The WTF Factor of Grief

My mother died on August 16, 2014.  I remember driving with my cousin back towards her house on Thursday, August 12, 2014.  She told me that even though it makes zero sense right now, one day I will be able to look back on all this and realize that God had a plan in all this.  I’m still waiting for this realization.  My mother herself said that maybe it was better this way.  I’m still protesting this view point as I have protested nearly all the things she’s ever said to me.  This is after all the same woman who told me that if I swallowed a seed a tree would grow out of my head.  Or maybe that was my own overactive imagination.  I just remember being terrified by the image of an apple tree growing out of my head after I accidentally swallowed a seed.  To this day, I’m not a big fan of apples.

Lately I’ve felt the stirring of those old emotions.  I’ve come across an old Patty Loveless song on Amazon Prime music called “How Can IHelp You to Say Goodbye.”  That didn’t help because every time I listen to the song, I remember the last time I held my mother’s hand, the way it felt in mine.  It was tiny and fragile.  My hands felt like meat mallets in comparison.  She was weak and a little senseless from the morphine.  She didn’t want it.  But I never learned how to back down from a fight and even then, I fought with her.  She needed it.  My sister-in-law was waiting to give it to her.  She’s a nurse, so she was better able to administer the medication anyway.

 

I remember my mother’s weak slurred voice.  She was irritated.  She complained that I was being irritating.  I fired back that I was going to continue to be irritating until she let my sister-in-law give her the medicine.  What I never said that I would give anything for her not to have to take that morphine.  I would have loved to have begged her to stay.  I would have bargained with God if I could.  Losing someone suddenly is hard but watching someone die is worse. 

I think I stayed long after she left.  I waited until my dad had to give her the next dose.  I remember watching the clock and her, worrying if she was comfortable as she rested on the hospital bed in the middle of her living room.  I remember counting the minutes until her next dose.  I saw when her sleep got worse.  I remember helping my dad as we changed her clothes.  In that moment, I remember thinking that she would hate this.  When she finally settled down to sleep, I picked up her hand and held it.  It was limp in mine. 

I told her leave.  Just go.  Stop fighting and go.  I remembered to tell her I loved her.  I think maybe she heard me because I felt her squeeze my hand.  I would hate to think it was my over active imagination.  I left her house after midnight but walked back through her front doors again around six in the morning.  I don’t know how my dad stood it when he found her dead body just lying there.  I couldn’t look at it.  It had no connection to my mother. 

I still don’t understand this plan of yours God.  It still doesn’t make sense to me.  I can’t stop crying.  The pain inside my chest is still there, like a tumor in my heart that’s resisting treatment.  I feel like I’m barely alive, just moving, going through the motions.  Everyone seems to be moving forward with their lives.  Why can’t I?  Why am I stuck in this place?  Why can’t I move?  God, why doesn’t your plan make any sense to me?

To the Christian Voter

A few days ago I was eviscerated by an individual whom I once held in high regard. 

Backstory:  My spouse has a very strong sense of moral justice.  He’s someone who believes one should simply do the right thing because it is the right thing to do.  Sometimes, I get tired of being his sound board and thus suggested he go write a blog.  He’s very active in social media and a question I posed to him in private soon found its way to social media.  That’s not the important part, just the back story.

It was a question about POTUS and why he seems to generate unrelenting hatred in many.  I quite admire him as a speaker and I believe he’s a man who (despite all the oppositions and mistakes) did the best job he could.  He’s not perfect.  No one is.  As my seven year informed me only God never makes mistakes.

This simple query of mine generated an unnecessary flurry filled with fire and brimstone where POTUS was attacked for his “blatant disregard for God’s law.”  That is not what I asked of my spouse and that is certainly not the conversation he had intended to start. 

Recently there has been a lot of horrific events that have been reported by the media.  There have been presidential candidates in the midst of this hailstorm of hatred who have done very little to help this situation.  There is a divide in this nation that is supposed to be indivisible.  The last time we were divided it ended in a lot of bloodshed but maybe that’s an over simplification of a momentous point in this country’s history. 

