Overwhelmed

I've been feeling overwhelmed lately. There's so much to do at work, so many friends to spend time with, so much grief, so much... I can't even gather all the pieces of everything that are swirling around calling for my attention.

As I was sitting and thinking about being overwhelmed, and about being kind to myself in the midst of it all, I thought about my mom. I thought about how determined and persistent and organized she was before she got sick - she was driven, just like me. And then I remembered what she was like after she got sick.

She was still driven - she worked her butt off through physical, speech, and occupational therapy. She went through chemo and radiation, and a multitude of pills and injections, and all with lower physical capacity. But she also let herself off the hook - she ate burgers and fries, she had dessert every day, and she watched TV without cross-stitching, or reading, or all the other things she used to do to multitask. She treated herself. And I think if I asked her for advice today she'd say, "treat yo self."

Thinking about her telling me to treat myself overwhelmed me, but this time with grief. I was wracked with sobs and having a hard time breathing. My heart physically hurt, and it felt like it was going to be ripped apart. And I couldn't control it - I couldn't stop crying, I couldn't start breathing, I couldn't stop my heart from hurting.

So I prayed. I said "Jesus, help me." And into my head came Psalm 23. Over and over again I prayed through my sobs, saying, "the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want... even though I walk through the valley of death and dying I will fear no evil, for you are with me." Over and over and over again until I could breath, until my heart didn't hurt. It was weird, and good, and comforting, all at once.

Now I have a plan to keep my self from being overwhelmed - treat yo self, and Psalm 23. I think my mom would have been proud.

Run away (10 months)

Today I just want to run away.

Today I want to go somewhere where spring is in full bloom and there's no tinge of sadness to it. Where I'm far away from my life now, and even farther away from my life when she was sick. I want to get a new number and a new name, disconnect from everything and reinvent myself as someone else, someone completely new, someone who isn't missing a mother.

Everything reminds me of her. So if I leave everything behind I won't be sad anymore. Except its not really things or even people that remind me of her. It's just being; being me makes me feel the pain of her not being here anymore.

So I'll start over, be someone else and I won't feel any pain anymore. Right? Isn't that how it works?

Because I'm tired. I'm tired of hurting and I'm tired of crying and I'm tired of grieving and I'm tired of being exhausted and I'm tired of going back to my life, my jobs, my routines from before, as if there wasn't a hole where my mom used to be.

Rationally I know that running wouldn't do much. In fact, I'd probably feel more alone, more sad, more in pain. But for the moment running feels like a reassuring fantasy.

Vividly

I can still remember that night (that morning) she died. I can walk through it, step by step in my mind. And it's not just a memory. I remember it vividly, like I'm re-watching a scene from a movie I've seen a hundred times. I know every line of dialog, every camera change, every mark of every character in the scene.

Most of the time I don't revisit it. I don't relive it. But sometimes something triggers it. A story from someone else who has lost someone, a word that connects me back, an image that looks a little like something from those last days.

It's painful. It takes my breath away, it takes my words away, it takes away everything except reliving those moments and a steady stream of tears. And so I ride it out, I walk through the scene over and over again until I catch my breath, or until someone brings me back, or until...

And then I'm back again, here, now. And my heart feels heavy and my face feels wet and I just feel tired.

But I also feel release. Like I just exhaled a breath I was holding, like I just stretched out a muscle that was cramping.

Maybe if I walk through it enough I'll be able to let the memory go. Maybe it will be less vivid, be less raw, be less real. Maybe the edges will start to get fuzzy, and it will be beautiful instead of painful and soft instead of razor sharp, and.... Maybe.

It was always going to be a totally shit time (Part 2)

This time last year my mom's tumor came back.

This time last year we knew the end was coming. Really coming. With an actual timetable - two to three months. (It was two months and 13 days.)

This time last year I wasn't prepared - for how short the time ways, for the neverending tears, for the supportive and loving friends, for her to die.

And this time around I'm still not prepared. I'm not prepared for how much this hurts, even nine and a half months out. I'm not prepared for the tears. I'm not prepared for how exhausted I am. I'm not prepared for how little I feel capable of doing.

