My dad died.
There. I said it. I wrote it. Right there in black letters.
My dad died.
And I cannot wrap my brain around those 3 words.
9 months to the day that my mom passed away, we said goodbye to Dad. Taken from us after an incredibly short and mind boggling bout with cancer.
In 9 short months, cancer took both my parents and my brain cannot take it in. Grieving is different this time around. Different from grieving The Husband's dad. Different than grieving my mom. It's like my brain has locked the door and won't let me go inside that place. That place where you're sad and angry and missing the person who's gone. My brain won't let me inside there. I wonder if I should knock...ring the doorbell. But, no. I don't think I'm ready to go in to that place anyways, so I'll just sit here down on the corner and wait to get up my courage at some point in the near future.
When my mom died, I wanted to look at pictures of her. See video footage of her. Think of happy memories and was desperate to remember so I wouldn't forget. And now I catch a glimpse of my dad's picture and I have to look away. I have to make myself picture my parents together again and then move on to something else. Anything that is not thinking about the fact that there is only a teaspoon of raspberry jam left in the fridge. A solitary teaspoon of raspberry jam that Dad made with the raspberries Mom picked with my kids in their garden last summer.
I don't want this to be real. How can this be real? No. It's too much.
It's just too much.
Showing posts with label grieving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grieving. Show all posts
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
3 months
I was talking with my sister today. Lots of ranting about life and stuff. Then the inevitable pause in the conversation.
"So. How are you doing?"
Just a few simple words. But we each knew what we were asking.
We're really asking how the grieving is going. How are you holding up? Are you still in disbelief, do you still think about calling her on the phone and then realize she gone, do you still cry at odd times...the waves crashing over your soul, making you feel like you're drowning in your tears and you can't catch a breath.
"How are you doing?"
I think I'm doing ok. Most of the time. It's been two weeks since I sobbed on my bed for 15 minutes then picked up the broken pieces of my tear stained heart and shoved them back into my aching chest.
It's been three months. I like to think my Mom is getting settled up there in heaven and is putting her final touches on a new job for The Husband, amongst a bunch of other stuff. Don't get me wrong. I know God has it all organized but if you knew my Mom, you'd know that she's already attended several meetings about the whole issue, come up with a few choice soundbites that succinctly put it all into perspective and then pushed the start date up about 2 months.
It's how she rolls.
Anywhoo, in talking with my sister today it made me realize that I'm doing ok. There's a lot of stuff in my life I'm dealing with but when it comes to Mom...well, I think I'm where I'm suppose to be. Grieving, but slowly moving through this whole process of saying good bye to a beloved person.
Will I ever stop missing her? No. I don't want to ever get to that place. Do I want my heart to heal? Yes, but I want those scars to remain on my heart forever. They mean she was loved, always missed, never forgotten. But I have to wake up every day and carry on. Boy would she be pissed if I didn't do that. If every person that ever loved her didn't do that.
And so we get up every morning and brush our teeth, pluck the new grey hairs out of our eyebrows and make a pot of coffee. We carry on.
Part of the grieving for me has been a desperate need to remember my mom as she was before the cancer entered her brain. Before the chemo. Before she found a lump in her breast. It was so difficult right after she died to remember her as she truly was for most of her life, before the cancer slowly stole her away. And it was so difficult to retrieve any positive pictures in my mind.
I started to dream about my mom shortly after she passed away. Most of them were foggy, bits and pieces that I would try desperately to put back together in my mind when I awoke. They were moments of her as she used to be, not wasting away, but vibrantly alive...but they were like viewing snapshots of faded pictures when I awoke and I couldn't cling to their images, no matter how hard I tried.
But one night about a month after she died, I entered a garden in my dream. There was a patio, and a white trellis. The sun was shining but there was cool shade on the other side of the trellis...trees and flowers, white chairs in a big semi circle on the grass.
I walked out into the garden and saw people sitting in the chairs. I knew there was a person sitting in a chair just on the other side of the trellis and I was drawn to that spot. I walked to it, turned and looked. Mom was sitting in the chair, smiling, radiant, so happy.
"MOM. MOM! What are you doing here??? You're suppose to be dead. You died."
I know. Even in my dreams I ooze poetic verse.
Mom stood up. Smiling. So so smiling.
"The doctors were wrong! The cancer's gone. I'm empty of cancer! They did tests. It's gone."
Smiling smiling smiling.
And I hugged her fiercely. And we hugged and hugged and hugged and I didn't let go. And she didn't let go. I was hugging my Mom in the garden, surrounded by summer trees, sun and the flowers that she so loved. There were other people, all sitting in the chairs, watching us. I didn't see their faces but I knew they were loved ones. In her favourite place to be. The garden. Loved ones. Flowers.