Needless to say, I am concerned because this is my home.  I am concerned because human lives are at stake.  I have heard from supporters and haters of both party and those who refuse to stop feeling the Bern.  Throw into this mixture the conservative Christians and whoever else that wants to join the fray. 

Disclaimer:  This is not a political or religious rhetoric.  I’m not offering you my faith for justification because I only need Christ’s justification. 

I take my right to vote seriously.  I exercise it to the best of my understanding because as a citizen of this nation I have a responsibility to cast my vote for the individual who will best serve the public.  I am not a registered voter for a specific party because I don’t wish to find myself where many Republicans are, standing behind a candidate that is far removed from the Republican agenda. 

The Democratic candidate’s stands on many things are vastly different from mine.  I am pro-life but I will not condemn someone who is pro-choice.  LGBT issue is a can of worm I do not wish to open but as a lifestyle it is not one I choose for religious reasons.  Yet, who am I to stand in the way of an LGBT couple or family from having the same quality of life as their heterosexual counterparts?

The politicians are not here to serve the Christian agenda.  They have a simple job, to serve the republic, the citizens of their country from all walks of life.  It is the churches job to spread the message of the gospel of Christ, to feed the hungry, and love all who require it.  That was what Christ commanded us, to love God and then love our neighbors as we love ourselves.  We want the best for ourselves so why can’t we want the same for our neighbors across this great nation of ours?

As a Christian, we need to humble ourselves and cry out before God to heal this nation and then do our part to select leaders in public office who can best fulfill their civic duty.  The job any public servant is to ensure that the life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is equally preserved for all humankind irrespective of the color, race, gender, faith, or nationality.  I am a public servant.  I fully believe this creed.

We need to stop being prideful and be the salt that God has called us to be and flavor the lives that we encounter.  Martin Luther King Jr. was a man of God.  That is the kind of example we should be following if we want to really change this world and make it a better place for our children.

It is time to humbly and prayerfully cast your vote for the person who will do their best to fulfill the obligations of the highest office in the land and serve the nation instead of their self-interest.  You don't need to agree with them, you just need to care about your country and the people who are your neighbors.  Your vote counts.

Loneliness

I did not want this to be about my mother.  That's why I wrote The Journey Home; I was trying to get some perspective as my mother lay dying.  I'm a writer.  It's how I think, with words that come out of my finger tips.  I did not want this to be about motherhood either.  That's why I wrote Motherhood....My Way; I was trying to understand how to be a working mom.  My first blog, Baby oh Baby! was about the most amazing journey of my life, the beginning of motherhood.  Now, writing this blog, trying to understand myself as the writer I want to be, I'm back where I started, thinking of my mother.

This summer has been difficult.  I keep reliving 2014.  It occurred to me that making new memories just might make things better.  We went peach picking at Demarest Farms in Hillsdale New Jersey.  It was a lovely day, spent with my family.  My favorite part was picking a ripe peach off the tree and eating it right there in the orchard.

There's a story in Luke 10:38 about Martha and her sister Mary.  They are hosting Jesus and Martha, getting stressed, asks Jesus to tell her sister to help her.  Instead, Jesus tells Martha that she's worried about a lot of things.  He goes on to tell her that Mary has chosen the right thing and it will not be denied her.

I choose to spend 2014 at my dying mother's bedside.  It is an experience I will never forget, one I can never escape.  I choose my mother over my children.  Does that make me a bad mother?  I'm not sure if it actually made me good daughter.

But I do know this, since she's been gone, I have been walking around with half a heart.  My sons look at me with such adoration and they shower me with so much unconditional love that my broken half heart is slowly healing.  I find myself applying the balm of their love to my aching heart often and often these days.  I am healing but I think I will always be alone.

A Change of Plans

There are some days when you wish you never got out of bed.  Everything that can go wrong, does.  That was today but this isn't about that.

I had plans.  I changed them twice.  Originally I had planned to take my boys to the Victoria Gardens at Wollman Rink in Central Park.  Then I decided to go see Tarzan with my friend because I had been craving Haitian food.  Let's just say I was really looking forward to seeing Tarzan; only all my plans went to hell in a hand basket.  After a week of bad sleeping pattern my insomnia struck with a vengeance at the stroke of midnight.  Being turned into a pumpkin would have been a blessing in comparison.

