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Tag Archives: Grieving

The Sweatshirt

08 Sunday Dec 2013

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Grieving, letting go

I thought I was getting better. I thought I was getting stronger. I thought  I could handle it, but it turns out not as well as I thought. It is finally going through Mom’s clothes. The ones that have been hanging in my closet for the last nineteen months.  I thought that I could pack and donate them to someone who could really use warm clothes this time of year.  With every piece that I folded and placed in the box, I cried harder. I thought of asking J to help me, but this was something I needed to do by myself, for myself.

Since she died, I hide in there whenever I want to feel close to her.  I hold her clothes tight to me, trying to breathe in her comforting scent.   I long to sit with her, talk with her, hear her voice one more time. I’m so lonely for her.

I finally got everything packed. Well, almost everything. I couldn’t force myself to part with her favorite sweatshirt, the one she made me launder at night so she could wear it again the next day. That one will remain in my closet until the day comes when someone needs to sort through and donate my things. In the meantime, it’s there waiting for the next time I need to hug her.  Love you Mom.

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Reconnecting

19 Saturday Oct 2013

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Grieving, Moms, Old friends, Reconnecting

I’ve recently reconnected with a special friend; my very first playmate. We lived in Veteran’s housing when I was small and we had a communal backyard where our Moms would put us in harnesses and tie us to the fence. There we could play and they would keep an eye on us as they went out doing their household chores. Nowadays people would be aghast if they saw us, but back then, no one thought it was abusive because all the Moms did it and it was safe to leave your children outside. But that’s how long we’ve known each other. My family moved away from that neighborhood and although our families stayed in touch, it was through Christmas cards and notes with an occasional get-together thrown in. In their later years, they resumed their friendship and a group of friends shared regular monthly luncheons and emails full of jokes and tidbits of news.

D. and I became FB friends not long ago and have been messaging each other lengthy, chatty notes for a little while now. She lost her Mom the year before I lost mine and we’ve been telling our stories to each other. Her notes have made me cry and she said the same about mine. She said something in her last one that really hit home for me and I thought sums it up beautifully.  She said “everyone else visited and I stayed.”  It doesn’t mean that no one else cared, it means that she and I shared a special bond with our Moms, one that well beyond the roles of Mother/Daughter and we were the ones who took care of them without being asked or without question.  I wonder if I feel the loss of my Mom more keenly than my siblings because I WAS there. I know they loved her and miss her dearly, but I wonder if it’s as much of a struggle for them as it is for me. I still reach for the phone and start to call to see how she’s doing and it cuts my heart when I remember that she won’t pick up. My friend says she still does the same thing.

If I sit here crying as I type, she understands my daily heartache.  I think God popped her back into my life to help me or so that maybe we could help each other. He works that way.  DDL, this post is for you. Thank you for reaching out and reconnecting.

A Year of Firsts

26 Sunday May 2013

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firsts, Grieving

This has been my year of firsts since she died.  All the holidays, birthdays, and special occasions. It’s been the hardest year of my life. My friends tell me that it won’t be better but it will be different. They said that I’d find ways of dealing with the pain so that I’ll get to a point where I can remember her and talk about her without breaking down in tears. When I had to tell Mom that she had a week or maybe two left, her exact words were “Thank God! Finally!”. Then she looked me in the eyes and said “And I don’t want you to cry. Promise me you won’t cry when I die.” I told her that I couldn’t promise that, but I could promise that I’d try.  I’m sorry Mom, I’ve failed miserably on that one. There are still days when I wake up crying.  I’m getting better, though. I gave myself permission to cry during this first year. And I’ve promised her that after this first year, I’ll honor her wish.  The anniversary of her death is the hardest of all the firsts.  

Late that Friday afternoon I told her that J and I were running out to the big-box store and would be home in two hours. She said that she wanted to sit at her computer while we were gone but she was so weak I asked her to stay in bed until we got home. She was disappointed but agreed. We got home in less than two hours and when we got there, she said she had some pain in her side. I gave her some morphine but it didn’t seem to touch the pain. I called the nurse who said to give her more. That didn’t work either.  I called a family member who’s a nurse and she came over right away.  She said we could give her more morphine and I did. Finally she said her pain was down to a three. We got her changed and comfortable and then she looked like she was sleeping. My cousin left and I said I was staying the night with her so J went upstairs to our place. Her breathing changed and it sounded like she needed to cough. I tried talking with her but she was staring at a point on the wall.  I sat rubbing her arm and holding her hand for hours. I told her that if she wanted to go, it was okay. I promised her that I’d be alright. For the one and only time during that whole night, she looked at me. I told her I loved her and that I’d continue to pray for her. She turned her eyes to the wall again and I continued to rub her hand. A while later she pulled away from me and slapped my hand! I realize now that she was busy and I was distracting her. I think her angels, no… I KNOW her angels were there and they were helping her prepare for her final journey.  I just sat there listening and praying.  Sometime around daybreak I called J and asked if he would come down for just a little while. “I have to leave the room for a bit.” He came right down and I cried that I just couldn’t listen to her breathing-that I wanted to reach down her throat and clear it for her. He suggested that I go catch a quick nap, just thirty minutes and he’d call to wake me.  I had just crawled into bed when the phone rang. It was J and he was sobbing, saying “She’s gone”. I couldn’t believe that I’d left her for no more than fifteen minutes and she was gone! NO! I was supposed to be there! I was supposed to hold her hand so that she wasn’t alone! I FAILED HER! I ran downstairs and hugged her tight, never wanting to let her go. “MOM! Don’t leave me! Please! Oh God, please!” J left the room to call my cousin and I stayed there holding my Mom until the nurse came and  made me let her go.  She was my Mother, my first friend, my best friend. And now she was gone. I never knew how deeply one can grieve until I lost her.

I’ve never told anyone about that morning. J is the only one who knows because he was there.  I’ve held that memory inside where it’s been eating at me. All those feelings – I shouldn’t have left her. I was selfish for needing a break. I’m awful because I left her to die alone. I should’ve been holding her hand or praying or something! My family and friends tell me that I was a wonderful daughter and that I took such good care of her but they don’t know that secretly, deep down I’ve been thinking that I failed her. I wasn’t there in the minute it mattered. 

Early this morning, long before it was time to get up, I woke up. As I laid there I knew that God had been talking with me. He said that it wasn’t the minute that she died that mattered, it was all the millions of minutes before then.  He whispered that I had been a good daughter and that how I treated her in those minutes is what matters. My Mom always felt bad because her own mother had died after everyone left the room but I guess it must be a private thing. Mom waited until I left for a reason. Was it privacy? Did she know and want to spare me? I don’t know and probably won’t until we see each other again some day. Maybe when we do, it won’t be important anymore.

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