I felt the need to write this down tonight. To remember. Because I'm learning that part of grieving is remembering. Remembering that it's ok to smile at the good thoughts, important to think about the happy times, let go of the "why's" and "it's not fair" and focus on the carrying on.
Do I still cry? Yes. But not as often.
Do I still miss her? Oh, yes, but I'm learning to accept this new normal.
Am I still angry? No. And I can't tell you how grateful I am to have moved past that. I am so grateful that I don't feel like putting my fist through the wall or breaking every plate in my cupboard anymore.
Do I still feel disbelief? This has all of a sudden gone away. It was strange to have gone through the last few months of her life, knowing she was dying, care for her, be there when she passed away, see her in her coffin, and then be driving down the road two months later and be hit with a huge wave of shock with the realization that she was gone. She was really gone. For good. For ever.
(For the record..if you were driving on the #1 Hwy from Chilliwack about a month ago and saw a deranged lady in a white minivan crying like a banshee? Ya. That was me.)
Have I stopped reliving my Mom's last moments over and over in my head? Yes. And I'm ok with that. Because I'm also learning that in order for grieving to happen, to keep moving through this whole process, I have to let them happen. Not fight it. Not perseverate on it. I know I was having issues with those last few hours...why didn't I realize sooner, why didn't I call the siblings that weren't there, what should I have done differently, but also just desperate to NOT forget those last few hours and moments.
Writing them down gave me permission to stop thinking about it over and over. I know I can go back and read it if I feel like I'm forgetting. That's what I felt drawn to do tonight. Write down my dream. I won't forget.
And that is comforting. It's not a hug from Mom, but it's comforting.
"So. How are you doing?"
Just a few simple words. But we each knew what we were asking.
We're really asking how the grieving is going. How are you holding up? Are you still in disbelief, do you still think about calling her on the phone and then realize she gone, do you still cry at odd times...the waves crashing over your soul, making you feel like you're drowning in your tears and you can't catch a breath.
"How are you doing?"
I think I'm doing ok. Most of the time. It's been two weeks since I sobbed on my bed for 15 minutes then picked up the broken pieces of my tear stained heart and shoved them back into my aching chest.
It's been three months. I like to think my Mom is getting settled up there in heaven and is putting her final touches on a new job for The Husband, amongst a bunch of other stuff. Don't get me wrong. I know God has it all organized but if you knew my Mom, you'd know that she's already attended several meetings about the whole issue, come up with a few choice soundbites that succinctly put it all into perspective and then pushed the start date up about 2 months.
It's how she rolls.
Anywhoo, in talking with my sister today it made me realize that I'm doing ok. There's a lot of stuff in my life I'm dealing with but when it comes to Mom...well, I think I'm where I'm suppose to be. Grieving, but slowly moving through this whole process of saying good bye to a beloved person.
Will I ever stop missing her? No. I don't want to ever get to that place. Do I want my heart to heal? Yes, but I want those scars to remain on my heart forever. They mean she was loved, always missed, never forgotten. But I have to wake up every day and carry on. Boy would she be pissed if I didn't do that. If every person that ever loved her didn't do that.
And so we get up every morning and brush our teeth, pluck the new grey hairs out of our eyebrows and make a pot of coffee. We carry on.
Part of the grieving for me has been a desperate need to remember my mom as she was before the cancer entered her brain. Before the chemo. Before she found a lump in her breast. It was so difficult right after she died to remember her as she truly was for most of her life, before the cancer slowly stole her away. And it was so difficult to retrieve any positive pictures in my mind.
I started to dream about my mom shortly after she passed away. Most of them were foggy, bits and pieces that I would try desperately to put back together in my mind when I awoke. They were moments of her as she used to be, not wasting away, but vibrantly alive...but they were like viewing snapshots of faded pictures when I awoke and I couldn't cling to their images, no matter how hard I tried.
But one night about a month after she died, I entered a garden in my dream. There was a patio, and a white trellis. The sun was shining but there was cool shade on the other side of the trellis...trees and flowers, white chairs in a big semi circle on the grass.
I walked out into the garden and saw people sitting in the chairs. I knew there was a person sitting in a chair just on the other side of the trellis and I was drawn to that spot. I walked to it, turned and looked. Mom was sitting in the chair, smiling, radiant, so happy.
"MOM. MOM! What are you doing here??? You're suppose to be dead. You died."
I know. Even in my dreams I ooze poetic verse.
Mom stood up. Smiling. So so smiling.
"The doctors were wrong! The cancer's gone. I'm empty of cancer! They did tests. It's gone."
