Unicorn bath bomb swirls colors into steaming water. I watch, mesmerized, massaging coconut oil into my hair, a makeshift mask. I bless each dark strand that comes out in my hands. Its replacement will most likely be the color of wisdom.
October 1 finds me reflective and with a deeper understanding of what the phrase weeks to months actually means. When Mom began chemo the first week of September, it was togive more months, not years, according to the oncologist.
Chemo was brutal. One round caused such misery that to continue for a few more months of torture to extend days was not sustainable. Mom chose hospice care instead, allowing her to live more fully and with more presence in this season.
Eight weeks and three days since the initial heartbreaking scan, life settles into a routine of change. Each week grows day by day, then adds up with the next to create another month. And that is what we are given, a string of days, weeks, months.
We won September, full of family visits, kids settling in to school, and shifts in business and work loads. We practice turning towards each other. There was a photo shoot to capture us with Mom.
October brings new rhythms and boundaried settledness. Time and energy are precious resources. The walks across town, to and from my parents’ house, a sort of sacred rhythm, ground me in presence as I transition from mother to daughter and back again.
Sighting a heart shape on the brick walkway or a changing leaf from a nearby tree bring comfort and calm to the sometimes-chaos of my heart.
I drink coffee outside with Mom this morning, our usual Thursday routine. We enjoy the crisp air and birdsongs and sighting of a butterfly on the fence. Mostly we enjoy the rhythm and ritual and the gift of a new month.
These are the moments that matter in the weeks to months that remain. Thank you to all who continue to offer such gentle care, kindness, and understanding as we navigate the present while looking ahead to the uncertain future.
Can you stop by on your way home from Bridgewater? I have something for you. If I don’t answer the door just come around back and find me.
The text went something like that.
I wanted to say no. No, I actually can’t.
It’s the truth.
That is where I was. Where I am right now. Angry at the world. At everything. Still having to function while anticipating grief. And just angry.
My mom is very sick. She is dying.I was not even aware of this on July 26, just two months ago.Now I don’t know if I will get two more months with her.
My rational side got the better of me, because this friend’s house was literally on the way home. Also, I know myself well enough to call my own bluff. Also, she loves me. She is so kind. I needed to receive the invitation of care.
So I stopped on the way home and found her in the extensive backyard flowerbed. She is the kind of gardener who can make an everyday bouquet from twenty varieties of things she has growing, naming each one.
She was still cutting and arranging as I wandered out back and then followed her into the house for the adding of water to the jar and sending of me on my way.
I am bringing you dinner next week. Is Wednesday or Thursday better?
Thursday was a no-brainer, since my husband was leaving for his annual guys’ weekend that day.
Thursday. Thank you.
We chatted briefly in the kitchen, a safe distance from each other, before I left to pick up a child from a friend’s house, in same the neighborhood, on the way home.
Tears filled my eyes.
I don’t know what I need on a good day, and lately the days are not so good. When the text came with several menu choices, I knew instantly the one. She agreed it was one of her best.
She cut me flowers and brought me food.
And that is what I needed.
And I am so grateful.
Thank you, AM, and all of you who have known just what I needed and left in on the porch or dropped it in the mail or sent it by text. You are the hands and feet of real Jesus and love.Thank you for your care during this unbearable hard.
Husband beckons me to look out the car window on our late-night drive home from a weekend wedding. I scroll my phone looking for music to play, or maybe escape, and glance skyward.
Is that really the moon?
An orange orb dances behind a mountain ridge, peeking out occasionally. I catch a glimpse before it disappears again. I have been known to mistake a Burger King sign for this wonder of nature and am unsure whether to get excited about the glow.
Then it appears in full glory. Hanging from the sky as if about to be dropped to earth, larger than life, Mars twinkling by its side, the deep-orange, waning gibbous moon.
waning: the act of decreasing gradually in size, strength, power, etc. . .
I oohhhhh and ahhhhh appropriately, for I love the moon in whatever phase it shows up, but this one is stunning. It is comforting and kind and sad. That seems to be the way I hold life these days, comfort and kindness in the sadness.
Date saved since January, this eagerly anticipated wedding comes with unlikely surprises. We witness outdoors with masks and eat charcuterie from individual plastic cups and drink lemonade as we wait for dinner. It feels a lifetime ago that I sat poolside drinking a margarita on a work trip with my husband that same month.
