Learning to Share

I often joke that one of the reasons why I’ve been alone more than I’ve been in relationships is because I’m an only child and a Leo and that means I never learned how to share. That Barbie townhouse and 3-speed bike with the banana seat from childhood were ALL mine! Sure, it makes for a good quip and there’s an element of truth to it, but not in the self-centered, spoiled way that it sounds. For me, being an only child and a Leo means that I prefer to handle things myself and not ask or bother anyone for anything. It’s a pride thing. In fact, in relationships I have a tendency to take on more responsibility for my partner’s well-being than I do for my own. But, that’s a blog post for another day. Or not.

Today marks two years since my mother’s death and I’ve been ruminating about all the ways I didn’t handle things like I now wish I had. I never put an obituary in the newspaper. Why, you may be asking? Well, I didn’t want to put anything in the paper until I knew when I was having a Memorial Mass. Mom had decided to spare me the stress and pain of a full-tilt rosary and funeral and instead allow me to schedule a Memorial Mass at a later date when I was ready. I doubt she thought she’d still be waiting for that Mass two years later, or to be buried, for that matter. (Her ashes are still in the dining room.)  I told myself that I had to wait to schedule the Mass until I could afford to have some sort of after-Mass luncheon for people. (Catholics love a good post-funeral feed.) Being unemployed for four years as Mom’s caregiver meant that money to throw a party wasn’t something I imagined I could swing. So logically, no money = no party = no Mass = no obituary. It made sense to me at the time, but now, I just feel guilty. Intellectually, I know that Mom isn’t concerned about an obituary or a Mass or a party at this point. I’m not so sure about the ashes on the dining room table, however…

As I am wont to do, I started looking for deeper meaning behind these post-death decisions. That’s when the idea of not learning to share came to mind. I realized that what I hadn’t been willing to share was grief. I’d been protective of my grief. In a weird way I felt resentful that anyone else would get to share in that grief via an obituary or a Mass, or a party, or at the gravesite. No one shared in the daily stress, sacrifice, pain, and sadness during the years of being a caregiver. That was all mine. I wanted the grief for my mother to be all mine as well. I earned it. I know this may sound illogical or immature, and truly, I know just how many people loved my mother and were blessed by her presence in their lives. Part of me thinks that I deprived them of the opportunity to engage in communal grieving and I feel bad about that. At the same time, it hit me that I’ve spent my whole life doing things for other people’s approval, comfort, and benefit. My approval, my comfort, and my benefit were always an afterthought. These last two years have been an exercise in discovering what I think, what I believe, what I feel, what I want, and what I need. It hasn’t been easy, but it has been revelatory.

If I still had that Barbie townhouse or that bike, I would share them. But, they are long gone. However, I can share this commercial for the townhouse and this photo of me on that bike on Christmas morning in 1970:

I can also start sharing my thoughts, my feelings, my stories, and my vulnerabilities more openly. That’s a start.

One Year

One year since you left the house for the last time…

One year since I was told there was nothing more they could do for you…

One year since I heard your sweet voice say, “I love you, Kel”…

One year since your eyes finally opened one last time and you looked at me…

One year since I could hear the ticking of your mechanical heart valve slowing down…

One year since I kissed your forehead and held your hand as I guided you on your transition…

One year since I heard that final “tick, tick” of your heart valve and you took your last breath here and your first breath there…

One year without the physical presence of the one person who knew me the longest and loved me the most…

One year and there hasn’t been a day that I’m not grateful that you were my mother and hopeful that I will see you again someday.

I love you, Mom. I always have and I always will.

I was never ashamed to hold Mom’s hand. Even when she got on a sewing kick and made these matching “flower power nightmare” pants.
I hardly stopped holding her hand in the hospital.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today, my mother would have turned 89 years old. I was buying a birthday card for my best friend a couple weeks ago and it hit me, just like it did at Christmas, that I’d never buy my mother another birthday card again. This simple revelation triggered a big emotional reaction. It took all the self-control I could muster to not cause a scene in the card aisle.

Aside from next month being the one-year anniversary of her passing, her birthday signals the last “first” marker of an event or occasion without her. I wrote about the concept of the last “first” in this blog post from January. I haven’t written about her or what I’ve experienced coping with her passing the last few months. This is partially because I didn’t want this blog to turn into some kind of grieving chronicle of woe. Frankly, I don’t know what I want this blog to be right now.

The other reason why I haven’t been blogging about Mom is that for the most part, I’ve been doing okay. I get through most days just fine. I play with Johnny, my tuxedo cat, pay bills, try to clean and clear out more clutter, smile, get together with a friend, laugh. I’ve even managed to think and talk about Mom without crying. That is, until the last week or so. I’ve found myself very emotional and missing her presence a lot. Having been through this process before when my Dad died, I know that grief is cyclical, rather than linear. Even knowing that intellectually doesn’t make it feel any less like a setback.