Smiling smiling smiling.
And I hugged her fiercely. And we hugged and hugged and hugged and I didn't let go. And she didn't let go. I was hugging my Mom in the garden, surrounded by summer trees, sun and the flowers that she so loved. There were other people, all sitting in the chairs, watching us. I didn't see their faces but I knew they were loved ones. In her favourite place to be. The garden. Loved ones. Flowers.
I felt the need to write this down tonight. To remember. Because I'm learning that part of grieving is remembering. Remembering that it's ok to smile at the good thoughts, important to think about the happy times, let go of the "why's" and "it's not fair" and focus on the carrying on.
Do I still cry? Yes. But not as often.
Do I still miss her? Oh, yes, but I'm learning to accept this new normal.
Am I still angry? No. And I can't tell you how grateful I am to have moved past that. I am so grateful that I don't feel like putting my fist through the wall or breaking every plate in my cupboard anymore.
Do I still feel disbelief? This has all of a sudden gone away. It was strange to have gone through the last few months of her life, knowing she was dying, care for her, be there when she passed away, see her in her coffin, and then be driving down the road two months later and be hit with a huge wave of shock with the realization that she was gone. She was really gone. For good. For ever.
(For the record..if you were driving on the #1 Hwy from Chilliwack about a month ago and saw a deranged lady in a white minivan crying like a banshee? Ya. That was me.)
Have I stopped reliving my Mom's last moments over and over in my head? Yes. And I'm ok with that. Because I'm also learning that in order for grieving to happen, to keep moving through this whole process, I have to let them happen. Not fight it. Not perseverate on it. I know I was having issues with those last few hours...why didn't I realize sooner, why didn't I call the siblings that weren't there, what should I have done differently, but also just desperate to NOT forget those last few hours and moments.
Writing them down gave me permission to stop thinking about it over and over. I know I can go back and read it if I feel like I'm forgetting. That's what I felt drawn to do tonight. Write down my dream. I won't forget.
And that is comforting. It's not a hug from Mom, but it's comforting.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Reboot
It's been a rough stretch in The Mahoney family.
The loss of The Husband's Dad.
The Husband's job.
My Mom.
Every door that opened seemed to bring fresh tears, new frustrations, more worry and endless sadness.
And every new hurt brought us further and further down a dark and unknown road with no light at the end. And we don't own a GPS. I can't tell you how many times I've sat down and started to write in this little blog of mine. There were so many things I wanted to say. So many things I wanted to write about. But the hurt was too much and I couldn't get it out. My mom kept telling me to get back at it and write, but what I needed to write about I couldn't let her read.
Despair. Pain. Disbelief. Anger. A lot of swear words.
She wouldn't have approved.
And now she's gone. I stood beside my mom and told her to go. I told my mom it was ok to go, we would all be ok. My heart was screaming don't go, please...I haven't told you I love you enough, you have to see my kids grow up, I still need to talk to you everyday on the phone, don't leave us. I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go.
The loss of The Husband's Dad.
The Husband's job.
My Mom.
Every door that opened seemed to bring fresh tears, new frustrations, more worry and endless sadness.
And every new hurt brought us further and further down a dark and unknown road with no light at the end. And we don't own a GPS. I can't tell you how many times I've sat down and started to write in this little blog of mine. There were so many things I wanted to say. So many things I wanted to write about. But the hurt was too much and I couldn't get it out. My mom kept telling me to get back at it and write, but what I needed to write about I couldn't let her read.
Despair. Pain. Disbelief. Anger. A lot of swear words.
She wouldn't have approved.
And now she's gone. I stood beside my mom and told her to go. I told my mom it was ok to go, we would all be ok. My heart was screaming don't go, please...I haven't told you I love you enough, you have to see my kids grow up, I still need to talk to you everyday on the phone, don't leave us. I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go.
But I told her it was ok to go. She looked at me, nodded her head and left us. 2 1/2 years battling breast cancer like a warrior, staying with us days longer than medically made any sense.
And I couldn't find it in me to write.
Seriously pathetic.
So I'm giving myself a reboot. Rebooting my blog. Calling a mulligan. A do over. New opportunities for The Husband and our family are on the near horizon and it's going to be all sunshine and double rainbows around this joint. Double fricking rainbows.
Or quite possibly some aurora borealis. And I've always wanted to see me some of that.
I'm back, baby. I'm back.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Eye of the Storm
God never gives you more than you can handle.
Right?
I found myself praying for strength tonight. Strength to help a 7 year old who was crying in her bed. She was crying because tomorrow wasn't going to be right since her Popeye wasn't going to be at her cousin's baptism.