Steve and I sit around a table with the Big Boss (not to be confused with the immediate boss whose wedding it was) and co-workers and their wives. We talk and wait for our table to be called. I do well managing the small talk.
Until I don’t.
I lose my steady, and my brain goes offline just long enough to float away.
It is Steve’s Big Boss who looks at me quizzically.
Shoot. I just did the thing I don’t mean to do but sometimes happens. My kids say What? Why are you looking at me like that? or Mom, you’re dissociating. depending on who notices when this happens at home.
It’s my How can I be here doing this when my mom is home dying and family is in town visitng? face, and it has just come out at the wrong time, and I panic and have to be real.
I explain, and everyone is gracious and kind, and I am just sad. How can I rejoice and grieve simultaneously? This is my lesson in this season. The both, and.
Usually I keep the right feeling in the right place, but tonight sadness dumps out and lands in the middle of joy and the eyes that bear witness to the beginning of new life together hold me as ! grieve the end of another.
It’s Friday morning. I set a 20 minute timer to write here, just for myself, to share with those who care to read. By the time you see this it will be afternoon. Or days, weeks, months later.
I feel a need to preamble, which I do now. This is important, because it lays ground rules and understanding and expectation, so I do not have to keep clarifying or explaining myself in the future.
Often when working with a client I will say, Let’s just write up (or simply name and pretend to write) the preamble of all of the good things and all the ways you are thankful and all the ways your parents loved you and all of the ways God is good (if they are a person of faith), etc….Now let’s talk about how there are still hard things and there is grief and your parents were human and we don’t always understand God and you were still harmed.
That helps us to jump right in with the basic assumptions that we don’t have to rehash every time something new surfaces.
I do that here with my current situation.
I am grateful.My parents loved me. Real Jesus is present.For reasons I can’t understand, I still have faith.
I am grieving. My parents failed me. False Jesus was presented as judging me.
I am seeing the goodness of God in the land of the living even as death lurks in the shadows. Redemption is near, close, beautiful. The hope of glory makes this present suffering bearable.
It is from this place that I write and remember and process.
I have deep support in the form of loving siblings, extended family, and friends.
We have laid such a deep foundation of healing work together, that in the midst of the ache and the grief we also find laughter and hope. Even in dying there is deep life.
I know it sounds strange, but it’s true.
As I write and share my experience here on the blog, it is from a place of deep grief and heartache, yet not from despair.
Infrastructure has been built and put into place over this past decade of my life specifically to carry me through this season. It is both brutal and beautiful to behold.
My Costco membership renews the same day I feel a burst of grief while shopping there. September 1. Yesterday. A deduction is listed in the banking app on my phone. Renewal fee. Has one year passed already?
It’s a quick run in with my husband for a bottle of wine and some beer.
Date night provisions.
I don’t grab a cart, because we are there for two things, and if I grab a cart I will fill it with extras. This is why we stopped our membership for a season. (You can read about that here, if you’re curious.)
It’s fun to look around, though, so my love and I take our time meandering through the aisles, dreaming of home improvements or new dishes or furniture. We finally arrive in the back of the store and part ways to make our separate choices.
I feel it rise in my chest. Grief in the form of a squeezing tightness. My eyes fill with tears that spill down my cheeks, and I know this is the feeling of loss. Unexpected loss. Another thing in a list of many.
Costco Run Grief
How many Costco runs have Mom and I done together?
How many times has she called me, the local daughter, to say, Let’s pretend I am visiting you from out of town, and I’ll take you shopping at Costco. I always get things for your siblings when I visit them. I want to take you on a Costco run. Get whatever you want. It’s on me.
How many breakfasts or coffees at CinnamonBear next door did we share before making a morning or early afternoon shopping trip?
How many times during that season of the cancelled membership, because money was tight (and even a “good deal” is not a deal if you can’t afford it), did she ask for a list of things she could pick up. She always added a few extras. Just because.
How many times?
How many times did we have the conversation that it was not expected for her to purchase my items but it was always appreciated when she did, and sometimes she let me write a check without protest because we learned to communicate about things like that?
When was our last trip to Costco together?
I don’t remember.
She was gone for the month of June, and life was still normal then, and summer vacation happened for me in July when she returned. We each did our own summer-during-a- pandemic-still things, knowing that there was always tomorrow or next time, until there wasn’t.
I took my son on a Costco run the day before he left for a trip out west. It was mid-August, and he needed some food and things, and that’s what moms do.
They take their kids shopping and make sure they are fed.
