Tag Archives: life after loss

goodbye, too soon

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I am confused. Bewildered. So, so angry. How could this happen again?

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Mom and Dad on my wedding day, November 22, 2008

This time, the sudden loss of my dad didn’t shatter as much as the sudden loss of my mom and uncle. The world already seemed less safe. I have had two years of practice walking through the world feeling incomplete. I have become more comfortable sitting with my negative emotions.

When I learned without warning that my dad had died, it had eerie similarities to learning that my mom and uncle had died. I was in a different place, on a different day. It was morning instead of afternoon. But, I was not prepared for it. I didn’t want to believe it was true. I was 38.5 weeks pregnant instead of 37 weeks pregnant. Both memorial services fell exactly five days before my due date.

Two of my three babies will have joined this world when my heart was full of sorrow. I will again, have to find the space and do the exhausting work of holding both the joy and the pain. But, this time, I know I can survive. I have done it before.

It feels so unfair. To be an orphan at 33. To not have my parents know my kids. But, as my sister and I talked about the other day, one of my mom’s favourite things to say to us was: “life is not fair.” How right she was.

I don’t understand, and I’m not sure that I ever will. Goodbye to my parents, my home base, my childhood. Hello to this empty new world.

From the kitchen of Mama B

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It’s the 2 year crapiversary. Words cannot express how much my Mama and Uncle are loved and missed. Sometimes when the missing gets to be too much I retreat to the kitchen for childhood comfort food, always found in my Mama’s recipes. Here’s one of my favourites:

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It’s good timing because I’ve been able to find my laughter again, my real side-splitting, pee in your pants, can’t-control-my-crying laughter. And, according to this recipe, it’s necessary to make the recipe just right. It doesn’t make the missing any less, or the sad any less sad, but it sure is welcomed back into my collection of emotions.

2016

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Starting 2015 caught me off guard. I didn’t expect the day to cause such pain, because new years was not a day that I typically spent with my mom or uncle. This year, I was prepared that it would hurt.

A new year. A year that I will see, but that they won’t. A year of memories to be made, memories that will not include our beloved mom and uncle. A year of seconds. The first year that we will look back 365 days and not have them there.

It’s hard to explain, and yet not hard at all. Special people are missing, and all I can do is miss them. To stop missing them, would hurt more than to miss them with every fibre of my being. On good days… and bad days. In happy and sad moments.

Eric and I are entering 2016 trying to make some big decisions as parents. At least, decisions that feel big, even huge, in this moment. All I want to do is call my mom. Not because I have a specific question that I need an answer for, not because there’s nobody else we can talk to, and not even because I have something particular that I want to say, but simply because she’s my mom.

When I was pregnant with Madeleine, an extended relative hosted a baby shower for me. My mom was there. She was always there. One of the planned activities was for all of the mothers in attendance to share a story with me about motherhood. They each gave brief stories – some funny, some full of love, some about the challenges of navigating motherhood. When it was my mama’s turn, she told me about the time I fell off the counter and landed face down as a baby. Then she told me about the time she fell down the stairs holding my oldest sister in her arms. She told me that she wanted me to remember those stories the first time I dropped, or otherwise injured, our new baby.

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And, I did drop Madeleine. She rolled off the change table. I was standing in front of her and my hands were pulling at the box of wipes, so I tried to catch her with my leg. I basically kneed her into the drawer and then she fell to the ground. I laugh about it now, but I felt awful when it happened. Even though I felt awful, I did remember my mom’s stories. I remembered how much I adore my mom even though she has made mistakes. I remembered that even my mom, who always seemed like super mom, like a woman who just took motherhood in stride, once dropped not one, but two of her children (and who knows about the other two, haha!).

I want to call my mom. I want her to tell me that Uncle Rob is at the house. I want her to say, “Uncle Rob wants to know….” And I want to hear his random question. I want to know more about when I was young. I want my mom’s comfort. I want them to still be on my team, cheering my small family on. I want to know that no matter what decision Eric and I make, that they would be with us on the rollercoaster.