However, I’ve decided that what may seem like a setback is really a reset.  It’s a reminder to look at where I was, where I am, and where I want to be going forward. In grief and in life, we often don’t give ourselves credit for how far we’ve come. All we think about is how far we have left to go. But dwelling in either the past or the future too much is dwelling in an illusion. Right now, in this moment, is where life happens. By accepting where I am right now, I’m accepting whatever feeling needs to come up in me and be acknowledged and addressed. Right now, I feel blessed to have had such a loving, kind, funny, supportive, wonderful mother. If that makes me cry, so be it. If it makes me smile, so be it. Everything is all good in this moment.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you always.

July 7, 2018

Time is…

Time is many things. How you perceive it and define it change depending upon a myriad of factors: mood, circumstance, age, etc. There are those who tell you, “Time is an illusion”. Now, I get that on a metaphysical level, where indeed in the big proverbial scheme of things like eternity, time is unquantifiable. But, here in our earthbound existence, our lives are defined by time. You wake up at a certain time to catch the train to get you to work by 9 A.M. You set the timer on the oven for 30-40 minutes so the soufflé you made will be cooked properly.

Why am I going on about time? Well, today marks six months since Mom died and just like my father’s passing 31 years ago, my perception of that time is mixed. This was my first entry about her death. On the one hand, it feels fresh like it just happened today, while on the other hand, it feels like this new reality without her physical presence is not new at all. There are days when I’m doing well and making great progress on the “stuff” of death: closing accounts, opening new ones, paying bills. Time is my friend on these days. Then there are the days when I look around at all the clutter that still hasn’t been given away, sold, or otherwise discarded, the paperwork that still needs to be completed, and the memorial Mass that still needs to be scheduled and held for her, and I feel like time is my enemy.

I’m reading a book that I’ve been meaning to get to for years: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. I’m about halfway through it, and while the concepts discussed aren’t new to me, I’m finding more of a resonance right now. The importance of living in the present is one such concept. Hey, I’ve read Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now, and didn’t the Buddha say, “Be where you are; otherwise you will miss your life”? Having a present-moment focus isn’t revelatory to me.

What is new is my desire to embrace the present moment. For far too long, life “right now” was the last place I wanted to be. The present moment was full of 24/7, 365-day “fight or flight” when it came to Mom and her health. I’d much rather remember the “good old days” before macular degeneration, mystery bleeds, and congestive heart failure. Or I’d dream of some distant future when I’d be doing creative work I loved and traveling. Neither living in the past nor the future was satisfying but they were better than the present.

I just came across these lines in The Alchemist and the profundity of its simplicity shifted something within me:

The secret is here in the present. If you pay attention to the present, you can improve upon it. And, if you improve upon the present, what comes later will also be better.

Here’s to a mindful present for us all.

via GIPHY

The Last “First”

It’s five months today since Mom passed. Time does go faster the older you get. As I mentioned in last month’s post, I decided not to attend family Christmas gatherings this year. It was difficult not being around people, or decorating the house or watching all the Christmas movies, or buying gifts for, or opening gifts from, Mom. But, I got through it.

I kept reminding myself of a strategy I came up with when my father died. It’s called “The Last First”. So, the premise is, for each occasion that comes up during the first year after someone passes, tell yourself that it’s the last “first”. This “first” can be anything: a birthday, Christmas, anniversary, etc. Every “first” is truly the “last”. The next birthday, or Christmas, or anniversary will be different every year going forward. It may still be challenging, but it will never be as challenging as the “first” was. This mindset got my mother and I through 1991-1992 and I’m counting on it getting me through 2021-2022.  

Despite all the uncertainties of life personally and on a global scale, I choose to feel optimistic about 2022. After all I’ve been through over the last five months and the last four years, I know that I can handle anything that arises. And so can you. Happy New Year.

Christmas Mourning

Is there a difference between grieving and mourning? Instinctively, I believe there is, but defining what the difference is can be challenging. I’ve read some articles and nothing has really clarified the distinction completely for me. So, I’m left with figuring it out for myself. Through my experience of the deaths of both of my parents, the feelings of loss change due to a variety of factors. The main factor is time. When a loss first occurs, this is when I believe grief enters the picture. There’s shock and sadness and all of those intense, immediate emotions. Grief is the initial pain of the wound of the loss. It hurts, it bleeds and when knocked again, the wound can re-open and bleed some more.

Time heals and seals the wound but sometimes a scar is left from the wound. The scar is the reminder of that loss. It may not pain you in the same way but the scar reminds you that the loss is still there. This reminder of what you lost and how your life has changed is when you enter mourning.