I remember thinking, This is one of my mom’s legacies. I am now shopping with my kid atCostco, and of course, I will buy him all of the things.
The following morning that son sat out on a back patio and had coffee with his grandma, and she went inside and cooked him eggs and bacon, and they shared one of the best times I have had with Grandma, Mom, before saying goodbye as he headed for his next adventure.
How many tears?
Tears fall freely as I try to finish this post. What am I even trying to say?
Costco Run Grief is real. It’s a vary real reminder that nothing is as it should be anymore and that nothing is guaranteed ~ not even the next shopping trip with my mother.
Instead my sister and I go to Food Lion today and try to make choices that will comfort and be palatable for her. We laugh at what’s not really funny and bristle at who said or did what, and at the end of the day collapse into the writing of words which is where the raw and the real is exposed.
One month ago I celebrated a child turning 14. As twisty rainbow candles were blown out on the ice cream cake made by a sister, a text came from my mom.
The doctor just called with the scan results. Can you come over? It’s not good.
One month ago.
Abnormal scan. Sisters gathered from across the country. Family visiting. 51st anniversary celebration. Unsuccessful first biopsy. Covid test. Sisters and parents quarantined together. Scheduled trip to KY leaving sisters behind. Successful biopsy and nerve block. Likely diagnosis. Cell biopsy. Official diagnosis. Watching and waiting.
One month ago.
Compulsive Google searches. Bracing. Glancing. Poring. How much more time? What’s next? Maybe a miracle!
The past month has been surreal, but what does that even mean in 2020? To me it means the worst nightmare on top of all the others ~ the news not expected. My mom has cancer. Pancreatic. Metastatic. Please do not send me miracle cures, reasons for why she is sick, or other advice unless we are solid. If you aren’t sure what that means, just don’t.
Three of my grandparents still live, two of them together independently. My mom made the drive to visit her parents back in June and stayed for a month supporting and caring for them. She saw all of her siblings. They took a picture. All of them. Together.
They didn’t know that time was her gift to them. We didn’t know by summer’s end she would be the one with a hard diagnosis.
Christy Bauman, author of Theology of the Womb, writes that when death comes out of order, it’s traumatic. This is trauma that I feel in my chest. Trauma of likely dis-ordered death. And yet still, there is life. We live each day in gratitude.
I had no imagination for mom not being with me well into her 90’s like both of her parents have been with her, yet, reality says it’s not likely.
One month ago my life changed in a way I never anticipated or expected.
It has been years since I decluttered the Gucci bag given to me by my boyfriend in 1988. Recently, it returned to mind with pangs of sadness and feelings of loss which I write about today.
It came wrapped in a box, the purse in a pouch of its own. I did not realize at the time this was a dust protector to keep the bag nice when not in use. I immediately loved the thought and the gift, though deeper feelings of not deserving it stirred, as well.
I do not know that I was able to trust that the giver found me special or worthy, because I did not believe that of myself. It is a heavy weight to put on a teenage boy over a long distance. It is a heavy weight to carry, that of being nothing special yourself.
Recently my son’s rap music was playing in the car as he drove home from school. I sat in the passenger seat. The line She want this Gucci, she can get it played in addition to all of the other designer clothes, cars, and jewelry she could get.
After cringing the song up a bit by adding my own lines, She want eight kids, she can get it, Toyota Corrolla, hop in it, I told him his father actually bought me a Gucci purse when we were teenagers.
No way. You never had a Gucci.
Um, yes, I did.
There’s no way.
Yes. There really is a way.
This prompted an immediate search on my phone for an image of the small, albeit genuine, Gucci cross body purse that I carried for a season.
Memories flood my mind.
I am standing in the closet of the Green Street house, not a newlywed, not married ten years, yet, looking at my things. I feel lost. I am lost in motherhood, lost in who I am and what I like, and sad that nothing feels right about me.
In a pattern that is familiar, I pick up the thing that is probably the most me, and hence must bear the brunt of my feelings about myself. The Gucci purse goes into the giveaway bag first. When will I ever carry something that small, again? These days the large plastic Peter Rabbit diaper bag is my perpetual fashion statement.
Foreign to me is the idea that this, too, shall pass. I am living forever in the traumatic present which feels as if it will never pass.
Somewhere, someone is blessed with the surprise of a Gucci at a Goodwill store, and I forget about it until my own child challenges the notion that I would ever own something with that brand name.
