Remembering

Sometimes living in a tight-knit community like mine is hard. We hurt each other, have conflict, and we have to do the messy work of trying to make it right. With differences in race, gender, upbringing, faith traditions, and on and on and on, it takes a commitment and grace to love each other through the muck.

The beautiful thing, the thing that keeps me coming back to this complicated family of mine, is that when things are hard, when there is grief and loss, I am never alone.

So to my grace-filled friends, who sent me the beautiful flowers today: thank you, dear ones, for the gift. Thank you for sitting with me in my grief, even four years out. Thank for you for understanding, and not minimizing my pain. Thank you for helping me to remember my mom. I'm so glad you are will me.

Blessing

Every Maundy Thursday I sit vigil with my mom, as we sit vigil with Jesus. We sit, we remain, we watch, we pray as Jesus prepares himself for death. I do the same, did the same, as my mom's body shut down and we watched for the end.

Every year my church remembers Jesus' last supper and his preparation for death by reading the story from John 13 - the story of Jesus sharing a last meal with his disciples, of Jesus washing his followers feet, of Jesus preparing them and calling them to love one another as he has loved them.

Jesus' choice to wash his followers feet was a blessing. It was preparation, doing for them what he wanted them to do for others. He told them, "this is how you do it. This is how you love - you do what I have done." And he sealed that call with the water and the oil, and the tenderness of his hands as he dried their feet on his towel.

I didn't get a verbal blessing from my mom before she died. There were no words of, "this is how you live life, as my daughter." She didn't have the mental capacity after her stroke to put thoughts like that together, and she didn't have the physical ability to say it near the end.

But tonight I received that blessing, that blessing of a mother. I received that blessing as a mother and her daughter washed my hands, dried them with a towel, and prayed, "love others as Jesus loved us."

I received that mother's blessing tonight - from a mother who is not mine, four years after her death. I know it was a gift from my mom, a gift from Jesus, a gift I really needed this week.

Love others as Jesus first loved us. I'm going to try, Mom. I'm going to try.

Every year (month. week. day.)

I feel anxious. I know because I feel this pressure in my chest, like I'm having trouble breathing. This tightness that no amount of deep breaths or stretches can take away.

I go through my list of things that I could be anxious about. Going into the hospital tomorrow for my clinical rotation? Kinda. This or that thing that I may have forgotten? Maybe. I do a few things to feel more prepared for the next day, and I wait, hoping the tightness will leave.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn't. And when it doesn't, I know - I miss my mom.

Every time. Every time I feel anxious, feel the tightness, and I can't find the reason, somewhere deep underneath it's because I miss my mom. And even though I know this, even though I'm used to this, I never jump there first. I always have to work through the list, the this and that that could be causing my anxiety.

Mostly it comes out of nowhere - slowly building until I can't ignore it anymore. The chest tightness, the jaw clenching. The ways my body responds to a subconscious grief I don't even recognize.

Today it's because it's Palm Sunday, and she was born on Palm Sunday, 62 years ago. She came as the King came in, declaring his power and glory forever and ever.

But really, if I'm being honest, it's not because of Palm Sunday. It's because it's the Masters.

Every year I watch the Masters. My dad watched golf, so I watch golf. I really enjoy it, at least occasionally. The Masters are a must.

And every year it hurts.

Because four years ago when I watched the Masters she was dying. Really dying. Heart rate increasing, fast, shallow breaths, low blood oxygenation dying. Eyes closed, can't move, can't speak, asleep all day dying. I remember sitting in her bedroom with my dad, with her, watching golf. I can still picture it, clearly, like I just looked at a photograph.

It's been four years, but when I read my posts from those last two weeks of her life I can feel it happening, all over again. I can remember her whisper, remember her weakness, remember the loose grip of her fingers.

Every year I watch the Masters, and I remember that time with her. That end-of-life, body-shutting-down time. That sacred time.

And every year I feel that inexplicable tightness in my chest. Or every month. Every week. Every day.

All I have to do is wait, and it eventually comes down to the obvious: I miss my mom.

Celebrating

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you so much. 

The gauntlet

My friends have this time of year where almost all of the anniversaries and family birthdays fall. They call this time of year "the gauntlet."

April is my gauntlet. That time of year where I have to grit my teeth, give myself more grace, and plan my crying time. That time of year where I stop making plans and just let the days happen. I keep hoping it will get easier. I feel guilty when it does. Even knowing that it's coming is taking its toll.

A week from today my mom would have been 62. She was born on April 3rd, on Palm Sunday. Add 58 years to that, and she was two weeks away from dying. April holds both her birthday and her death day. It sucks.

My life is so different now, four years later. I'm on my way to being a nurse, and embroiled in the tests and papers and clinical days that entails. I'm glad to be surrounded by classmates who make it their job to be caring - it makes it easier to fall apart, and easier to ask for help.

I'm married now, and my husband is wonderful. Even when I burst into tears for no obvious reason he's quick to hold me and comfort me. We've figured out how to care for one another well, even when things are heavy.

My dad has remarried - a lovely, loving woman. But she's not my mom, so it's just weird. Reminiscing over old photos of my parents together has a different tenor to it. I'm glad for him, and I really love his wife, but its hard.

And I just feel like she's missing. She's missing - as in she's missing out on all these beautiful things in my life that I wish I could share with her. She's missing - as in I think she's missing me, or at least I hope she is. She's missing - as in she's not here, and I feel like she should be. She's missing, and I can't find her, and I won't ever be able to. She just... missing.

Deep breaths, Katye. Deep breaths. The gauntlet has begun.

Gleason

Football. ALS. A video diary to a son. Life, death, faith, fear, anger, sadness, distance, humor.

I was not expecting all that when I went to see Gleason. 

It's raw. Maybe the most raw film I've seen. The most real, true, heartwrenching documentation of a family going through hell and loving each other. The best example of the pain and love that goes into being a caretaker. 

It's not really about football. And it's not really about ALS. It's about a couple, and their son, and their family and friends, living life and looking to the future in the midst of a terminal illness. Its honesty is breathtaking. Its reality is painful. It all sounds so cliche in words, but it's just the opposite. It's the most vulnerable thing I've ever watched, and maybe the most beautiful.

Watch it. Bring tissues. Enter in to the intimate moments. Be a part of this unfinished story. 

Does it ever?

Does it ever get easier?

Too many nights this month I've been up late crying, bawling, yelling in a whisper. Too many nights I've ached with missing you, knowing that you're still not here, and you're not coming back, and I don't have my mommy.

I thought, this far out, it would be easier. And it probably is - the daytime at least. But nights, when I slow down, when everything else stops there's still this ache.

I want it to stop, because it hurts so much. Monthly 17ths, and year anniversaries. Anticipatory grief of coming milestones. Memories of our last family vacation before everything changed. But I don't want it to stop, because I don't ever want to forget. I don't ever want to stop missing you.

I'm lucky, I think - you led me to a profession filled with people who care, and people who have been touched by grief. In my classes I'm not alone - so many of classmates know grief, and were led to nursing by their grief. I can share my story, and it's understood. I can cry and 34 caring people will be at my side in an instant.

I'm lucky, too, because I know that sometimes nursing isn't saving a life - sometimes nursing is about a good death. Living and dying with dignity and grace - that's what I want my work to be about.

But it's still hard. It still hurts like hell. It's still brings back painful memories to learn about brain cancer, feeding tubes, the physiological signs of death. How can I be hurting so much while caring for others in pain?

I don't know how to do this.

I miss you so much.

Does it ever get easier?