My mom taught me that a mother, like any person, doesn’t need to be perfect. She also showed me in a million different ways how to do good for others, not just as a mother, but as a friend, a colleague, a mentor, and a community member. She showed me enough that I learned what I think she wanted me to, but it wasn’t enough that I was done with absorbing her love and lessons.

A mother is she who can take the place of all others but whose place no one else can take. Cardinal Mermillod

 

but, why?

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But why is the sun visiting Australia now?

But why is it time for the sun to go to Australia?

But why does time keep passing?

But why is time passing part of life?

But why don’t you know?

But why should I ask daddy?

After a visit with a university friend of mine who currently lives in Australia, Maddy has had her interest in understanding the sun sparked again. She quizzed me for a half hour about Australia tonight. She often asks me questions that I can’t answer, and never accepts that I don’t know something (I should probably bookmark this to remember when one day she never accepts that I do know anything 😉 ).

Time. It does just keep passing. Asking why is to ask a question that many have pondered and none have answered. Time, both a blessing and a curse. Non-grief time feels somewhat standard. It speeds up with age, and tends to be relative to the number of new experiences you are having. Grief time is like an elastic band. Everything feels so far and so close all at once. To those of you in non-grief time, October 18, 2014 might feel like more than half a year ago. For me, it feels like yesterday. And yet, at the same time, it feels like a lifetime since I heard my mom and uncle’s voices. It feels like a lifetime since I felt the soft skin on the back of my mom’s hand. It feels like a lifetime since I spun my mom’s necklace around her neck and quipped that someone must be thinking of her.

I asked my grief counsellor if she thought that this elastic-grief-time is our brain’s way of protecting us. She said, “yes, it could be.” In one sense it deepens the pain, when you realize that it has felt like forever since that “last time.” In another sense, it allows us to feel the closeness that we crave – a split second of time where the heart and mind temporarily forgets that it’s been forever and it feels like just yesterday.

On October 18, I felt like I wanted to die. Or, at least I knew I didn’t want to live in a world that didn’t include my mom and uncle anymore. I didn’t want to live and I didn’t know how to live in that world. That world shouldn’t exist, and so I wanted to refuse to be a part of it. In the acute stage of grief, and a bit beyond, I cried so much, that crying was my normal state. To not be crying, was weird. The sadness of that time was the deepest pain, not being able to be in the world without feeling disconnected. Anytime I found myself around anyone who either didn’t know or didn’t acknowledge what had happened to me, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “MY MOM AND UNCLE ARE DEAD! I DON’T HAVE A MOTHER!”

Seven and a half months have passed and the shape and form of the pain has changed, but it’s still as present as ever. I no longer have that feeling of screaming at the top of my lungs, but I do find it difficult to be in social situations still. It’s particularly difficult being amongst those that don’t know. There’s something to be said about draping your house with a marker, or wearing black. A message to the world, “I’m grieving, be gentle with my heart.”

Still, the sadness is pervasive. It’s always there, but it’s depth varies now, compared to the early days when it was always deep. Crying is no longer my most common state, but it is still common. I read this the other day (there was no citation) and it really struck a chord with me,

It’s not the kind of sadness where you cry all of the time, but more like the sadness that overwhelms your entire body, leaving your heart aching and your stomach empty, making you feel weak and tired. And yet, you can’t even sleep cause the sadness is in your dreams too. It’s almost a sadness you can’t escape.

To know me, now, is to know sadness. I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m learning to be okay with the fact that I will never truly be okay. But, in accepting that I will never truly be okay, I think I will be okay. The greatest gift you can give to me and others who are in sad phases of their life, is to accept them, sadness and all. I will show up if you let me be me.

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I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

I am the girl with the dead mom.

My hand aches. My heart aches.