After a futile hour of tossing and turning I turned to drugs.

I know, Staten Island, drug problems, you think this is getting interesting.  Not that kind of drugs.  They were over the counter kind that can be found in most drug stores although in some neighborhoods you'd need a manager's key to access them.  It eventually knocked me out; I overslept and ended up being late for work.

I could go on in tedious details about all the things that went wrong with my day.  But that is not what this is about.  It's about plans and how plans can change on a whim.

Needlessly to say, I was fed up with the day.  I left work early, hopped on a bus, slept in traffic for an hour before finally going home.  Grilling in this heat seemed like a good idea.  Only that didn't work out as we had a gas scare.  Not wanting to blow up the house and everyone in it, we decided to head to the diner for dinner.

I was supposed to be in Brooklyn tonight.  But instead I ended up at a diner being waited on by a very tired looking single mom.  My circumstances had caused me to abandon my original plans.

The mundane details doesn't matter.  Neither does the circumstances.  I didn't plan on being where I ended up.  But God had plans that required me to be exactly where I ended up.  My husband makes our oldest repeat the following every morning.  "I am a leader, I am blessed.  I'll be a blessing.  I'll be my best."

Today I got to be in the right place, at the right time, to witness something extraordinary.  I don't know what God's plan is for that single mother.  I only know that I played a small part in a much bigger plan.  The plan wasn't for me but I got to play a part in the fulfillment of God's plan for someone else.

As Christians it is important to remember that we were called to be salt of the earth, a light in the darkness.  We were commanded by Christ himself to show our love for Him by feeding his sheep.  It's more than just attending church service, or church programs.  We need to see the minuteness of us and the grandness of Him.  It is His plan and we should be so blessed as to get a small walk-in part.

Shades of Brown and Blue

ME

Does my dad seem sad to you?

HIM

(slight pause before a thoughtful)

Maybe.

Fast forward time through bath and bedtime.  Clean children, dressed in pajamas.

ME

(putting our arms together)

Connie Mac, look!

You're brown, like me.

CONNNOR

Mummy, you're right!  I am brown!  I was white.  Now I'm brown.

(holds up three fingers)

There are three people who are brown.

(points to closed bedroom door and holds up four fingers this time)

Dadu's brown.  There are four brown people in this house.

CMC

(calling from his room)

Dadu is dark brown.

CONNOR

(pause as he thinks)

You know who else is brown?  Mama is brown.

Mamima is white, like Daddy.

ME

You're like a chameleon.  You change from white to brown

CMC

(walks out of his room to the landing where three bedroom doors meet.  two are open, one is closed.  he points to each of the three bedrooms)

There used to be six people here.  Two here, two here, and two here.  Now there are five.

(points to the three doors again)

Two here, two here, and one here.

(this time he points to the closed door without looking at it)

There used to be two people here.  Before the caaaancer.

My son's eyes meet mine in shared silence.  We're all just a bunch of chameleons; only we change from brown to blue against our will.  

My Addiction

I remember writing my first story when I was 13.  It was about bears of different colors.  It was the only way I could wrap my head around my first encounter with the racial divide that existed in the deep South.  In my part of the world brown comes in all different shades; we can be pale as the white folks and as dark as the darkest Africans.  The details are unimportant now.

My teenage years were haunted by an Italian and later a Russian Jew would unleash chaos in my otherwise sheltered life.  But life can't be lived within the pages of a book or even a notebook filled with stories.  I had to embark on a journey to discover this life for myself eventually.

I was too busy living so I stopped writing.  The decade saw me accomplish things, marriage, a few degrees, even a child.  Not bad for embracing life and living it.

Then I saw the doctor open his mouth and even though I didn't hear it, I saw him speak the word "cancer."  Like a bloated corpse after deep winter thaw, emotions rose to surface.  I was overwhelmed.  The blank screen of a new word document beckoned, as if it had been wait for just this moment.  So I began to write.  Again.

