is where I'm gonna do it! I also don't want to lose our flow of writing that we've developed here, just because I think no one wants to read what I'm thinking.

Following Alessandra and my's theory of the death experience being oddly like the birth, on the weekend that was two weeks post my mother's death, I felt a new similarity.

I remember when I was pregnant with my second child my pediatrician telling me to expect that after a couple of weeks my oldest would begin to ask things like "When's the baby going back to the hospital?" He warned me, at first, the older child is distracted by all the newness and excitement of a baby in the house, but after a couple of weeks reality sinks in and they've had enough and want things back to normal.

That's what I felt like during that second week: "Yes, I know my mother has died, I understand that, but when is she coming back? When will she call me?" With that sensation, depression began to set in and I wondered how I could be moving into the depression phase of grieving while still firmly in denial. On Sunday night, exactly two weeks after her passing, alone on my couch, that veil of denial was lifted, just a small corner. The wind of the reality of her loss blew in like a hurricane and cracked me apart. I literally could not believe that I would never talk to her again, never hear her voice in person, on the phone, even on an answering machine. This thought, this attempt at understanding that reality was like trying to comprehend eternity. It altered the air around me, my attempts at breathing through the wet onslaught of this gust were almost futile. When Chris came home and found me in this state, a thought bubble seemed to hover above his head as he held me trying to calm me down, "Aren't we done with this part?"

The next day, people tried to say things, kind, reassuring things. This phase of grieving needs to be silent, beyond the howling of the wind. Words cannot change reality and reality was trying to edge it's way in. Blah, blah, blah. She can't come back, I won't see her again, hear her again. No one more conversation would ever be enough, and I'd never have that one last conversation. She slipped out, as we pushed her before I could. Blah blah blah. There's nothing to be said.

The next weekend, which marked three weeks, stupidly, I let the kids all spend the night at Chris' mother's house, so we could finish shopping. Who knew they were the cork stopper in my sorrow and when they drove away in the Sears' parking lot, the bottle was upside down, flowing out it's endless depths. I walked through Shaw's crying, finally calling my sister on the phone. Chris, still angry from an earlier fight, slammed a car door on my tears and oh, how alone and sorry for myself I felt. Then I discovered what I had always known, but forgotten, when I feel so deeply sad and selfishly sorry for myself I only want to talk to my mother--creating a new cycle/cyclone of sorrow. This had never changed or eroded. My mother remained my mother and herself, complete in her mind, right up to the day before she slipped into sepsis unconscious. I still needed her, her words and voice still soothed me. I yearn for it. I don't yearn for her to be back crippled in pain and suffering trapped in a bed. But selfishly, I yearn for the sound of her voice, for days of the past when she would ride with me to keep me company.

Yesterday, I had to go to a doctor in Waterville (just a P. Surgeon who gives my scars steroid shots to make them flat). My mother always went with me for these appointments, she even taught me the back roads to get there. Like a coward, I grabbed my son and dragged him along with me to stave off the sorrow. I was repaid that evening when I opted to see the movie Benjamin Button . More on that later. Every day is better, though sometimes I wonder if every day I wall up more, or I am just placing another day between me and what I don't want to think about. I still haven't sat with the reality of it since that two week storm. Somehow, getting past Christmas has made me feel as though I have some odd permission now to just not think about it. I know it will come, it will all unravel itself slowly slowly over time and I'll just try to keep at least one hand on the string.


I posted this picture on Facebook. It's at C's mother's house on Christmas Eve. I had held firm until my father began to sing "Silent Night" and I realized I hadn't heard him sing a Christmas carol since my mother was standing next to me as we caroled, which we had done every year until she couldn't. In complete despair and surprise of crying in front of people, while not wanting to leave the sound of my father's voice, I turned my face into G's shoulder and cried as she joined me. C, unknowing of what was happening took this picture. When I saw it, I felt there is a presence of my mother in the room. Maybe that was why I couldn't leave.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive... (Marty)

Dear Sisters --

I am so sorry about your losses...
Linda, to lose two women who meant so much to you so close together...I cannot imagine.
Alessandra, my silent struggler -- you didn't let us in on the depth of your pain, but I understand why. I am glad you finally have an outlet for it.
As for me, loves, health is currently an issue for both of my parents; I fear, I fear, I fear.

