The one where I pretend to post but it really doesn’t count as a post

March 13, 2006

A real update is coming soon.  Honest.  I have just received so many amazing emails from people checking on me that I wanted to let you all know that I really am okay am here.  Things are just really, really hard right now.  I will be back in a day or two. I promise.  Just give me a bit to try to get “the mental” back.  Because sometimes life can just be too much and you need to have the help of those you love to get you through.  Thanks to friends who have understood even when I let them down this past weekend (I am so sorry!) and to friends who take panicked phone calls while I babble incoherently (and hearing what I am not saying!) and to my sister who made that horrific drive from Houston to Dallas just to help me out of this black hole.

I do have updates on birthdays, goodbyes and breakdowns.  Soon.  I promise.

(more…)

I’m just so tired. So raw.

February 15, 2006

There are many days I wonder when or if things will ever feel better.  It has been 1 month, 9 days, 12 hours and 10 minutes since Mom died.  (But who’s counting?) And I still feel so discombobulated it is unreal.  Sometimes it feels so unreal that I think it must be some huge mistake that has been made.  Other times it is so real it feels as if a cannon has been shot through my heart and I can’t breathe.  Last night I was talking to Dad and he said he “took flowers to Mom and took some for me.” Coming out of my mouth before I was even aware of the thought I heard myself ask, “So how is she?” The long pause is what caused my brain to kick in and be bitter.  “Yeah.  Still dead.  Sorry Daddy.” And I burst into tears.

I want to just crawl in bed and wake up when everything will feel “right.” Yet, I want to rush forward and make everything like it was.  I can’t do either.  This having to go through the process part really sucks.  I think I am doing okay and then I will realize that I can’t stand being around anyone and have to go for a walk so that I don’t become the crazy angry mom.  Or I think that I am in a happy mood and see something that makes me smile, but then I start to cry because, well, my mom is dead.  It is lonely.  I want to grab someone and say, “Just sit with me.  Let’s just sit together.  We don’t have to talk, but if I need to, let me without telling me that it will get better.  Or let me just sit with you and cry and you don’t have to tell me anything.  Just let me.” But it is lonely here.  Even with my very understanding husband.  As much as he loves me and supports me in this, I know he wants me back, too.  I am not ME.  I don’t know who I am, but it isn’t ME. 

I am raw.

I am angry.

I am alone.

I am motherless.

I am hurting.

But I still don’t know who I am.

I didn’t know, I couldn’t have known, the intensity with which I would miss her.  If I had known, I would have crawled beside her and begged her to tell me how to go on without a mother.  I would have insisted she give me every single bit of advice that mothers are supposed to give.  Not just up until you are 36, but much, much longer.  Gabrie is only 4!  I have so many mother-daughter questions.  Did I learn enough just being a daughter to be able to be a good mother during the teen years?  The lessons we learn from out moms…did I learn them all?

I don’t want to cry anymore.  I don’t want to be angry or raw or scared anymore. 

And then we add the guilt.  Oh, the guilt.

The boys are really struggling right now. They need their mother.  They need ME.  But again, who the hell is ME anymore? I am a shell right now trying to come back.  One of my sons is really struggling in school.  His grades are dropping and he is not focusing.  He cries so easily.  He gets sick and then worries that he will get more behind.  He needs his mother to be there for him.  And I am trying.  Oh how I am trying.  My other son, he wouldn’t cry over his grandmother’s death.  He just wouldn’t.  But now, he needs me more than ever.  He needs me to help with school work.  He needs me to let him know that he won’t feel like this forever.  He needs me to hold him and let him know that I am there for him and will always be there for him to help him get through this.

I feel so badly that I have lost sight of them in my grief.  That in my own pain and fog, I am forgetting that my boys hurt too and they, too, need their Mommy.  And I am here.  But I am not.  I have to try to pull it together for them.  They have to have the support of their mother.  I know that.  And yet, I am feeling so empty and distant from the world, I don’t know how to help them.  And my heart is breaking for them.  Because here I am in the flesh and they are begging for me to be ME, and I don’t know how to get back there.  I don’t know what path to take to make it all okay for them.  To let them know that their Mom WILL be okay.  That I am here for them even if I seem a bit off right now. 

I am tired of hurting.  Of letting people down.  I am tired of this nightmare.

I am tired.