But I am determined that this summer will not be a repeat of the summer she died.  I did what I didn't that summer, on a whim I decided to go to Egger's Ice Cream Parlor.  Last time I was there, I think we only had the one kid.  He doesn't really like ice cream.  His brother loves ice cream.

To my surprise, they were having an open mic night.  My oldest son has been taking piano lessons and has worked his little butt off to learn how to play Ode to Joy.  He's seven and is in love with Beethoven.  There are worse addictions.

Watching him play just took my breath away.  Next to me, his brother shouted "THAT'S MY BROTHER!" as everyone applauded   Little one is cute.  The girls thought this was doubly cute.

I didn't get ice cream but a milk shake.  I didn't expect to have the pleasure of watching my son play in public with such confidence.  I didn't expect the pride in my younger son's voice, cheering for his brother.  Yet, that is exactly what I found.

This is why I have to write.  Life is made up of moments.  A picture or a video can never quite capture a moment the way a few well strung words can.  These words will allow me to capture the fluidity of this experience in such a way that I can take it out, dust it off and savor it, over and over again until it makes me sick to my soul.  

Manifestation of Grief

Dear Mother,

Why did you leave me?
I'm alone.
So.
Very.
Alone.
Mom?
Do you hear me?
Are you listening?
Am I talking to myself here?
Moooooother?
Where are you?
The silence answers
Why.
Couldn't I.
Come?

My Summer of Regret

From the time I heard the phrase "Je ne regrette rien" I fell in love with it.  Regrettably, I was 13 at the time.  It's a very charming phrase and captures the essence of the "Je ne sais quoi" of everything that was French.  I still prefer French wine, French food, and dream of one day going to Paris.  Sadly I missed the opportunity the year I turned 30.  I almost went, if that counts.  I came close enough where I looked up ticket prices and visitor restrictions for travelers carrying American passports.  Then I found out I was pregnant.  A trip to France is a waste when you're pregnant.  Wine is out of the question as are so many wonderful French things.  Yet, I do not have any regrets but have hope.  Forty is around the corner.  Paris is right there, on top of my bucket list.

But I digress....it's the melancholy you see; makes it hard to focus on any one thing.

Summer is here again.  I feel as if time is slowing down again.  My last best summer was 2009.  It was the year my son was born.  The only thing that happened that was regrettable was my discovery of the genius of Michael Jackson after he died.  I finally understood what the fuss was about.  He was a brilliant artist.  But THIS is not about THAT.

My father planted his garden and I have spent the last two months watching life return to his garden.  The vegetables are flourishing, the flowers are blooming.  It feels normal, seeing the lush greenery that surrounds this little house on this cul de sac.  My sons have taken to living here.  Why shouldn't they?  This was the house that first received them when they were born.  This was her home.

My sister-in-law said something the other day when I remarked that my brother was buying her a house.  Maybe the reality is they both worked to buy it.  It's where they will build their home.  My friend reminded me that for as long as she's known me, this house has never been my home.  In a lot of ways this is true.  It was my mother's home.  How could it even be mine?  So technically, I'm homeless.  But I don't really regret that either.  I haven't found my home yet but I'm certain that one day I will.

There I go....off yet on another tangent.  Focus.  That's what I need to do.

I am trying to go through the motions of having an exciting summer.  Yet, inside my head, I am reliving every detail of 2014.  I'm reliving the days, the moments.  While I was busy most of 2014 and 2015 recovering from one disaster after another, I didn't have time to focus on what happened.  I didn't have time to dwell on it.  But I don't regret the circumstance I faced because they helped me grow.  I was tested and learned my true mettle.  I found an inner core of strength I never would have believed existed.

My youngest son seemed to have inherited my talent for stories running in his head because he regaled me with details of his adventure with his "Dida."  He talks about her like he knows her and sometimes I find myself willing to believe that maybe, somehow he does see her when she visits him in his dreams.  Maybe I am being fanciful.