HOWEVER -- I have been asked for levity...and levity ye shall receive. You are just not going to believe some of the things I have seen since moving to South Carolina...

1) ONLY IN SOUTH CAROLINA. Sunday night, out in a new bar that has free pool on Sundays. There is a gentleman with long blonde hair, in black pants and black shirt, wandering around. I thought he was a musician, as the stage in the place was lit up like a Christmas tree (in early November). Having never attended this particular bar, and it having a reputation for live music...you see where I'm going. I witnessed another man with an oxygen tank walk into the bar; I thought it strange for a such a man to be in such a smoky place; until I saw him go up to the bar -- remove his oxygen -- and smoke a cigarette. Any sympathy I had for him dissolved at that moment. Trying to shake the image, I dragged my posse over to a table near the front of the stage, where there was a jacket hanging on one of the chairs; upon watching me approach the table to sit, the gentleman in black appears at my side to take the jacket. He informs me that... a wedding -- *his* wedding -- will be taking place shortly -- in the bar. On the stage. With whatever strangers happen to be in attendance. Well I promptly bought the man and his bride (blonde hair flying in her royal blue sequin dress) a drink, of course! And then sat and watched the nuptials between shots on the free pool table. (I must, for the sake of my soul, mention what sweet people they turned out to be, and I ended up just being happy for them that they had found each other and could afford a small ceremony in this horrendous economy.)

2) ONLY IN SOUTH CAROLINA. This part of the state is famous as much for its farmer's markets and vegetable stands as for anything else, but so many of them close up this time of the year, they're hard to find. So I'm in Murrells Inlet, scouring the place for marshside restaurants and the like, and stumble across a year-round farmer's market, called "Lee's Farms." As soon as I walk in I'm greeted -- loudly -- by a fat bald man behind the register with a New Jersey accent. He tells me all about the place and how wonderful everything is. He tells me his name is "Sketch." He also keeps asking me question after question, not really letting me answer before continuing on to the next. He tells me he's a pastry chef. I ask him which of his desserts is his favorite. He says he is diabetic and has never tried any of them. I ask him how he can vouch for them. He tells me he is "Bald Steve" from the second season of "Hell's Kitchen." I tell him I used to live in Trenton. He tells me he was in prison in Trenton. I say, I don't care, you're here now. He says I wasn't really in prison in Trenton, I was in prison upstate. I ask him if he'll make a dessert for Marion's birthday. He says he's going to be hunting deer all weekend in the middle of the woods with his boss, Skeeter. Turns out Skeeter's last name is Dombrowski and all I can think about is "Grease" from then on out. Feeling that I would shortly lose all composure, I buy some tomatos and make a quick exit. But I know I'm going to go back there...I mean, how could I not?

3) ONLY IN SOUTH CAROLINA. And really? This is just to rub it in...it is currently, as I type this, 72 degrees here on the beach. It was 70 yesterday. It was 71 the day before that. It promises to be 72 and sunny tomorrow, 70 and sunny on Saturday, and 69 with sprinkles on Sunday. So, um...WHEN ARE YOU VISITING???

As for me, I have auditioned for and been cast in my first South Carolina show, "Later Life" with the Murrells Inlet Community Theatre. I almost didn't go to the audition. The first question most of my Raleigh theater friends ask is, "As an old lady?" Strangely I don't know how old my character is; but I do know that this thirty-something born-and-raised southerner was cast for...are you ready? my perfect New York accent.

Love you both muchly and fiercely...