(more…)

Sometimes I guess there aren’t enough rocks

February 5, 2006

One of my favorite scenes in Forrest Gump is when Jenny returns to her childhood home. All of her anger and pain and resentment built up, she reaches down for a rock and hurls it at that house. That hurling of the rock must’ve felt so good. To hear the glass shatter. To see the house break. She picked up another. And another. And another. Until finally in exhaustion she collapses onto the ground. Spent. Drained. Forrest sits beside her and says in that way he does, “Sometimes I guess there aren’t enough rocks.”

I know it is human nature to want to hurl rocks at the injustices in life. To hurl them at something that has hurt you. Trust me, when the doctors were telling me that my Mom was not going to make it, I understood.

“Then you aren’t doing enough to help!” *hurl*

Or when someone would tell me that she was in a better place and better off now. I didn’t want her there. I wanted her here. I was angry that someone would tell me it was selfish of me to be mad that she was gone.

“What do you know? Have you lost your Mom?” *hurl*

There are times when someone you love and trust hurts you so deeply you can hardly breathe. You have no idea what to do, so you pick up your rocks of words and hurl them at them to make them hurt.

“I know your darkest secrets and I will expose them!” *hurl*

But the thing with hurling the rocks when you are hurting is that they have a tendency to boomerang back towards the very pain within you. In that one instance that you throw that rock, it feels good. I mean, admit it. It feels good to fling that rock of anger and pain with all of your might at the target that caused it, but all it does is exhaust you and ends up boomeranging back towards your own pain. The rock you hurled with intent to hurt someone else, ends up hurting you in the very spot you were aiming to hurt them.

There just aren’t enough rocks to hurl to heal your own inner pain. To heal yourself when you feel someone has wronged you. To make words that devestate you be taken back. There are not enough rocks to ease that.

I am blessed in that this last week I had two very dear friends of mine confront me.

One gently took my hand and softly said, “Jenn, it is time to drop this rock. You need to let it go. You are the only one it will hurt in the long run.” And with the love only a good friend can show you, she shook the rock from my hand and told me to stand up and walk away.

The other asked me what I gained by hurling rocks.

I told her defiantly, “It felt good. I don’t have to take that.”

“But what are you gaining?”

I had no answer. I only had a handful of rocks and a hurting spirit. I dropped my rocks and became silent. “So what do I do now?”

She softly answered, “Quit picking up rocks.”

You see, no matter how good that initial hurling feels, there will never, ever be enough rocks to make it better. There will never be enough force behind the throw to make the pain go away. All it will do is cause pain to myself and to my own heart.

Sometimes there just aren’t enough rocks. So I’ve dropped mine and moved on.

I still miss you, Mom

January 28, 2006

It has been 3 weeks since my mom passed away.  It seems like it just happened.  Every now and then I get a punch in the gut and it hits me that she is gone.  For me, I need to talk a bit about her.  If it is too much, I understand.  I will be posting at Mommybloggers next week where you can find more wit and wisdom.  (Or at least something that resembles that!)

~~~~

Mom was first diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in the late 80’s.  It really pissed her off, too.  Oh how she hated that she was dealt that particular card in life.  She could handle the fact that it was slowly robbing her of her mobility.  She could handle the medication that she was suddenly overwhelmed with.  What really upset her was the fact that the particular form of MS robbed her of so much of her emotions and her personality.  More times than I could count she would tell me that all she wanted was to “be herself” and get back to who she was before this damn disease took over her life.  Helplessly, all I could do was tell her I was sorry and I wished the same thing.  We all wanted to have her back to the amazingly hysterical woman she had always been.  However, even when she was really sick, she always had a bright smile for everyone.  And her humor was there.  Not as it once was, but she still was able to snap off the smart-ass response–even when she could barely speak past her treach tube.  That’s Mom for you.  (Yes, I know…like Mother, like daughter.)

~~~~~

This past July my sister had come to stay with me for a few days to rest and get some relaxation.  It has been a long tiring summer and she needed a small retreat in order to recharge.  (She knows that if she ever needs a break, my home is the one to go to.  I am laid back and let the kids make whatever mess they want to make, am fully stocked with magazines that could just probably cause one to lose an IQ point or two just from reading and my husband is an amazing cook.  My home can be a retreat if you need one.  That and you know you can sleep in and awake to hot coffee.  She needed the break so we were looking forward to a time to recharge.

