two

Two years ago this morning my mother took her last breath and left her life. I often wonder what those last 24 hours were like for her, and when they finally, mercifully, gave her the morphine if she thought to herself, Thank you. I know she was fighting right up until the end. I have no doubt about that. But I do wonder if in her very last moments she was thinking, No! I’m not ready! Or if she was thinking, Yes, it is time for me to go. Or if she, like us, felt somewhere inexplicably and impossibly between the two.

I am in all ways feeling much, much better than I was on this day two years ago and even on this day one year ago. I feel like the old Beth again. In fact, sometimes I realize that I feel so good and so happy that I almost feel guilty. Like I shouldn’t possibly be able to feel as happy as I do if she can’t feel happy anymore. I am guessing that’s pretty normal. I wouldn’t know. There isn’t really much literature out there on what is “normal” or “expected” when you find yourself…here.

There are still many, many moments when it feels surreal. Just the other day I was going through the list of Christmas presents I’ve purchased and my mental reflex said, “Wait, I don’t have anything for Mom!” Oh, yeah, right. I find myself Googling her or reading through the old emails she sent me. Grasping, I suppose, for whatever little pieces of her are tangible to me on this earth. Of course her number is still in my cell phone. I’m not ready to delete it. I might never be ready. When I am old and gray her number might will still be there.

I am thankful that I am able to say grief no longer consumes me. It is still there, and it visits me…I find it challenging to think about her without getting sad. It’s difficult to talk about her in front of other people. I say a few words, then I kind of freeze up and start thinking about her death, and want to hurry up and move on before I get stuck in that nasty place of being totally overwhelmed by memories and realizations.

Like on Thanksgiving. I proposed a toast to her, and I wanted to say something like, “To my mother, who taught me everything I know about Thanksgiving and being thankful. We are all better people for having known her. I miss you and love you, Mom.” Instead it went something like, “To my mother…” and then I had to stop and let other people chime in and say nice things. I think I managed to eek out, “She taught me everything I know about Thanksgiving dinner.” It’s the moments when I am so directly confronted with her absence that I still am not sure how to navigate. I become frozen because I still don’t really know how to accept that she isn’t here. It’s reality, and I’m in it, but if I could just find that loophole…I could find a way to bring her back.

In my work I am constantly in awe of her. The VA health care system and the professionals associated with it are more aware than ever of the importance and impact of the family in the well-being of the individual. Being slightly behind the curve, as most government systems are, they have just this year opened up our system to create justified clinical space for the families of our nation’s heroes. Of course my mother has been finding a way to do this since 1986. I’ve often mentioned the statistic, only because I am so unbelievably proud, that she treated more than 1,500 families in her tenure with the Veterans Health Administration. When she died her colleagues graciously and unforgettably pointed out that she had treated veterans from World War II forward, and had not only improved the lives of these particular men and women but had created more stable homes for them to raise their children in; had made these men and women better parents, and their children better parents, and their grandchildren…you see where I am going. Am I boasting (for her)? Yes. I think she has earned it. 

There are no words (though I try) to express my deep gratitude, not only for knowing her but for being eternally able to say I am her only daughter. Every single day when I go to work I feel a deep sense of honor for not only being able to serve what she always called “the most deserving population” she had ever met, but for continuing on her legacy as a professional, as a woman and as a human being. If I can give even a small fraction of service to this nation that she did, I will be unspeakably grateful.

As you read this, if your mother is still here on this earth, please, please, please take a moment to email, call, text or communicate telepathically with her. Please take a moment to bask in the unique and irreplacable love she gives you. You are so lucky. Oh, what I would do for just one…more…minute…

Our good times are all gone

and I’m bound for movin’ on

I’ll look for you if I’m ever back this way

- Judy Collins

My God, do I miss her. She is the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.

INTO THE WORLD OF HAPPY

iambetharoo.wordpress.com

A YEAR IN THE LIFE

People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive.  We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future.  It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance. 

~Marcel Proust~

This has been a year of journeys. Some good, some bad. It’s been the most emotionally complicated year of my life, and should I be fortunate enough to live another day I will not be sorry when 2010 arrives. My life has changed in ways I never could have anticipated. I view the world differently; I worry less and sleep better. My only real objective is to be as connected as I can to the core of my life’s purpose and to whatever or whomever guides me on that path.

I still have many, many times when the tears come and I feel as though I may not ever be able to stop feeling sad. I know this year is only the first of many without her, and I hope I can look back and know that this first year was the hardest.

This blog has been an amazing part of my life. Some of my oldest friends have learned more about my mother than they ever knew when she was alive. I’ve connected with new friends who know what the word grief really means.  My mother’s impact on this world continues to grow through all of my readers’ experiences with these posts. It has been the story of a year in the life of me, a motherless daughter.

This blog has more than 25,000 words. The page has been viewed 2,044 times.