"I just want him to come back and I know he can't. I don't like it. I just don't like this! I want it to be like it was before. And I won't ever see him again for like, 50 years at least because I won't see him until I go to heaven....and I don't want to go to heaven yet but I want to see him."
Sometimes you just have to let your children hurt. You can't fix it. You can't put a bandaid on it and make it better. And that, my friends, is a horrible horrible feeling.
The Princess episode tonight was just one of many reasons I found myself asking God for strength tonight.
The Eldest is having some major problems with her car.
The laptop is having troubles charging and every single time I type the letter 'a' I have to go back and retype it because the computer keeps putting in a space instead.
The engine light is back on in our car.
The government 'lost' The Eldest's student loan forms.
I've done something to my back and my joints are killing me today.
And we're out of lightbulbs. I'm pretty sure it is not normal to start crying when you discover there are no more light bulbs in the house.
Grieving and all that comes along with it has set everyone in the family on edge. Everyone in our family is raw. And when you pour salt into those wounds, salt being a broken car, bills to pay or a 3 year old that keeps screaming at everyone and everything and then finking that everyone is being rude to her...well....it leads a person to be crying over burned out light bulbs.
And so I pray for strength. Just get through one more day. Just let me know what to say to a grieving 7 year old and a grieving 42 year old. What to tell an 18 year old who has had more crap thrown at her in the last two weeks than an 18 year old should have to deal with in a year.
And then realize that I haven't prayed for answers on dealing with a grieving 15 year old boy who holes himself up in his room shooting at things on his Xbox. So I pray for help...not to let him get lost in all of this.
It's 10:15 pm and I have no idea what the 6 people in this family are wearing to the baptism in the morning. I'm feeling rather numb after this day and I just want to sit with this tiny kitten sleeping under my chin right now. This furry little thing is purring and giving out the odd "mmmrrttt" when it stretches and then pulls itself further up under my chin. The Dog is snoring behind me, guarding the door and giving off the odd fart.
Life goes on. So many people are going through 100x worse than our family. I pray for perspective in all of this. And I'm just going to sit here for a bit and enjoy the company of a kitten curled up on my chest, breathing on my neck and every once in a while licking my chin with its rough little tongue.
Recharge my spirit with the fluff of a kitten.
I should be writing for Hallmark. Gah.
Right?
I found myself praying for strength tonight. Strength to help a 7 year old who was crying in her bed. She was crying because tomorrow wasn't going to be right since her Popeye wasn't going to be at her cousin's baptism.
"I just want him to come back and I know he can't. I don't like it. I just don't like this! I want it to be like it was before. And I won't ever see him again for like, 50 years at least because I won't see him until I go to heaven....and I don't want to go to heaven yet but I want to see him."
Sometimes you just have to let your children hurt. You can't fix it. You can't put a bandaid on it and make it better. And that, my friends, is a horrible horrible feeling.
The Princess episode tonight was just one of many reasons I found myself asking God for strength tonight.
The Eldest is having some major problems with her car.
The laptop is having troubles charging and every single time I type the letter 'a' I have to go back and retype it because the computer keeps putting in a space instead.
The engine light is back on in our car.
The government 'lost' The Eldest's student loan forms.
I've done something to my back and my joints are killing me today.
And we're out of lightbulbs. I'm pretty sure it is not normal to start crying when you discover there are no more light bulbs in the house.
Grieving and all that comes along with it has set everyone in the family on edge. Everyone in our family is raw. And when you pour salt into those wounds, salt being a broken car, bills to pay or a 3 year old that keeps screaming at everyone and everything and then finking that everyone is being rude to her...well....it leads a person to be crying over burned out light bulbs.
And so I pray for strength. Just get through one more day. Just let me know what to say to a grieving 7 year old and a grieving 42 year old. What to tell an 18 year old who has had more crap thrown at her in the last two weeks than an 18 year old should have to deal with in a year.
And then realize that I haven't prayed for answers on dealing with a grieving 15 year old boy who holes himself up in his room shooting at things on his Xbox. So I pray for help...not to let him get lost in all of this.
It's 10:15 pm and I have no idea what the 6 people in this family are wearing to the baptism in the morning. I'm feeling rather numb after this day and I just want to sit with this tiny kitten sleeping under my chin right now. This furry little thing is purring and giving out the odd "mmmrrttt" when it stretches and then pulls itself further up under my chin. The Dog is snoring behind me, guarding the door and giving off the odd fart.
Life goes on. So many people are going through 100x worse than our family. I pray for perspective in all of this. And I'm just going to sit here for a bit and enjoy the company of a kitten curled up on my chest, breathing on my neck and every once in a while licking my chin with its rough little tongue.