Which is why my heart skipped a beat when at 7:30am my phone rang.  Anyone who knows me knows that there better be something extremely important if you are taking the chance of waking me up that early.  When caller ID showed that it was my Dad calling, my world stopped for a moment.  He would never call that early unless something was wrong.  He was calling to tell me that he had to take my Mom to the hospital for severe stomach pains.  The doctors were not sure what it was, but he would let us know.  I looked at my sister and she looked at me and something deep in our gut told us this was it.  This was so much worse than anyone knew.  I still don’t know why we both felt that at that early time, but we both felt it.  On paper, there was no reason for us to think that.  Not then.  But we struggled as to what to do.  Do we immediately pack up the kids and head down there?  Do we wait to see what happens?  Do we just ignore the pit in our gut and try to maintain a sense of “nothing is wrong” and let the kids play?  After some time alone and a few margaritas, we knew that we could not ignore the gut feeling we had and began the “Let’s get going” process.  Little did we know the road that was ahead of us.

This was just before BlogHer ‘05.  It was encompassed by so much other turmoil that was thrust upon me at that time as well, I just didn’t know which way was up, let alone feel like I could go to a conference to lead a session, meet new people and try to be social.  It was the amazing friends I met at BlogHer that have gotten me through this time now.  Some I knew just from emails, some from phone calls and some who threatened to come get me if I didn’t get my butt there. (Ladies, you all know who you are.) Through those lifelong friendships I made there, I am have been able to find my way through these last 6 months.

~~~~~

The Friday before Christmas, my Dad, my sister and I met with all of the people working on Mom’s case.

“We need you to know that we have done everything we can do for her.”

“But what does that mean?” I cried.  “What do you mean all that you can do?”

“Well, she has infections that have been resistant to every medication we have tried and that we have available.  Her kidneys are failing despite dialysis.  Her heart is weakened.  She can no longer take any nourishment even from her feeding tube.  Out best case scenario is that she stays as she is.  Best case.”

Best case meant meant bedridden, with a treach-tube, not speaking, not eating, having very little mental capacity.

What do you say when you are told that?  What do you do?  For me?  I cried.  My Dad and my sister asked the right questions.  They said the right things.  Me?  I cried.  I just begged them to not let her suffer.

“Please, please, treat her with dignity and respect and please do not let her suffer.  Don’t let my mommy suffer.” Then I cried. And the doctors and therapists cried.  I didn’t want their comfort though.  Not those who were bringing me this news.  I refused to let the doctors or anyone else comfort me.  I simply allowed my sister to hold my hand.  Which meant more than anything.

Christmas was tough knowing that Mom was at the end.  The children kept the spirit of Christmas alive.  Their excitement was contagious.  They brought joy where we thought there was no room for anything but pain.  Children are amazing that way.  They tend to have such a simplicity to their lives.  We chose to not say anything to anyone else in the family until after Christmas.  The following Tuesday, we met with the representative for hospice to see how it would all work.  Before that meeting was all over, there was not a dry eye in the room.  It was the right thing to do in our minds, but our hearts wanted to keep her with us forever.  I never really understood the complicated emotions and guilt that come with hospice care.  I never knew that the family had so many decisions to make and things to prepare for.  The kindness we were shown was above what I would have ever hoped for.  I only pray I can pay it forward one day.

After that meeting we had the horrific job of going to the cemetery to choice a plot, a casket and all of the things that go with that.  I don’t know if it is a fortunate thing or an unfortunate thing, but we got one of the most scatterbrained people I have come across in years.  Basically, you take 3 grief stricken people and mix them with Suzy Scatterbrain (or Veronica Vodka.  I am not sure) and you are going to hear some pretty smart ass remarks.  At one point when she was showing us a particular area, I asked in (in a completely serious tone) “Excuse me, but can you tell us about her neighbors in this area?  I mean, is it a pretty good neighborhood?”

She just stared at me.  She replied, “Oh, sure.  This area is nice.  Just over there is a police officer.  And here, just beside her is an elderly man who just passed.  And a plus to this partiular plot is that the space to the right will not be used.  She won’t have neighbors to the right.” (I SWEAR she said this.)

I almost snorted my own nose inside out trying not to laugh.  From under her breath my sister replied, “I dunno.  This area seems kind of dead.” Which sent me over the edge into a fit of giggles.  Suzy had no humor and was shocked that we had anything to laugh about.

But you have to laugh.  You just have to laugh or the reality of it all will just be too much for you heart to handle and you will never get through it.

~~~~

I have written before that I worried I might now have said all of the right things or let her know how I feel.  I worried that maybe there was more to say.  When you know that someone you love so much is going to die you want to make sure you have done everything you can so that you are not left feeling guilt or feeling like there were things unsaid.