The year has come and gone, not all at once but in small moments and difficult days.

Hardest day: Her birthday.

Day that surprised me because it was easier than I thought it would be: Mother’s Day.

Day that surprised me because it was harder than I thought it would be: Christmas 2009.

What I miss most: Cooking with her.

Most scary/surreal moment: Sitting in my apartment trying to remember whether or not I’d imagined the whole thing, and for a few moments really not being sure. I thought I might actually be losing my mind.

Most memorable moment: Getting home from the hospital on December 19, 2008, writing her obituary and crying myself to sleep.

Most peaceful moment:  Standing at her grave in 2009.

What happens from here, no one knows. Least of all me. Nothing is guaranteed, and nothing should be taken for granted. The only thing I know for certain is that I will miss and love my mother every day for the rest of my life, and can humbly say I am a better human being for having known her.

This will be the last entry in this blog. Thank you for taking this journey with me. Thank you for being a part of this year, and for sharing your comments and prayers with me. In all things and in all ways, may your lives be replete with joy and peace. 

Let children walk with Nature, let them see the beautiful blendings and communions of death and life, their joyous inseparable unity, as taught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and streams of our blessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless indeed, and as beautiful as life.

~John Muir~

ONE

 In very loving memory of my most beloved Mother

Erika Ann Curran

March 28, 1947 – December 19, 2008

There’s no place in this world where I’ll belong when I’m gone
And I won’t know the right from the wrong when I’m gone
And you won’t find me singin’ on this song when I’m gone
So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here

And I won’t feel the flowing of the time when I’m gone
All the pleasures of love will not be mine when I’m gone
My pen won’t pour out a lyric line when I’m gone
So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here

And I won’t breathe the bracing air when I’m gone
And I can’t even worry ’bout my cares when I’m gone
Won’t be asked to do my share when I’m gone
So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here

And I won’t be running from the rain when I’m gone
And I can’t even suffer from the pain when I’m gone
Can’t say who’s to praise and who’s to blame when I’m gone
So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here

Won’t see the golden of the sun when I’m gone
And the evenings and the mornings will be one when I’m gone
Can’t be singing louder than the guns when I’m gone
So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here

All my days won’t be dances of delight when I’m gone
And the sands will be shifting from my sight when I’m gone
Can’t add my name into the fight while I’m gone
So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here

And I won’t be laughing at the lies when I’m gone
And I can’t question how or when or why when I’m gone
Can’t live proud enough to die when I’m gone
So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here

~When I’m Gone, Phil Ochs~

PHONE

One year ago at 11:15 am my phone rang. I was sitting outside my dentist’s office waiting for my appointment time. I remember where I was parked. I rememeber what I was wearing. I haven’t worn that outfit since. I’ve worn the pieces of that outfit, but not together. I remember slowly reaching down and moving my gear shift in to “drive” as the words came out of my father’s mouth. Not breathing, CPR, ambulance. The whole world slowed down and that moment was one of the most vivid of my entire life.

My hands were shaking the whole way to the hospital. It was completely surreal and shocking seeing her that way. The longest day becomes the longest night . And then she is gone.

As the moment comes when I got that phone call, I will be on a plane to Philadelphia. I will be spending Christmas with my family, where I belong. And tomorrow, on the 19th, I will be with my mother in Valley Forge, in the cemetery of the George Washington Memorial Chapel. Remembering and loving her, talking to her and missing her, but grateful to be in the only place that feels even close to the right place to be on December 19, twelve nineteen.

CALL

Today one year ago was the last full, healthy day of my mother’s life. Her death was the farthest thing from her mind, from my dad’s mind, from anyone’s mind. She…was a given. I never questioned her presence in my life, never questioned that she would be there when I got married and when I have my children. It never occurred to me, not for one single moment, that she might not be there for the long haul. Death is like a vacuum. An empty space that falls in on itself, because it just doesn’t know what else to do.

On this night in 2008, I called my mother just to say hello. Check in. Tell her I was making crab dip for Katelin’s Christmas party. And made a plan to have dinner that weekend, on Sunday. It was a short conversation, but I will be grateful all the days of my life that I talked to her that night. It was my last chance, and I took it. I had so many chances with her, and I took so many of them.

My father recently sent me the quilt that my mom made for me. It’s beautiful.

I am thankful that she loved me enough to spend so much of her time on something tangible for me to treasure. As I lay beneath it, I can sense her contentedness as she hand stitched the small pieces of fabric together, her pride when she tied the last knot, and the deep sense of love she must have felt when she saw me lay underneath it for the first time.

How lucky I am to be her daughter.

GOODBYE

One year ago this evening I gave my mother a hug for the last time. Or rather, she gave me a hug for the last time. I’ve already told the story of that night. Twice. But here it is. December 14. The last evening we spent together.