What I said at my Mother's Funeral (L)

Someone close to me said if you're going to speak at a funeral what you say should be honest, real, and not sugar coated re-creations of the past. Now, I won't name any names, but he's my brother and he's sitting right there. And any of you that know him, you know he said a few swear words in there with that little piece of advice. So, I will tell you, when we were growing up, Ma lost her temper as often as she lost her car keys. Though she improved as we got older, she was often irritable and extremely particular, I would get flop sweats going to the grocery store to shop for her, standing paralyzed in the aisles scrutinizing her list, trying to find exactly what she was specifically describing. If you came home with the wrong kind of garbage bags, or the wrong kind of anything, (which you inevitably would) you were going to hear about it. She was consistently critical. When I would bring my babies to her, their feet were never the right temperature, if they had on socks, she'd strip them off and tell me how hot their poor feet were. If they didn't have on any socks she'd cup their feet in her hand and chastise me bringing out my baby with no socks, I soon learned to carry a pair with me on all Mema excursions. Ma was bossy, even before she was immobile, she'd set herself down in a chair and lord her dictatorship over the kitchen, doling out tasks for us to do and then watching every step, correcting you as you went. She often drove me crazy, when I was 6 months pregnant with Shea, Ma and Old most generously opened their home to my family when our house was under reconstruction, and for two months I most ungratefully wondered exactly what sin of my past I was paying for, to have to live with her again and not be able to drink. I always believed my sister Allison was her favorite. By believe, I mean, I can guarantee you if I look at my sister right now she'll be nodding knowingly, if not a little smugly.

All of these things are true, and so is this—I loved her, needed her, craved to be with her— beyond reason, beyond doubt, beyond even sometimes my own comprehension. I've sometimes wondered, is this a particular disease of being the youngest and if so, is their medication to cure it?

Fortunately, I've never sought a cure, I just continued over the years to seek out her love, company, stories of the past, and simply the sound of her voice. And many times, I’m sure, I was irritable and drove her crazy right back.

There are aspects to my dedication of hunting and gathering and revering all things Ma and Mema that I understand. She was an interesting, multi-dimensional, sometimes controversial character, and the only time you could possibly say her company was dull was when she was asleep, which was admittedly a good deal of the time as the years went on. You wouldn’t call her an angel, you’d probably call her a pistol. I think what people loved about her was her honesty; she told it like it was and didn’t really care if you liked it or not, the first word she mouthed after she woke up from her tracheostomy surgery was “bullshit”. She was smart, funny, and irreverent. And even after years of fog inducing drugs and infections, she was sharp as a tack. I used to sneak down to the nursing home at night to play Rummy with her, sometimes bringing a little audience member in the form of one of my girls. The very first time I played her there, she was laying in bed having just had a Vicodin for sleep, I beat her by a small margin, and I thought, “Finally I've found a way to even the playing field!” If she was sitting up in her wheelchair, I knew I didn't have a chance. Eventually, it became clear that first game was the last I’d win, she’d just been a little rusty. After many games as she'd lay in bed, Vicodin onboard, having to pull herself up on her little triangle grip thing each time to see the play on the tray of cards, beating me time after time; I finally started asking her for tips to improve my game.

She was truly a caring woman, in fact she was criticized in the first years of her job as a social worker for caring too much about her clients, and even in the last years of her work when she would spend an inordinate amount of time playing solitaire at the office, people would still stop my sister and I and say what a difference she had made in their loved ones life who was a client of hers. She may sometimes have seemed to have forgotten precisely what time the workday began (or lunch ended), but she never forgot she was an advocate for her clients, not for the state.

Ma knew how to sincerely say she was sorry, a skill many people never master. I heard her put this skill into necessary practice many times after she swore like an angry, bossy, severely wounded sailor, as the nurses moved her from her wheelchair to her bed at Knox.

But for me this was an especially healing trait, years ago, my mother did an amazingly simple thing after our childhood of her not being the mother to us that she had wanted to be. She said she was sorry. She said she wished she could have her babies back and do it all over again. And a very simple beautiful thing occurred inside of me, I forgave her. And about 13 years later another amazing thing occurred, I had my third child under the age of 4, and suddenly I understood her, a little bit more, probably than my siblings, who only have two right now. Good luck, John.

She always provided for us, we never went hungry or cold, or without a ride, a birthday cake, or a place to sleep, she always kept her home open to us, our friends, and later our children. When we'd come home from college, she'd stock the pantry with lucky charms, mac and cheese and all our favorite foods. When I was sad and homesick in another country or just another county, I could always count on ma for sending me copious amounts of letters. Our Christmases were always elaborate, wide eyed wonder affairs where all of our dreams came true, regardless of how we were struggling financially.