When we realized that Mom wouldn’t make it much longer and we were looking at a mere days left, both my Dad and my sister took the time to talk to her.  To say what they needed to say.  To share things with her that they needed to share.  Me?  I laid my head on her pillow and cried instead.  I just didn’t know how to do it.

The next day when it was just Mom and me I held her hand and she just started at me.  Waiting.  My eyes filled with tears and I finally asked her, “Are you waiting for me to admit what is going on and to talk to you about it?”

She just smiled her famous smile and gave me that look that pretty much could be summed up with the intelligent term, “DUH!”

So, through many tears and a thousand “I love yous”, I was able to acknowledge that I was about to lose her here on Earth.  That she would soon be free of all of this pain and all of the horrendous things that MS had done to her body.  I was able to tell her she was my hero and that I would always strive to be as wonder a Mom as she has always been.  She smiled.  She nodded.  She whispered she loved me.  I tolded her when she sees Jacob to tell him that his Mommy loves him and still misses him.  We shared moments that are just between us and ones I will cherish forever. 

It was the hardest thing I have ever done.

~~~~

I am not big into loud emotional displays.  Unless of course I am all up in your face in anger.  Then, perhaps.  But those soap-opera dramatic scream-cries?  Not for me.  However, when I saw her before her funeral I was not at all able to be the calm, quiet crier that the rest of my family had become.  My knees buckled and the sound that was emitted from my throat sounded inhuman.  I now know what it means to be knocked off your feet in anguish.  I know she laughed, too.  I know she did because we always laughed at the hysterics on soap operas.  I mean, No One acts like that in real life.  When it happened, you better believe Mom was hooting and hollering in heaven calling me Hope Brady, the drama queen.  It did make me giggle to think about it later.

I am getting to a place where I am better.  I assumed that as time moved on, I would move on as well.  You just have to.  But, it seems like when things calm down and the reality hits you, you are not always able to think rationally.  Now is the time I want to call my Mommy.  Now is the time I want to hear her laugh.  For 6 months I called the hospital to check on her and then my Dad to check on him.  Every night.  For 6 months.  I cannot begin to describe the knot that fills my stomach every night at that time when I don’t call.  Because I know she is gone.  It is grieving all over again.

I have promised Clint that I won’t up and move back to Dad’s house, but I would love to be there.  It was a safe haven there.  A place where I could cry or not cry.  Actively do something or not.  Where I could curl up beside my Dad, wrap up in my Mom’s blanket and for just a brief moment be the little girl who doesn’t have to hurt over losing her Mom.

~~~~

Mom had a very strong belief in heaven and the ability to send those of us left behind signs that they are fine and that you will get through this. I cannot tell you the number of signs she received in her life after the loss of a loved one.  So before she died, I begged her to find a way to send me a sign.  Many signs.  (I can be dense, you know.) She smiled that smile that took over her whole face and winked at me.  Silent agreement.

The day she died, I was running errands.  (Because that is what you do when you are in shock and mourning, right?) As I flipped through the radio stations–annoyed by everything that was playing– my attention was caught by the following:

“And now a special email dedication from Sandy.”

Of course that caused me to stop and listen, to a station I have never listened to before.  The following was playing.  It made me laugh.  It made me cry.  And it made me beg mom to keep those signs coming!

When I get where I’m going

On the far side of the sky

The first thing that I’m gonna do

Is spread my wings and fly

I’m gonna land beside a lion

And run my fingers through his mane

Or I might find out what it’s like

To ride a drop of rain

Chorus:

Yeah when I get where I’m going

There’ll be only happy tears

I will shed the sins and struggles

I have carried all these years

And I’ll leave my heart wide open

I will love and have no fear

Yeah when I get where I’m going

Don’t cry for me down here

I’m gonna walk with my grand daddy

And he’ll match me step for step

And I’ll tell him how I missed him

Every minute since he left

Then I’ll hug his neck

Repeat chorus

So much pain and so much darkness

In this world we stumble through

All these questions I can’t answer

So much work to do

But when I get where I’m going

And I see my maker’s face

I’ll stand forever in the light

Of his amazing grace

Yeah when I get where I’m going

There’ll be only happy tears

Hallelujah

I will love and have no fear

When I get where I’m going

Yeah when I get where I’m going

(more…)

You can never out-love your Mom

November 2, 2005

Since becoming a mother I have discovered something that I never imagined to be true when I was growing up.  Something my mother used to say to me, but I always told her it was impossible.  Turns out, she was right.  She always told me:  You can never out-love your mother.  ANd you can’t.  It is impossible.  Even when she is your hero as my mom has always been to me.  Simply put, you just cannot out-love her.  I am a mother to three and know that there is no way they could ever love me more than I love them.  No way they will know the deep intensity of love for the very beings that I brought into this world and am raising to one day go forward and change the world around them.  They could never out-love me. 