This switch to mourning hit me while buying a couple Christmas cards the other day. As my eyes scanned the shelves, they landed on the “Mother” section. I realized in an instant that never again would I buy my mother a Christmas card. That ritual was over. I always took a lot of time picking out just the right card that said just the perfect thing for Mom. It meant a lot to me and to her.

When I got home, I was still reeling from the card revelation, only to have more. I had already made the decision to not decorate this year. Christmas is my favorite holiday, but I just couldn’t face seeing a lifetime of ornaments and decorations and not having Mom here to enjoy them.

Then the reality about Christmas hit me. Not only will I never buy Mom a card again, but I’ll never buy stocking stuffers or presents for her either. Since it was always just Mom, Dad, and me, we always liked lots of things to open. Small things went into the stockings like lip balm, hand lotion, Emory boards, or licorice gum. (That was for Dad.) And every item was wrapped before going into the stocking. Dad would just throw things into Mom’s stocking but I’d fish them out and wrap them properly and he’d just smile and shake his head.

As for presents, we also made sure there were multiple gifts for each of us to unwrap. Now, these gifts weren’t all “big ticket” items. They could be underwear, pajamas, or trouser socks on the smaller end, up to perfume, shoes, or jewelry on the larger end. It made for a fun, drawn-out Christmas morning.

That is all gone as well and I’m in mourning. Not for the “stuff”, but for the love behind the “stuff”, the togetherness, the shared memories, the nostalgia. I’m faced with coping with truly being alone. This year at least, I don’t want to do any of the same things I would have done with Mom. It would feel odd and somewhat disrespectful. It would feel like I was trying to forget that she existed by doing the same things and just swapping her out. She is not replaceable and I don’t want to try replacing her just to stay busy.

So, I hope that family and friends will understand me not participating in the same events and traditions this Christmas. Maybe next year. This year, I have to mourn what was, accept what is, and figure out what I want life to be going forward.

The End of the Line

Here I am at the three-month mark since Mom died. I’m still sorting and clearing and cleaning. That will go on for awhile. As I’m doing all of those things, I’m also doing a lot of thinking about legacy and the “stuff” that’s left behind when someone dies. I touched upon this in an earlier post, but I’m thinking about it more broadly now.

The items upon which I’ve been focusing have been clothes, shoes, handbags, knick-knacks, etc. Basically these are the items that don’t have an emotional connection. These have been relatively easy to part with. There’s a whole other category of items that aren’t things I have to part with now, but eventually someone will. I don’t mean any heirlooms with any monetary or historical value that could be left to family or friends. I’m talking about items that spouses, partners, siblings, children or grandchildren keep. I have none of those people in my life. I am the end of the line. I am alone.

This isn’t some shocking revelation. I’ve been an only child my entire life. I never wanted children and I have no partner. So, what happens to the category of “stuff” that matters more than clothing, isn’t of tangible value, but marks a life and the important moments in it?

What are some of these things? My father’s baseball trophy from Junior High School, my parents’ high school yearbooks, and photographs. Lots of photographs of people I may not even know and someone else will surely not know. Sure, I can keep these now, but what about when I’m gone? These things don’t matter to anyone else. Then there’s all of my stuff. The items I’ve accumulated, but also all of the things my mother kept from my childhood.

You see, my parents couldn’t have children for nine years so when I finally came along, they were ecstatic and they poured all of their love into, and attention onto, me. Part of this meant that my mother chronicled everything. You should see my baby book! Measurements, details of birthday gifts for the first seven years of my life. My favorite songs from when I was two years old. In case you’re curious, they were “Alfie”, “Georgy Girl”, and “Bye, Bye Baby”, (the San Francisco Giants “fight” song). That same year, 1967, my biggest accomplishments were: knowing my ABCs and counting to 18 by the time I was two years and 10 months old. Interesting to me, but worthless to anyone else.

I came across a plastic baggie containing my baby teeth the other day. I’m sure my mother forgot she even had them. I get why she kept them, but what do I do with them? Or with the lock of hair snipped off when I was born or with the baby shoes my parents had bronzed?  When you’re the end of the line, what does that mean for your past, your history, your “stuff”? What does it mean for you?

The Healing Power of Art

Today marks two months since my mother passed and a month since my last blog post. I’m still occupied with what I wrote about in that post: clearing out clothes, cleaning up clutter, making phone calls, and signing documents. There is progress being made on all those fronts, thankfully. I still haven’t had a service for Mom yet and I don’t know when that will happen. Mom wanted to spare me the stress and pain of having a rosary and funeral Mass and instead opted for a Memorial Mass whenever I was up to it. For a number of reasons, including emotional and financial ones, I just haven’t felt ready.