I watched another Tiding Upover the weekend. We are almost finished with the series. In this one, the husband has a piles of designer shoes, and I wonder his story with them as he works out the decluttering process of choosing what to keep and what to give away.
I think of my single designer bag, the one I look up online occasionally to find that is sells for a couple hundred dollars and is not something I will ever have back. It is a part of my past to handle, grieve, and let go, all in my mind.
I bless the teenage boy who chose the thoughtful gift at a department store for the teenage girl living 1,100 miles away. I bless the girl for her good taste in men and for knowing that he was the one from first smile, even though it would take blood, sweat, and tears to uncover the goodness in them both, together.
I bless the recipient of the Gucci purse then and the one who carries it now. Wherever it landed was the right place, just as the words from Young Thug landed in the right place on the way home from school with my son, the child of mine who I wish I was able to grace with a vintage Gucci cross body.
Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning.
Psalm 30:5, NLT
I cried myself to sleep last night. Sitting in bed at the end of the day with journal in hand and tea on the nightstand, I began writing.
Where to begin I don’t even know.
Words poured honestly and incoherently from my pen. No editing, no polishing, letters on the page strung together finding their place. I ended with a final question.
What do I need to just grieve?
Tears flowed from somewhere deep inside. From the heart of a much-younger me, cries of loneliness and pain began to escape, first silent, then sniffles, then sobs. I could not be comforted, as much as my dear husband tried. I just needed to cry.
Sleep finally came and with it the dreams. Tornadoes, crowds, a pack of dogs that all looked like Dewey, these were the themes. My overloaded brain downloaded and sorted and shuffled. I woke puffy and groggy and rested.
Coffee left by dear husband in my Seattle School mug replaced the empty tea cup on the nightstand, reminding me of where I was not. It also reminded me of a journaled prayer from earlier in the week,
God, You are faithfully loving me through the work you have given me in this season even as you faithfully love my friends through theirs. As the new group of externs comes together, help me to be content that I am here in H’burg and not boarding a plane to Seattle. Help me to be fully present with my family. I don’t know what you are doing, but I am trusting the work to be so good and kind that you can make a way for me there in my absence.
Shortly after waking, I saw my writing on theRed Tent Living blog. Overwhelmed with joy I linked it to my blog wall with the comment I’m not in Seattle or Austin this morning, but I AM in the Red Tent today. Such kindness for my heart. Stop by for a read. Happy Friday, Friends!!!!
It is a happy Friday. I am thankful for new mornings, new mercies, and for joy that follows the tears.
Rain pours from the sky like the tears from my eyes. I cannot seem to stop crying. I know I just need to feel what is there without judgment, but it is difficult.
I want to distract myself so badly with something, anything. This only leaves me pacing and feeling restless. There is too much connection too easily available when what I really need to do is connect with myself.
What I feel is the pain of grief. Deep in my heart there is an ache that begins to grow until the only thing it can do is burst out in an ugly cry.
I am not good at crying. I hold it in.
I have so much held inside that needs to be named, released, and wept over. It pours out at the most inconvenient times, like during a walk while talking on the phone with a friend. Her presence on the other end is a gift. I thought I would be leaving a message when she unexpectedly answered the call.
Exchanging pleasantries and the short version of what is going on in our worlds, I open up about hard feelings I am having in this season. She understands and is familiar with my story. She asks good questions. I begin to feel my heart again as my chest tightens and eyes fill with tears.
Where did you go?
This question comes as I grow quiet in the wake of conversation. I want her to commiserate with me in my sadness, not share with me her eager anticipation of something I will miss. She tells me of an upcoming trip where she will spend time with mutual friends. She lists off names.
Wait, you’re the only one who won’t be there. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that.
I feel a laugh/cry inside. Seriously??!!! I want her to tell me. I want to know and celebrate her excitement even as I grieve what I will miss. I need to feel all of the feelings, even the hard ones.
I’m glad you told me. It’s just hard not to be able to be there, even though I already knew this wasn’t my season. It feels even moreso as the time grows closer.
Our time is up, and I return home. My daughters are doing after-school screens as I disappear into my room and then into my bathroom, shutting both doors. Collapsing in my inner sanctum, tears escape is deep sobs.
A knock on the bathroom door calls me back.
Mom, are you okay?
My youngest stops screen time to check on me.
Yes. I am just really sad right now.
Okay! Just checking!
She returns to Animal Jam, and I return to grief, letting the tears fall until they finish.