I don't know what these next two months and 13 days are going to look like. Or the next months and days after that. I guess I'll just have to be kind to myself, let myself veg and mourn and sleep and cry. I don't really know what else to do to make it bearable.

Except for hugs - I might ask you, friends, for hugs. Because sometimes that's just want you need.

Blessed

Sometimes I think I should be doing more. I compare myself to my friends, who are doing really cool things - volunteering with local organizations, tutoring kids who have recently come to the US, running a community garden, teaching ESL, leading the youth group at my church. Comparatively, I'm doing next to nothing - no service, little connection with my neighbors and this neighborhood I love. I moved here to my neighborhood to be present with people and to serve, and I don't always feel like I'm doing that. 

Today in my small group we read through the Beatitudes, or the Sermon on the Mount, in Matthew 5. As we were reading, verse 4 stuck out: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."

Blessed. Blessed. Blessed are those who mourn. 

This tells me that I am blessed. I am mourning, so I am blessed. 

This makes me think that maybe mourning is just as important as doing cool things. Mourning is just as important to God as serving others - they both are a part of what being like Jesus looks like. 

And this tells me that the church should be a place where mourning is acceptable. The church should be a place where we're not afraid to talk about mourning, just like we're not afraid of talking about justice. 

I may still compare. I may still yearn for the day when I can be out there with my friends, tutoring kids and pulling weeds. But until that time comes I can follow Jesus best by mourning. May that mourning be a blessing to me, to my friends, and to my church community. May we teach one another to be more, act more like the Jesus we follow. 

Lethargy (9 months)

Yesterday marked 9 months. 

This afternoon I basked in the unseasonably warm afternoon sun that she would have enjoyed because she was always so cold. 

This evening I donned my Christmas present - knee length wool socks made in Russia that she would have rocked because socks were her favorite accessory after the stroke. 

All through today, even with the warm sun and socks, even with it being a lazy Saturday, I felt the lethargy of grief that I've been able to avoid for most of this month. The bone tired, heavy limbed lethargy that makes it hard to do anything but sit on a bench, or binge watch TV. Thankfully today I did both, and I didn't do them alone. (Thanks, friends, for being willing to let me be tired with you, for not expecting me to entertain.)

The lethargy comes in waves, just like the grief. And the waves, at least for now, are fewer and smaller than before. The moon may change the tides, though, in the next few months. But for now I hope that tomorrow the sun and the Sunday bring a little more life.

A new year

The sky is clear tonight, and the stars are bright. I sat on the swing in my backyard and just looked up at the beauty of the stars - my year-round version of Christmas lights.

It's the start of a new year, which generally means you pause and reflect on the old year. But I don't really want to do that. It's too painful, too raw, too heavy right now. And those reflections will come in their own time - we're getting near the time when the cancer came back last year, where my mom really started to die. Those reflections will be fresh this year in February, March, April. So I'll wait until then to look back at those months.

But instead of reflecting, today I caught myself thinking "what if?" What if my dad had never gotten hurt? What if my mom never had cancer? What if? What if?

And, because I'm a details person, I thought it through. I thought through the what ifs. Would I have spent as much time in San Jose caring for my mom if my dad hadn't had any physical limitations? Would she still have become my best friend? Would I be as close to my dad as I am? Would I have have such a deep friendship with person a, stayed in touch with person b, reconnected with person c? What if? What if?

The short answer: no. No, I probably wouldn't have spent as much time in San Jose, I probably wouldn't have known my mom as my best friend, I probably wouldn't be as close as my dad, or with friends a, b and c. And I wouldn't be who I am today, a woman who has done her work and engaged with her grief and come out the other side, strong and courageous, a beautiful, talented, brilliant, powerful musk ox.

Last year was a hard year. (That's an understatement.) But it was a beautiful year, too. So I will live in that dissonance, and remember the year, in time, with tears of pain and of joy. And in the meantime I look forward to the new year. I hope to find life and joy and good things in 2014. Or at the very least, I hope it's just a little better than 2013.