It's not July yet.  She went into the hospital in July for the last time.  I remember taking this picture of her.  It's the last one I took.  She's laughing behind the mask.  She wanted to see what she looked like.    I remember sitting with her and my cousin that day.  She said "It's better this way."  What am I supposed to say about that?  How am I supposed to feel about that?  I don't feel better.  I'm trying to move past this grief but I seem to be stuck in limbo.  It'll be two years in a month and a half.  My life is moving forward but my head, my heart, and a part of my soul is stuck back in 2014.

Je ne regrette rien.  I have learned that regret is a waste of time and energy.  I remember that day thinking how much time we wasted.  I felt regret creeping up on me, clawing at my conscious.  I pushed it away with both hands, choosing instead to grab a hold of what I had, whatever time was left.  I got to rest with my mother as I watched her prepare for the journey home.  Now, nearly two years later, that regret is creeping up on me.  But this regret is different.  I regret that she will never sing while her oldest grandson plays the piano for her.  I regret that her youngest grandson will only ever know the version of her that he created in his imagination.

The crux of my problem is that in terms of my own life, I stayed true to my mantra.  Je ne regrette rien.  Yet, the regrets I have are insurmountable because they are stitched to my core by grief.  

What You Leave Behind

I’m drawn to you

Inexplicably.

I find myself adorned

In your cast offs.

You didn’t pack your bags

When you left;

Instead you left it all behind

Along with me.

I’m not sure what to do.

Do I pause or press start?

Where do I go?

Forward or Rewind,

The button seems jammed.

I’ve been looking for you

As if somehow, imitating

The movement of your hands

Could bring you back;

It doesn’t and only the loneliness

Echoes the fading clip clop

Of your footsteps.

There’s no way around it,

You’re just gone.

Laughing at myself

I am tired of my mother's death.  Yet, I'm drawn back to this event in my life.  Who am I fooling?  I am that thing that once adorned your home, your life and now it's broken, chipped, cracked, imperfect.  But you've had it so long that it would be a shame to simply toss it.  I have become that thing.  There are moments when I feel strong, invincible almost.  Then I encounter that lost orphan girl without a mother and fall to pieces.  Maybe there is no hope.  Maybe the only thing you can do in the end is just put one foot in front of the other, remind yourself how to breathe, inhale and then exhale.  It's easy enough.  Focus on that.  That's all I seem to be capable of these days.

Frankly, I don't give a damn anymore about you the reader.  You see, buried inside of me is a pain I can't escape.  So I'm not writing for you, I'm writing for me.  I'm hoping that if I make my fingers dance over these keyboards enough that maybe, maybe a coherent thought will appear on this screen that might make sense of all this.  You see there is a still a silent echo of a question that's ringing in my head.

Mother you told me it was better this way.  I disagree.  I'm not seeing how this is really better than any other solution.  Pity they don't have internet in heaven.  I doubt she would go online.  Who would do it for her?  She didn't even have an email.  No Facebook, either.  So the echo just bounces around the chamber of my head, and I am just stuck with the question, "Why?"

The little girl buried under the pain is petulant.  She stamps her foot and shouts "Not fair!"  Sorry, kid, it really does suck to  be us.

Confessions of a Writer

I started writing when I was 13.  I used to be the kid in the back who used to always scribble away in my notebooks.  They didn't have notes.  Maybe if they had, my grades would have been better.  Instead they collected ideas, unfinished stories, character sketches.  Then I guess I grew up.  Although, looking back, I'm more inclined to admit that perhaps I just stopped writing.

Funny how when my mother was dying two years ago I turned to writing for solace.  In the strings of words that seem to flow effortlessly from the tips of my finger tips, I found myself.  I needed to write about her, about my loss and hope that somehow I could make some sense of my life.  You can check out the link if you're curious.

Sooner or later it was bound to happen.  I was tired of my mother's death.  I didn't want to constantly talk about it.  I stopped writing the blog.  I tried other things but I never quite found my voice.  It was here that I picked up my pen resumed writing.  So that's what I have been doing, working on my manuscript.  It seems appropriate to do this now as I'm getting ready to finally take that step.

I'm excited and terrified.  So guess this is it, published or bust.