The seventeenth

More often than not, when I'm having a bad day, and I can't put my finger on why, I check the date and it's the seventeenth. 

The seventeenth. Today it's been 23 months since she died. I wish, more than anything right now, that she could be here, giving me a hug. 

I want share my little triumphs with her - the eggplant pizzas that were a success, another exam that went well, a consistent yoga practice that makes me feel strong. She'd be so happy, so proud. 

I wish. I wish. I wish the seventeenth didn't have to come so quickly. 

Galentine's Day

Every year for Valentine's Day my mom used to give my sister and I gifts. We'd come downstairs for breakfast in the morning before school and there would be a little red basket with chocolates and heart-shaped things in varying shades of pink. When I moved out of my parent's house she'd always send me a card or a trinket to celebrate the day.

It was cheesy, and a little weird (seriously, how many mothers give their daughters Valentine's gifts?), but I loved it. One year, because of what I'd learned from my mother, my roommates and I made breakfast for dinner, and I decorated the dining table with all things pink, red and heart-shaped. We had dollar store Valentine's cups, construction paper flowers with heart-shaped petals, and chocolate hearts.

I learned from my mom to celebrate Galentine's Day, without even knowing it. To celebrate the women in my life, apart from boyfriends or husbands. I learned to make a somewhat silly day special, and to embrace the read and pink and hearts because it's fun! I learned to give little gifts in love, especially if the little gifts were chocolate.

This year I'm really missing her. I wish she was here so I could buy her heart-shaped chocolates, or bake her cupcakes with pink frosting. I wish I could give her the pink tulips (her favorite flower) that I found at the grocery store. I wish I could get just one more silly, cheesy Valentine's gift from her, so I could appreciate it that much more.

I love you, mom. Happy Galentine's Day.

Scrapbook

I made a scrapbook for my boyfriend in November, chronicling our year together. 

The times when I was working on it were sacred. They brought me back to making a scrapbook with my mom for my sister. I listened to Christmas music again, used photo corners and scrapbook tape, figured out the placement of the photos on the page. It was just like being back with her. She was with me as I was making this new book of memories. She shared in memories she wasn't alive for. 

I wanted that experience again the other day, that sacred remembrance. I have some photos from when I was a child that I had been organizing to put in a photo album, so I decided to pull them out. 

I started going through the pictures - of me smiling and playing and getting covered in dirt. Of me jumping around in puddles and petting animals and making concoctions in the kitchen. 

But everything was all wrong. The pictures were out of order and I couldn't remember my system and they wouldn't all fit in the photo album and I didn't have enough time for this to be a big project and I was so happy and lighthearted when I was a kid and... my mom was there - in those pictures, taking those pictures. And now she's not. 

So I threw all the pictures on the floor. And I left them there for a few hours, because I was worried that if I picked one up I would just tear it in half. 

I was angry. My mom used to be there and now she isn't. I was homesick for her. I used to go through photos with her and now I can't. I felt all the pain and anger and sadness in the span of five minutes and I wept. (That's the proper way of saying I bawled my eyes out, right?)

It took me a few hours and a few chapters of Harry Potter (another thing we had in common - she loved Harry Potter and when she first got sick she listened to all the audiobooks) to feel calm again. Calm enough to pick up the pictures without shredding them to pieces. Calm enough to stick them back on top of my bookshelf and out of arms' reach. 

It's been almost a week, and I still feel irrationally angry when I see those pictures sitting on my bookshelf. My first urge is still to take them all and tear them to bits. But the saner part of me knows that I'll want those pictures someday. And even though it hurts so much to think of putting them in an album without my mom, I know I'll eventually want to. 

In the meantime, well, I guess I'll just keep my hands off any childhood photos. And I'll keep trying to figure out how to live each day without her. 

December 25

You were my miracle, Mom. The moment after you had just gotten out of surgery, when Dad told you Becca and I were in the room, and tears ran down your face. The fact that you ever got up, spoke, left the hospital bed at all. The 20 months that I got to spend with you that could have just as easily been 20 minutes, 20 hours, 20 days. 

You were my miracle. You are my miracle. 

I miss you so much it hurts my heart. 

Complicated mending

1 year, 1.5 years, 4 years, 7 years, more. I guess I do just have to live one day at a time. 

Courageous

I got an email today encouraging me to be courageous. This is me, trying to do that.

It's been almost a year and a half since my mom died (Friday marks the day). Overall, things are easier. I can remember her before her stroke. I've started expecting good things instead of bad. I have a great community, a loving boyfriend, faithful friends and a deep connection with Jesus.

But grief still comes in waves.

I'm still watching Gilmore girls (and even more so now that it's on Netflix!)

Sometimes I relive those last days as if they were yesterday.

I wish I could talk to my best friend: about boys, about haircuts, about family, about how much I love her.

I'm trying to balance grief and gratitude.

My eyes are so puffy it looks like they got bit by mosquitos.

And more than anything today I'm feeling the pain of loving her more than one more day.

All is not better. I still miss her so much I want to throw up. But it will get better. Slowly, with lots of help and lots of love. I have a lot to look forward to after this wave of grief recedes.

October 5

Today is my birthday. And it's been a hard one.

Harder than last year. Even though last year was my first birthday without my mom, I still felt connected to her - I celebrated in San Jose, and even invited my friends to sleep over at my dad's. She wasn't there, but she still was. Her chair was there, her presence.

This year she's so much farther away. This year she's really gone. This year I'm really without her. This year, last year, every year from now she's not calling me to wish me a happy birthday (even though that's what I want more than anything in the world).

Even with an amazing birthday weekend spent with my boyfriend, even with beautiful friends who celebrated me today in thoughtful ways, I'm missing her. Missing her so much.

I wish, instead of missing her, I could just stay in the other birthday moments, the magical ones, the special ones. Because I know she'd want me to. Because I want to. Because I want my birthday to be filled with joy, not grief.

I should know by now that that's not how that works. Joy and grief - they aren't opposites. More often than not they go hand in hand, they exist right next to each other. Can I sit in that tension?

Today I don't want to. But maybe, tomorrow, since I'm now a year older and wiser, it'll make a little more sense.