Just as I can never out-love my own mom.

As a little girl I learned more from Mom than I could ever document in an essay or column.  I learned how to be the woman I am today.  I probably even learned my distain for sorting socks from her.  The best thing I learned from her was to laugh. You just have to laugh in the face of any horror you are confronted with.  You have to look at fear, pain and, yes, even death and laugh.  Or you will cry and it will win.  What an amazing gift she gave me with her laughter and her humor.

I was always Mommy’s Little Helper growing up.  Perhaps it was the “youngest child” syndrome.  Or maybe the suck-up gene.  But honestly, I think it has more to do with the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed her company.  She made anything and everything fun.  Nothing was so bad that she couldn’t find either humor in it or a way to remind you why you should be laughing.  Helping her out was my greatest joy as a little girl.  I would “help” her fold clothes. (Which probably always led to her redoing them later, but never in front of me.) I would “help” her clean the dishes. (Which equated to making lots of bubbles and getting the sink, floor and both of us soaking wet.) I would “help” her carry heavy things that looked like they were too much for her to carry alone.  (Now, I see that she was carrying it and I was merely placing my hands on it, probably making it heavier.) It is now that I have my own Mommy’s Little Helper I realize how little I was helping her and how much she was actually helping me.  A mother’s love.  There is nothing like it.  And no pain like knowing it is going to leave your life.

There is a certain grief that comes before death.  A cruel time of waiting.  A limbo where you desperately want more time, yet agonize over every new ailment or setback.  A time when you desperately want death to just hurry up if it is going to come.  Just stop taking her piece by piece.  Stop robbing us of her bit by bit until she is no longer there.  There is a cruelty to a slow death that torments those who are standing on the sidelines watching it happen, for those of us who see it lurking in the corner and wonder, “Are you coming? Is it time?  What do we do until you decide to end this sadistic dance and let the music finally end?”

Honestly, I get really mad at all of this.  I want to scream at Death and tell it to just stop screwing around with her.  To just go away until it is time.  But it hasn’t listened.  It sneaks in, steals another part of Mom and slithers back out.  To those who haven’t known her forever, it is hardly noticable when she has been robbed of another aspect of what makes her who she is.  To those of us who have always known her, there is a huge emptiness that is left behind.  A hole in the very essence of who she is that has been taken from us.  Before we were ready.

I can’t stop what is happening to her.  I can’t do anything to ease it or make it less cruel.  I can’t even be there for her on a daily basis.  There are days I am so thankful that I don’t have to face this in person on a day to day basis.  And then I hate myself for thinking that.  For being thankful that I don’t have to watch her go.  How awful is it that I find relief in my absense?  Because when I am with her, I hurt.  Because there is still so much I have to say to her.  There is so much that I need to know.  Why didn’t I ask her about the little things when there was time?  Why didn’t I tell her that being her daughter was the most fun, most amazing experience in the world?  Why didn’t I ask her to share more of her stories with me? And then the anger hits again.

The last time I was with her she apologized.  Can you believe that?  She apologized to me that she was so sick.  She cannot even use her voice past her treach tube, yet she managed to whisper out the very words I have been telling her.  I’m so sorry. 

I hope I have told her enough that she was a good mom.  I hope I have given her enough love to get her through those hard times in our past of slammed doors and rolled eyes.  I hope she knows that although I am aware I can never outlove my Mom, I sure can come close.

It has been a few days since she has been awake when she has visitors.  The doctors refer to her as minimally responsive.  Which basically means if you poke her with a needle or start a proceedure on her, she will open her eyes wide and give you a scared look followed by a go to hell look.  But when my Dad has been there, she wouldn’t wake up to see him.  When my sister was there, Mom opened her eyes once after my sister repeatedly and loudly told her to. Very loudly and very sternly.  As Mom must have done for us as children when we were not responding to her when she was asking us to do something for her. 

My heart shatters each time I hear that she is asleep more than awake now.  Does she know what is happening?  Is she scared?  Does she wonder why I am not sitting by her bedside holding her hand as she has done for me countless times?  Or has Death done it’s only merciful act and already stolen her ability to reason those things out? 