Recharge my spirit with the fluff of a kitten.
I should be writing for Hallmark. Gah.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Life Goes On
It's been a very rough week.
Grieving is hard work. It's exhausting. Mentally exhausting. Physically exhausting.
Lack of sleep starts to play with your mind and you find yourself incapable of performing the most mundane tasks.
Like supervising your 3 year old.
Case in point.
Grieving is hard work. It's exhausting. Mentally exhausting. Physically exhausting.
Lack of sleep starts to play with your mind and you find yourself incapable of performing the most mundane tasks.
Like supervising your 3 year old.
Case in point.
That would be The Monkey's dinner.
The wise man is a nice touch.
The wise man is a nice touch.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Farewell To Our Popeye
In the early morning hours of January 12th, 2010, a soul took flight.
It was to be one of thousands that day.
But for our family, this one particular soul's departure brought us to our knees.
Tuesday morning and a ringing phone at 7:19 am meant we would never hear The Monkey scream with happiness, "POPEYE!!" as The Husband's dad walked through our door.
At 7:19, we found out The Eldest would never hear, "There's my Little Chickadee!" again.
A ringing phone meant The Boy had lost a kindred spirit. The Princess would not receive the perfectly picked out birthday card next month, addressed to his Little Peanut.
7:19 brought our souls to the depths of despair, at the realization of all we had lost.
Golf trips. Dinners. Christmases. Birthdays. Stories. They all must happen without Popeye now.
Grieving wife. Grieving sons and daughters. Grieving grandkids. Grieving sister. Grieving family. Grieving friends.
But at 7:19 am, on January 12th, 2010, that solitary soul, one of thousands that day, was not grieving.
He was rejoicing.
By 7:19 am, he was in Jesus' loving embrace. He was being wrapped in his mother's arms. He was being hugged fiercely by his father. And his brother. And brother-in-law. And being greeted by other family and friends. He was celebrating.
And had probably already scheduled in a tee time.
So we are left to mourn. Left to remember. Tell stories. Laugh. Cry. Hug. Get angry at him. Get angry at ourselves. Hit a wall. Tell Mom you'll fix that. Smell his shirts. Wear his hoodie. Sit on his bed and sob. Fiddle with his glasses that sit on the desk. Smile at a memory. Answer the phone. Not sleep. Comfort someone. Be comforted. Answer questions. Ask questions. Make tea. Reminisce. Pass around the Tylenol. Be amazed at the thoughtfulness of friends.
Desperately miss him. Wish it was still Monday, January 11th, 2010.
And yet, in all of that, remember that Dad is already off golfing, with a big smile on his face and in very good company.
Sláinte mhaith, Dad. God speed.
It was to be one of thousands that day.
But for our family, this one particular soul's departure brought us to our knees.
Tuesday morning and a ringing phone at 7:19 am meant we would never hear The Monkey scream with happiness, "POPEYE!!" as The Husband's dad walked through our door.
At 7:19, we found out The Eldest would never hear, "There's my Little Chickadee!" again.
A ringing phone meant The Boy had lost a kindred spirit. The Princess would not receive the perfectly picked out birthday card next month, addressed to his Little Peanut.
7:19 brought our souls to the depths of despair, at the realization of all we had lost.
Golf trips. Dinners. Christmases. Birthdays. Stories. They all must happen without Popeye now.
Grieving wife. Grieving sons and daughters. Grieving grandkids. Grieving sister. Grieving family. Grieving friends.
But at 7:19 am, on January 12th, 2010, that solitary soul, one of thousands that day, was not grieving.
He was rejoicing.
By 7:19 am, he was in Jesus' loving embrace. He was being wrapped in his mother's arms. He was being hugged fiercely by his father. And his brother. And brother-in-law. And being greeted by other family and friends. He was celebrating.
And had probably already scheduled in a tee time.
So we are left to mourn. Left to remember. Tell stories. Laugh. Cry. Hug. Get angry at him. Get angry at ourselves. Hit a wall. Tell Mom you'll fix that. Smell his shirts. Wear his hoodie. Sit on his bed and sob. Fiddle with his glasses that sit on the desk. Smile at a memory. Answer the phone. Not sleep. Comfort someone. Be comforted. Answer questions. Ask questions. Make tea. Reminisce. Pass around the Tylenol. Be amazed at the thoughtfulness of friends.
Desperately miss him. Wish it was still Monday, January 11th, 2010.
And yet, in all of that, remember that Dad is already off golfing, with a big smile on his face and in very good company.
Sláinte mhaith, Dad. God speed.
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