She was a strong woman and a capable woman, she was never afraid to drive in a snowstorm, change a tire, or jumpstart a car.

She loved, spoiled (corrupted), fed, played with, taught (corrupted) and snuggled all of her grandchildren with indulgent and often overindulgent love and generosity. I remember once when Sarah was little, her father telling her “When an adult tells you no, no means no—unless it's Mema”. I can only hope they absorb and carry on within them the lessons she showed them about unconditional love and not the lessons she taught them about lighting matches.

But what my mother truly had was a magnetism I can’t put words to. I can only provide evidence of it. My sister and I live about 5 miles away from my mother’s house. A week never went by that one of us didn’t see her, until they put a few states between us. We gathered around her home every holiday, every family birthday, without fail until her home became a nursing home, and then we gathered there. My father kept a vigil by her side these last few years, finally giving her the years of courtship and devotion she deserved. At Knox, she was a difficult case who medically should have been considered a bit of a thorn in their side, instead she became part of their family. Last night we read something the nurses had composed about Ma that moved us and more importantly made us laugh, realizing that they had truly known and loved her just the way she was, as we did. I see it also in the lifelong friendships she’s made.

My father, my sister’s family, my brother's family and my family, we orbited around her— many planets to her sun, even though sometimes she’d yell, sometimes she’d snap, sometimes it was hard to tell if she was even all that pleased to see you (she always was). But we’d come back again and again, to get a little more of the something that she never knew she had. Her pull is a magnetic force I’ve never felt anywhere else. I can’t remember a day in the past 11 years that I haven’t wanted to see or talk to my mother. And I can’t imagine that will change. I know my brother felt it, when instead of feeling burdened that Ma was in Rhode Island and the responsibilities that brought, he felt grateful to be with her and be needed by her. I know his wife and children felt it too, as they made the nearly hour long trip out every weekend to visit her. I know my nieces felt it even years beyond when “Mema Central” was still open and helping to raise them, as Sarah gave up a weekend at college with her friends and with her boyfriend to come and see Mema in Rhode Island, and especially when Leah was with Mema when we went to say goodbye. I know my children felt it and feel it too—from Shea plowing into Ma’s house every time we went there making a bee line for Mema as he called her name, finally presenting himself to her with a simple “Mema, I here now”; to Fiona, referring to Mema as her “other Mommy”; to Gwenyvere who said to me the other day about Mema dying, “It seems like someone turned the world backwards and didn’t tell me.”

I am so grateful that I had these past years in Maine with Ma, when she could still ride alongside me taking, advantage of the adventurous spirit she had instilled in me. I have loved and appreciated every moment and thing she has given to us from our lunches at Denny's, going to Walmart (which Gwenyvere dubbed “Mema's store”), ice cream at Dormans, tea at Aunt Ediths, bunnies and dollhouses at Ames, so many rides, trips to islands and orchards, church and donuts, drives over the mountain and especially all of the stories she shared with me of the old days--to all my babies she has held, sung to, played with and loved. I thought she was a big part of my world when her label was “Mommy”, but as “Mema”, she achieved world domination.

I told my mother weeks ago, that she’s never just lying in a bed. That I carry her with me, I take her with me on all the little adventures and rides that she trained me for: taking pictures of autumn trees, taking rides to look at Christmas lights, telling stories of the past, seeing movies, staying up way too late at night, listening to the sound of a loon calling, even just shopping at Walmart and JC Penny. She is somehow, my everything, and now I have to figure out a way to pick up my babies and walk new paths without being able to tell her the tales. I will miss the sound of her laughter, the stories of her life, the sound of her voice.

Years ago, after receiving a grim prognosis for my mother’s life, I said to my husband that I didn’t think I wanted to live in a world where my mother didn't exist. Since Sunday night, I’ve been waiting for that feeling to descend upon me, that I no longer have a mother. Many sad and heavy moments have come, but that sensation has not. Because I still have a mother, she’s just not here anymore. She is within me, about me, around me, in every corner of my life, in every inch of my soul, she is there, and will always remain— my mother.