Bit by bit.  Day by day.  I grieve for her.  In a way, I wonder if these little deaths are more painful than the big one that is inevitable.  There is a desperation that wants this nightmare to end, yet a fear that never wants her to leave me because I love her and cannot imagine her not being here.  And this waiting, this watching, this grieving…it is hard.  I wonder what she must be thinking when I stand beside her bed and tell her how much I love her.  I wonder if she hears me and knows all of the things I want to say but just cannot find the words to express them.  Yet, when I leave her and return home to my boys and my own baby girl and hold them in my arms, or watch them play or even when stand over their sleeping bodies when I check on them at night, I am comforted in knowing that no matter how much I love Mom, there is a peace that comes and surrounds me just by knowing the very basic truth that …

You can never out-love your Mom.

(more…)

I want my Mommy

September 29, 2005

I am changing.  I’m not sure I am a big fan of it.  Physically, you can see it.  Those tiny lines around my eyes are not so tiny anymore.  The dark circles under my eyes are darker.  My face just looks different.  Older.  Wiser? I’m not sure.  But definitely older.  The past two months are taking their toll on me.

But it isn’t the physical changes that bother me.  It is the deeper, hidden changes I feel that I am fighting.  I want to slam on the brakes and stop this.  Other people, older people face the death of a parent.  Not me.  I am certainly not mature enough to handle something this hard.  This heartbreaking.  This life changing.  I don’t want to be that person.

There is a bond between a mother and daughter.  Something that binds them together in a way that no other relationship can.  Many women identify who they are as women and mothers by their own mothers.  Whether they are trying to not “become” their mother or if they are trying to mimic the one woman they identify the most with.  A deep part of who they are comes from their Mom.

What do I do when my Mom dies?  Who do I become?  Even though my mom has not been “my Mom” for years due to her MS and the way it robbed her of so much, I need her. Right now, she is still there.  I can talk to her.  I can hug her.  I have always been “Sandy’s daughter.” It makes me proud. She is a very loved woman.  If you have ever thought I was funny, trust me, I am nothing compared to my Mom.  She has always been the funniest woman you will ever meet.  Even now, she will crack a joke or laugh at her own expense.  She sees humor in any situation.  When I get in one of my silly moods or hit super sarcasm mode, the common refrain is “She is her mother’s daughter.”

And I am.  I am my mother’s daughter.  And my mother is dying.  A huge part of who I am is dying.  And I just can’t wrap my mind or my heart around that.  I am not ready.  I am just not ready.

Little things that seemed so important suddenly have lost so much of their power.  My home is a wreck?  So what.  My Mom is dying.  What’s for dinner?  Who cares!  My Mom is dying. What have you written today?  Nothing.  My Mom is dying. When the grocery store clerk asks me if I have found everything I needed and how I am doing, I struggle with “Fine” but I want to shout, “I am in non-stop turmoil and want to just not feel this way. Do you have a product to make me better??!” Where I used to be hyper involved with my kids’ schools, now I can barely muster the interest to pick them up after school, let alone know what is going on during the day or when they have tests, programs or special days. I feel like I am moving under water while the rest of the world is flowing in the fast lane. 

I know I am depressed.  Who can blame me?  I know that.  But in all honesty, how do you not feel anguish as you watch your very own flesh and blood, your hero, lying in ICU suffering?  How do you not let it take over every emotion you feel (or try not to feel)?

I am grateful I was able to spend so much time with her when I was in the hospital during their lock down.  I was there around the clock to be able to cool her with a rag when her fever rose.  I was able to hold her hand when she got dialysis.  I tried so hard to comfort her when she told me she was scared.  She asked me if I was scared too.  How do you answer that?  How?  So, I looked into her eyes, and with all of the strength I could muster, I lied to her. I told her that I was not scared and that I was there for her.  I told her to take my strength and know that she is not alone.  When she fell asleep I whispered, “Yes, Mommy.  I am very scared.  I want my Mommy. But you should not be scared.  I don’t want you to be scared.  Forgive me for lying.”

I’m changing.  And I don’t like it.

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Focus on the people

September 7, 2005

I have basically avoided writing about Katrina (aside from adding a button to be able to donate to the Red Cross).  Everything has been said by now.  That and the fact that I am just so overwhelmed by all of the devastation.  Don’t expect any political posts, government rants or finger pointing here either.  The basic fact is that we failed these people.  Whether you love the current president or hate him.  Whether you are liberal or conservative or even communinst for that matter, the bottom line is that not enough was done to help.  Not sure you feel that way?  Read this amazing nurse’s account of what she and her patients had to endure then come back and tell me that we as a nation were prepared for this. 