What has been helping me, at least emotionally, has been art. I think many of us were reminded during the lockdowns of 2020 just how much art matters. When we couldn’t gather to see live music, or an art exhibition, or take in a movie or a play, there was a sense of loss. This loss, coupled with not being able to be in the company of family or friends, has led to isolation and depression.

When my mother died, I suddenly found myself alone in a house that I had lived in for the better part of 38 years. I had moved away twice during that time, but those times were brief and over twenty years ago. I see her everywhere I look: her furniture, her style, her “stuff”. This isn’t a bad thing, but I knew I had to start making changes so this place would feel more like mine. Hanging some new art on the walls was a place to start. Thanks to a website called Artfinder, I came across a talented woman named Kathy Morton Stanion. Her paintings spoke to me and I purchased this piece that immediately enveloped me in a calming, peaceful embrace.

Kathy and I exchanged many emails back and forth and we found out we shared things in common. Her beautiful painting marked one of the first steps in my healing journey.

The second artist who has helped me is a talented singer, songwriter, and pianist named Natalie Nicole Gilbert. We’ve followed each other on Twitter for a long time and I don’t know how that started, really. We never interacted until after Mom died and her latest album was being released. Its title is perfect: Recovery. This album is all about recovery in its various forms and its release and appearance in my life is more than coincidental. It’s perfectly timed by something more powerful than me.

As with Kathy, Natalie and I have shared some wonderful interactions and again, found lots of common ground. This is the power of art, of connection, and of well, technology. Despite the negative aspects that social media and the internet in general can draw into your life, it introduced me to two women who are bringing beauty into the world one painting and one song at a time. They and their art are making a stressful, sad, difficult time easier for me. This is how art can heal and uplift. We’re all artists in some way. Think about how can you bring healing and joy into the world. You don’t have to paint or sing.  A kind word. A listening ear. A cooked meal. Anything done with love is art. And more love and more art is exactly what all of us need.

A Birthday Message

Every morning I ask myself a question and I listen for an answer. I don’t know if the answer comes from from my Higher Self, my guardian angel, God, whoever. Sometimes I wish I could pinpoint the source, but I know the most important thing is what comes through. Today, I asked my usual question but I directed it to my mother, who passed on August 5th. This is what I heard, edited only for typos.

What do I need to hear right now?

You need to hear from your mother right now. Here she is:

Kel, you were the answer to a long-held prayer that began longer than 56 years ago today. When I married your father, I prayed for you. For the first nine years when pregnancy didn’t happen, I prayed for you. When I was finally pregnant, I prayed for you. When my brother was killed two months before you were born, I prayed for you. When you were born exactly 56 years ago at 8:09 A.M., I prayed for you. I have prayed for you and loved you every day of your life. Even now, I pray for you. I know how hard my passing is on you. I want to thank you for all the love you always showed me, especially over the last four years and as you helped me transition. It was the most incredible gift I’ve ever received and I know what it cost you. One of the things you said to me during my transition was that I won’t stop being a mother when I stop being there physically. Never forget that even when you have times of feeling alone in the world. You are never alone and you never will be alone. I am always right there by your side. I held your hand to protect you when you were a child and you held my hand to guide me when I was transitioning. We are connected and we always will be. I’m your Mom and you’re my girl. That will never change. Happy Birthday, sweet girl. I love you always, Mom.

I love you too, Mom. Thanks for everything but especially for being my mother. That was always the best birthday gift.

The Hands of Time

My mother always had the most beautiful hands. Even when they were disfigured by arthritis, she still made them look fantastic. She always shaped and painted her own nails much to the surprise of everyone because they looked professionally done. The photo above was taken after her first manicure a couple of years ago. Macular degeneration, which had robbed her of her ability to drive, to read, and to fully enjoy watching television, among other things, had also made doing her own nails much too frustrating and difficult.

Her hand had held mine since the moment she brought me into this world. A week ago tonight, I held my mother’s hand for the last time. She got through tricuspid valve replacement surgery in February, and a hip fracture and surgery in May, but the damage done was just too much to overcome. She spent two days in palliative care after time and age just caught up with her heart, her kidneys, and her liver. Since Mom wasn’t talking any more and only opened her eyes on the day she died, I spent a lot of time holding her hand and talking to her. I told her what a wonderful mother she had been, how strong she was, how proud I was to be her daughter, and how much I loved her. As I was helping her transition from this life to the next, I kept a firm grip on her hand and continued telling her, “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.” I could hear her mechanical mitral valve (which she had implanted in 1996), click slower and slower as her time on the Earth grew shorter and shorter. I reminded her of something a friend of hers always said: “The last breath you take on Earth is the first breath you take in Heaven”. Isn’t that a lovely thought?

While I grieve the loss of her physical presence, I feel truly blessed that I could take the hand that comforted, supported, protected, and guided me for almost 56 years and do the same for her as she made her journey home.