In reply to below

Linda I'm so sorry for your loss. There are parts of what you say that remind me of my dad's death, a little over a year ago. The part about birth and death being similar, maybe that should be obvious but it still came as a surprise. And the finality of it is so crushing. Like a cruel joke where you wait for the 'just kidding' part that never comes.

My dad experienced such horrific amounts of pain to his back muscles from metastasized bladder cancer. It was undescribable really to watch someone you love experience so much pain and not be able to do anything about it. He was on superhuman doses of morphine and still in a strange distant twilight of consciousness altho he couldn't communicate with us. Like being buried alive. S., who was 2, brought us tissues as we cried and made the social workers cry too.

The doctors were so stingy with the morphine. They were so fearful of any dose that might be construed as euthanasia. But the point is moot; you can't really overdose, and when you're at the very end you're only providing relief. Or not. We had to call the doctors several times at 4:00 a.m., the i.v. pump had a lock code that allowed only a hospice nurse to access it. But it was a new model of pump and my sister and I ended up showing the nurses how to use it. We knew the code and thought many times to change it ourselves but we were afraid we'd run out before the next timed delivery.

The pain doctor we had was not well suited to his job. Our last time in the hospital when it became clear all the assurances of a pain-free end were empty, I remember him rolling my dad, who was completely conscious and otherwise normal, over on his side to listen with his stethoscope. It was such a subtle gesture but he only touched him with his fingertips, as you would touch something distasteful. I wanted to smack him. I still hate him.

He came home to die, in his own bedroom. Once he realized they could nothing for him, he deteriorated quickly. It showed not only how much he was staying alive by sheer will power, but also how incredibly powerful it was. The last thing he said was, "Good night, S." in response to "Good night, Grampa."

A couple of weeks later, several days after the gruesome death rattle started, the hospice nurse called us out of our beds for the end, she had seen it so many times it was a clinical process, like knowing when to change an oil filter. I got the distinct feeling that whatever he had been wasn't there anymore. It had already left and this was the machine shutting down. A few last breaths with longer pauses between, and then you wait for one more and it doesn't come. Except your brain doesn't want to accept it and you can swear that you still see the chest rising and falling. You're completely and utterly helpless there's nothing that you can do that will change it.

Garrett and I slept in that room for the next couple of days and I know what you mean about that wanting traces to cling; I was hoping there'd be some energy imprint in the physical space, I was hoping it would be 'haunted'. Except for an occasional waft of Nurse Lily's perfume, there was nothing.

The police came and made sure the massive amounts of opiates that the hospice nurse had flushed down the toilet were well and truly gone. The corpse seemed to be almost an afterthought. A hearse came and took the body away. S. watched the Wizard of Oz incessantly it was the most tv she'd ever been allowed to watch and no one cared. The Munchkins sang over and over: "As coroner I must aver, I thoroughly examined her. And she's not only merely dead, she's really most sincerely dead."

A couple of months later I had an intensely real dream that he was fixing this old lavender refrigerator I used to have. We were sitting side by side on the floor in T-shirts, jeans. His smell was so authentic, so organic. We both knew the refrigerator was a pretext; this was a last opportunity to be together. I remember feeling grateful toward whatever power that had made it happen. The next night I had another intense dream that I was standing at the window of my living room except I was a small child; he was out in the driveway; a little pudgy alot more hair, much younger. He was leaving in his Triumph convertible (the car they had when I was very small). He was laughing that I was crying; I was so sad he was going. Somewhere the adult me was watching the whole thing and feeling sorry for the little girl. He waved and got in the car and drove off. And that's the end of it. Occasionally I'll have a dream that it was all a mistake and when i wake up I'm actually convinced for a few minutes. That sounds so cliche but hope is a funny, stubborn thing. I still can't really look at photos or listen to their answering machine. I don't think it gets better with time. You just learn to live with it, like a chronic sore, like colors that have become washed out.