But the thing is, I am not to a place where I feel qualified or informed enough to point fingers.  Maybe it is because I am in a location where I am more removed from the politics and smack in the middle of the people effected.  Here is Dallas, not a day goes by where you don’t see someone who is an evacuee.  Go to any WalMart in the area and ask if anyone there needs help or aid.  You WILL find someone.  Reunion Arena is full.  They have more donations than they know what to do with.  It is wonderful to see the people in this city opening up their homes, their wallets and giving their time to help.

This weekend I was in WalMart and met a woman and her husband there with their infant daughter.  There she stood in the infant area trying to get what she could of diapers and formula for her baby.  As she talked about losing her house and everything in it, I have never felt more helpless.  I just held her hand and cried.  What could I possibly say to help her?  Blame someone for her horrific situation?  Tell her “At least you aren’t in the Astrodome or Reunion Arena!”?  I don’t think any of that would make her feel better or help her.  Yes, she is one of the more fortunate (although, “fortunate” is rather relative, isn’t it) families who have not had to live in a dome or arena.  She has been able to find somewhere else to stay.  When you meet these families face to face, when you go to the overflowing hospitals, when you go to the arena where the homeless are living, you get angry.  You hurt.  You feel so many things it would be impossible to find the right words to discuss it.  But for now, it is about the people.

Don’t get me wrong.  I think it is vital that we find out just how and where the failure occured so that we ensure this never, ever happens again.  I am just not there yet. 

I am going back to Houston tonight.  I am going to visit my mom still in ICU.  From what I hear, the ICU is filled to capacity there with victims of the hurricane.  While I am in Houston, I hope I can go volunteer at the Astrodome.  Seeing the numerous evacuees here in Dallas, I cannot even begin to fathom what it will be like in Houston.  But this I do know, I can help.  Somehow, someway.

If you have any information about where exactly to go to volunteer there, please let me know.  If anyone needs any supplies or donations taken down there, let me know.  It seems like so little, but right now, it is all I can do.

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Update on Mom

August 6, 2005

I want to thank so many for you for emailing me asking about my Mom.  I appreciate the kindness you have shown me.  I wanted to go ahead and update you all here as well.

The Thursday before BlogHer Mom went from ICU into a private room.  She was looking good, so they felt comfortable with the move.  However, her body was just not healing like it should have.  I am sure that her MS is complicating the healing process.  So, they moved her back to the ICU.  It appears that what is good for her heart/lungs is making her kidneys freak out and what is good for her kidneys is freaking out the heart/lungs.  They are trying to get it to a point where all of the treatments work together to heal her.

She has been in the hospital for over 2 weeks.  Right now, she is not even wanting to eat anything.  I am sure she is getting depressed over still being at the hospital and in ICU.  I don’t blame her.  But not eating is not going to help her heal!

I cannot describe the frustration in me of being so far away.  If I were living closer, I could visit her.  I could sit with her and hold her hand and try to help her through this.  I am not miracle worker and don’t think that my being there will miraculously cure her.  In fact, if I am totally honest I would have to admit it would do me a lot more good than it would her.  I hate not being there.

But I cannot be there.  My kids start school next week.  My responsibility is to be here with them and get them ready.  To be here for their first day of school.  To buy them new shoes and school clothes and go to open house with them.  My priority is to my kids right now.  My heart is torn in two.

The daughter in me wants to race back to my Mom and curl up in bed beside her and help her.  The mother in me needs to be here for my children and share in all of the back to school things that come up.  To share the excitement and fears.  To answer questions and calm their nerves.

I would be by my Mom’s side as fast as I could get there if they told me to be there.  I have amazing friends here who have already offered to watch my children and keep things flowing if I had to leave.  So, I know I don’t have to worry about the logistics if I need to leave.  I just wish it wasn’t an issue.  I wish I could be there.  *sigh*

So, that is where things are now.  Thanks for your support and caring.  It means a lot!

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Who the hell do I think I am?

July 1, 2005

Last week I got a nasty little email from someone (a stranger no less) that confronted me about a project I had in the works. I am not going to waste the bandwidth copying it here. But there is a point to bringing it up. In the email the person asked me (in quite the nasty way) “Who the hell do you think you are to do this?” My first instinct was to fire off my own response pretty much questioning that person’s parentage and telling them where to go and how to get there. But calmer heads prevailed and I kept quiet.

But it really did get me thinking. “Who the hell am I?”