Her body was so full of life it still seems impossible that she could have died so suddenly like that. I look at her picture and it doesn’t seem real that she’s not here anymore. I am almost certain that the only person who is more shocked than me, my dad or my brother is my mother herself. I am out of words to try and describe how horrible it feels to lose someone you love. Death has always felt so conceptual to me, until this past year. I’ve known people that have died but I have never felt anything even close to what I feel now. Like I suddenly woke up in a life that wasn’t mine anymore. Like the proverbial rug was snatched out from under my feet and I’m still lying on the ground trying to figure out what happened.

RED

The days of this week and the weeks of this month are heavy with memories. This approaching anniversary feels significant in so many ways. This weekend will be the one year anniversary of the last afternoon I spent with her. Shortly after will be the last day I spoke to her, and in only 11 days it will be one year from the day she died. I think the only thing harder than the 1st anniversary of her death might be the first day of the second year.

I am frequently overcome with sudden recall of the many, many moments that were part of December, 2008. As I was having my nails painted red recently, I suddenly remembered that I was wearing red nail polish the day that she died.  I must have been thinking then the way I am thinking now, “Christmas is coming, time to get festive!”

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. I love the traditions, the rest and relaxation, the food, and love that everyone always has off from work. This year I fluctuate between the excitement of seeing all of my cousins and extended family, and the pain of all the feelings and thoughts my mother’s death carries. She is so missed, and my days and my life are not the same without her. I am reminded now of our last days and hours, and the time I spent with her in the hospital while she lay dying, fighting unsuccessfully to hold on to her life.

Are there things I am grateful for? Yes; that we were all able to be with her, that she didn’t have to die alone, that she didn’t suffer for any great period of time. I hope wherever she is she is comforted, peaceful, and watching over us whenever she can.

I have a friend whose mother is in the last days of her life, and he said to me just days ago, “There are better days ahead, I hope.” I don’t know how to tell him that the better days don’t feel as good as the days before she died. That the missing her, the hollowness, does not  (has not yet, anyway) subside but some days actually feels like it might be increasing. Life moves on, and things move forward, but the emptiness left behind by your mother’s passing is enormous and, at times, crippling. Women older than me who have lost their mothers, some as many as 15 or 20 years ago, still speak of how much they miss her. There is just not anything quite like a mother’s love.

For those of you who have all of your family to be with this Christmas, please be thankful. You are blessed in a way you cannot possibly even know. For those of us remembering a dear loved one this holiday season…I wish I had something wonderful to say. I don’t. Only that I hope joy comes to you in many unexpected ways, this season and always.

THANKFUL

Today is the day one year ago that I took the last picture of my mother.

I am thankful for Thanksgivings past.

And for all the Thanksgiving dinners my mom cooked for us.

And for her mashed potatoes.

And for her brother and his family.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and yours.

 

GIVING THANKS

This week will bring my family’s first Thanksgiving without my mother. My dad and brother are coming to my house, and I expect the gravity of her absence to be more palpable this week than most. It will be the first time the 3 of us have been together since the funeral. Oi.

I miss her, deeply and almost constantly. The world feels less like a vacuum than it did at the end of last year, but my heart is still sad and my life hasn’t quite returned to its normal flow. It’s better, but not the same. I have a feeling it might be that way forever – better, but not the same.

Despite the heartbreak of the last 11 months there are things I have been able to be thankful for. And in this week of giving thanks, I am resting in the comfort that there are still beautiful things in my life.

I am thankful for my friends. Particularly those who have pretty much been the glue holding me together since 11 am on December 18. You know who you are.

I am thankful for people I have encountered, Bryan, Erin, Deirdre, Beth, Christine, to name a few…who know the pain of losing someone, of watching someone you love be taken over by something foreign and horrible. I am thankful for you, because when we are together I know we are not alone. Moreover, I am thankful for the strength of these people and their ability to give me hope.

I am thankful for my family. I am thankful for the people I am related to who have never let a conflict go deep enough to tear us apart (and much less thankful for those who have). I am thankful for my dad and my brother, who are surely as pained as I am at the thought that now we are three.

I am thankful for all of the memories and mementos I have of my mother. I am thankful that when her favorite ornament falls off of my Christmas tree for no reason at all, that I hope in my heart it’s because she is there. I am thankful that she was the person she was, and most of all that she was my mom.

I am thankful for this blog and for my ability to write in it. It has been tremendously therapeutic, and I think without it I would have a lot of unresolved thoughts and feelings that might come out in other, less healthy ways. I am thankful for my readers, who have been there in spirit, through comments and through email letting me know how much support I really have out there.

Last but not least, I am thankful for my life. I am thankful for my health and for this one more day that I get to have. Tomorrow is only an idea we have in our heads, and there are zero guarantees that any of us will ever see it. It’s not sad to think that way, at least not to me. It makes this day special and lovely and reminds me to enjoy each moment to the best of my ability. We never know when our last moment is coming, and I plan on enjoying every single one of them until then.