Tag Archives: mother loss

From the kitchen of Mama B

Standard

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:

img_1151

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.

Advertisements

but, why?

Standard

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 ūüėČ ).

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.

.

Standard

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.

fly, baby

Standard

I started my university career in 2002. It was a very quick transition from spending my summer in Honey Harbour¬†working with 3 and 4 year olds at the Delawana Inn,¬†to one night at my parent’s house, to my new apartment-style residence with new roommates.

The summer, like every summer through high school working at camp, was fun. Being at camp was like being with ‘my people’. If you’ve ever attended or worked at a camp, you’ll know exactly what I mean. My mom would drive up to visit me on my days off, my sister mailed me delicious cookies and other treats, and my friends sent me lots of snail mail.

Leaving camp that summer was hard, but the quick turnaround to university was even harder. I remember I cried on the way home from camp the day I left, my mom just driving, not needing to say anything. Change is just hard for me, and I was very nervous about moving away from home for school.

The day my mom and dad drove me to school, was a day later than everyone else. I was the last of my roommates to move in. I was petrified. While we were moving in, I met so many lovely folks, some of who are still among my dearest friends.

My dear friend Tara often jokes with me about that day. I stuck to my mom’s side, and when anyone asked me a question, I just looked at my mom with a deer in the headlights kind of expression. My mom did more talking that day than I did. I was quite shy back in the day – I know you¬†might be shocked by this, but my residence don later described me that year as the quietest loud person he had ever met…. or maybe he said the loudest quiet person.

After we had unloaded my belongings, my parents took me out to eat, afterwards dropping me off in front of my residence. I don’t remember the exact words that were exchanged, but I remember I was so nervous, and I told my mom I was worried that I wouldn’t make any friends. What if nobody liked me? I can’t quite remember what my mom said to me, but I remember how she made me feel so loved, giving me the courage I needed to go back into my residence on my own. She told me to just be myself. She wanted me to fly.

One of the best things my mom ever did for me, was to love me for exactly who I was, without hesitation or expectation. She loved me because I existed. She loved sharing in the activities I loved, like dancing – spending hours upon hours curling my hair, sitting at the dance studio, and driving me to and from competitions. Through her support and unconditional love, she gave me the ability to develop confidence in myself. She made it okay if not everybody liked me, because she showed me that regardless of what another person might think, I was loveable.

She led by example, teaching me to trust in those who did care for me, and teaching me to be kind and respect those who I didn’t click with, for one reason or another – or at least to continue to aim for those ideals.

Mom on my wedding day, 2008

Mom on my wedding day, 2008

When I think of moving to university and starting, for the first time, my real life away from home, I think of these lessons. I think of how my mom heard my anxieties and fears about leaving, and gave me the love, encouragement, and little push that I needed. I remember that she trusted and believed in me – she believed that I would succeed at school, she believed that I would develop long-lasting, supportive friendships, and she believed that I could do it all on my own. She believed I could fly.

Thank you, mama. I think I’m flying.

 

 

The everyday

Standard

A year of firsts – the first time for everything to happen without my mom and uncle. We still have a lot of big firsts to get through, Easter, Mother’s Day, birthdays, and what would have been my parent’s 44th anniversary. A lot of people reach out on those big days, and for that I am so thankful. They are hard days, and I’m sure they will be for a long time. But, for me, what hurts more than those big days are all the other days in between.

The hard times are when we’re¬†in the car¬†and¬†Maddy says something hilarious, and I pick up my phone to text my mom. When the clock hits 3:30 and I have a moment of excitement that my mom will be home from work soon and I can call her to talk about nothing… and everything. Every morning when I wake up to face another day without my mom, and every night when¬†I climb into bed with the knowledge that I survived another day. The helplessness of seeing so many others¬†with the one thing I desperately want, but having no power to make it my reality.

2010_07_28 Ashley & Eric Woodstock Move Lynda's IMG_0118rev

IMG_0202

The tough moments are¬†when we run into issues with our house and I want to ask Uncle Rob what he would do. Drinking a Pepsi and thinking about how Uncle Rob and I always fought on the same side of the Pepsi vs Coke debate, making jokes about our superior taste buds. Emailing photos and videos of the girls to extended family, the absence of my Uncle’s email address on my screen so glaringly obvious.

2011 09 11 Christenings of Logan & Maddy Lynda Picture 029rev

 

2012 10 20 Chloe's First Birthday Lynda IMG_1346

The enormity of forever.

I am¬†constantly balancing two worlds – while my body is physically present, my mind frequently wanders in and out of that physical world, thinking of my mom and uncle more times than I suspect many realize. It’s a daily battle with grief, managing feelings of sadness, anger, shame, and loneliness, while working to not get bitter or resentful. It’s processing a feeling, only to have it resurface¬†again and again.

When I have the energy, I fight to make connections with those who are willing to connect, even though I am often¬†simultaneously feeling¬†anger¬†towards them for a number of irrational reasons. I am actively¬†forgiving those who don’t get it and who unintentionally create additional hurt. I am determined¬†to not allow my grief to shape me into a person that I don’t want to be. I am working towards forgiving and being kind to myself.

The hard in-between-the-big-days days are a balancing act of facing my feelings head on, openly admitting them through a variety of activities to take the pressure off, and giving myself a break. Protecting my heart and saying no when I need to, while also challenging myself and saying yes when I think I can. Searching for beauty, while wrestling with the fear that seeing beauty somehow diminishes my¬†loss. Reminding myself to trust that my soul knows what it needs to survive this loss, and blocking out what the world thinks I need or what I should or shouldn’t do.

The everyday¬†is¬†Eric’s soft voice at the end of the day telling me he’s sorry…. because there is nothing else to say.