Well, I am a wife and mother. A sister and daughter. A niece. An aunt. A cousin. A friend. Those are a few of my labels. Those are easy. But that doesn’t answer the question of who I am.

I cry when I hold a newborn.

I laugh at the silly and the immature things in life.

I get angry when someone kicks the underdog.

My attention span is short but my patience is long.

My feelings can get hurt too easily, but my will is strong.

If I love you, I do so with all of my heart.

Friendship means everything to me.

If you cross me, I won’t hold back in letting you know how I feel.

By the same token, when I appreciate you, I won’t hold back my gratitude either.

So, “Who the hell am I?”

I am that 8th grade girl whose best friend became her worst enemy in a matter of days for reasons that were never clear to her, so she always blamed herself. The young girl who will always have a part of her think it is her fault now when a friendship goes south.

I am that 16 year old teen who immediately had a crush on that 16 year old boy at a high school party. The girl who blushed every time that boy looked at her. That 16 year old girl who still blushes when that boy she married looks at her that way after all these years together.

I am a woman in her mid-thirties who still feels like she is playing house when she talks to her friends about mortgages, parenting and about the best school districts. A woman who wonders at what age she will finally feel like a legitimate adult.

I am a daughter who is watching her mother be destroyed by a disease that has no cure, no chance of improvement and does nothing but destroy. The daughter who still wants to crawl into her mother’s lap and have her make it all better but finds herself doing all of the comforting in their relationship.  whose mother passed away in Jnauary of 2006 after a 6 month stay in ICU following complications after surgery (made worse by her MS).  But still that little girl who misses her mother’s hugs more than anything in this world.  Just trying to navigate being a motherless daughter.

I am a mother whose baby died way too soon. A mother who is raising her three children, but still says a birthday prayer on her son’s birthday. A mother who will always hold a spot in her heart for all 4 of her children.

I am a mother who does her best to raise her children without screwing them up too much. A mother who questions most parental decisions, yet still watches her children thrive in spite of it all. A mother trying to find her own way as a parent, yet still falling back on the lessons learned from her own childhood.

I am a drug addict who fights daily the battle to make the right choices when I am under immense stress and try to not take the easy way out. An addict who, when she feels back into a corner, can easily forget how bad it can get but quickly recall how good it felt. But an addict who is 8 years clean, nevertheless.

I am a writer who puts her heart into her words and even when she gets paid for her work still wonders if she has any talent. A writer who tries to ignore the critics, yet hears their voices the loudest.

I am all of those things and so much more. Want to try to slam me down by asking me “who the hell I think I am”? Bring it on. I’d be more than happy to tell you.

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For my baby, Jacob Christopher

April 7, 2005

[Editors note:  This was supposed to go live on the 7th and for some reason got lost in the abyss of my site.  I am reposting it for the date it was supposed to go live.]

For more than a decade, I hated when this day comes around every year.  This date.  April 7th.  Thirteen years ago it fell between the 6th in which I was blissfully pregnant and naive and eager to have a baby and fell just before 8th which was the dreadful day that I had to leave the hospital alone without having ever seen or held my son.

April 7th is the one day of the year that I don’t try to pretend I am okay if I am not.  I usually am not okay.  I am usually sad.  Maybe a day when come when I forget, but I seriously doubt that.  He is my son.  Living here or not, he is my son.  I gave birth to him. He died.  I wrote more about “what happened” over here.

When people ask how many children I have, I answer 3. That’s what they want to know.  I don’t tell them 3 plus a little angel in heaven.  I do think that babies’ personalities do develop in utero.  Am I suppose to believe that it is a coincidence that he performed all those high kicks when I ate Mexican food or it wasn’t intentional when he would partake of the jamming of his foot as hard as he could into my ribs when I would rock out to the radio, but protest immensely when Barry Mannilow would play?  Not on your life.  Personality, baby.

I also don’t say things like “Oh my angel is watching down on me and smiling.” I don’t think he is looking down on us at all.  If he is, he most likely is laughing his ass off and the way the kids give me a run for my money and how we do it right back.  I would rather believe that his spirit lives on and parties with the kickass relatives already kicking back in the afterlife.

I do sometimes play the “what-if” game with myself. But not as often as I used to.  It just doesn’t do anyone any good. 

So today is the day I gave birth for the first time.  Today is also the day that we decided our family is complete and we are ready to call it quits on the baby making thing.  I don’t know about you, but it sure seems like we came full circle in 13 years.  And I am at peace. 

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