New

"... the astonishing or unfortunate thing is that these deprivations bring us the cure at the same time that they give rise to pain. Once we have accepted the fact of loss, we understand that the loved one obstructed a whole corner of the possible, pure now as a sky washed by rain.... Free, we seek anew, enriched by pain. And the perpetual impulse forward always falls back again to gather new strength. The fall is brutal, but we set out again."

--- Albert Camus, via Healing After Loss by Martha Whitmore Hickman 

Shiny

Today I left therapy feeling lighter than I did when I went in. That happens sometimes, when my earlier day is really horrible, and I come out feeling a little better. But generally I still feel overall grey (or blue, or whatever color you’d like to use to describe sadness and depression).

But today I felt lighter. Today I felt much better when I left than when I entered my therapist’s office. The tears I shed felt purifying and cleansing, like I’d cried out everything I needed to cry out, and I could go home with a little bounce in my step instead of thick layers of mud attached to my boot.

It makes the rain feel purifying, too. Instead of the rain resulting in a drab and dreary world, I see it as a cleansing thing. Not only will it make my car look shiny and new, but it will make the world look a little shinier too.

Maybe this is a turning point. Maybe things are looking up, at least a little bit. Or maybe they’re not, and this is just a grace for today. Either way, I’m going to enjoy the lightness while it lasts.

For all you Firefly nerds out there, I did choose this title on purpose :)

Christmas Cometh Caroling

The nights are getting darker earlier, and I’m starting to see Christmas lights on houses. Christmas is coming.

I love Christmastime – the lights, the chill, the scarves, the hot chocolate. It’s always been a warm and safe time for me, even in the bad years. There’s always been hope at Christmas.

These days, when I think of this year’s Christmas I have two filmstrips running through my head. One is beautiful, warm, with our Christmas tree covered with decorations, the Christmas churches lining the mantle, and my mom bustling about, making Christmas cookies, wrapping presents, and dressing up for church on Christmas Eve. The other has a lot of the same images – the tree, the churches, the cookies, but my mom’s not there. Her seat is empty, she’s not in the other room wrapping presents, and she won’t be joining us for church on Christmas Eve. Everything seems a little less warm, a little less bright.

Even though I know one is true and one is false, both run in my head at the same time. So I’m split, both excited and expectant for the Christmas I remember from before, and brokenhearted and in tears because the traditions of before won’t ever happen again. Christmas will look different now, will always look different now, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

My favorite Christmas song from last year is Snow by Sleeping at Last. The lyrics say:

We'll build new traditions in place of the old
Cause life without revision will silence our souls

This Christmas I’m hoping for some new traditions. May those new traditions bring a little bit of light into a soul that’s been hurting for a long time.

Rejoice (7 months)

Last week this old-school song popped into my head: “I love you Lord, and I lift my voice, to worship you, oh my soul rejoice.”

I got stuck on the word rejoice. Rejoice. What does that look like? What does that even mean? How do I find joy, how do I rejoice in the midst of grief?

And then I remembered my mom. I remembered her sitting in church, on the few times she was able be at church. I remember her being dressed up like she always was on Sundays, in her nice slacks, a fancy sweater and some flats (her everyday wardrobe after the stroke was yoga pants, a stretchy shirt and tennis shoes). I remember her sitting in her wheelchair, listening as announcements were given and the sermon was preached.

But mostly I remember her every time we sang a worship song, because every time she’d close her eyes, lift up her chin a little bit, and hum along with the song. She couldn’t read, so she didn’t know the words, and even if she knew the words by heart she probably wouldn’t have been able to say them out loud. So instead she just closed her eyes and hummed, immersed in the music and with a face of pure joy.

She looked so innocent when she did this, so whole, though she was still so physically broken. Even though she couldn’t praise God in worship songs like she used to, she found another way to rejoice.

If my mom can rejoice, without words and with little cause, maybe I can too. I might not be able to replicate the child-like innocence thing, but I can still hum.

It’s been seven months today since she died. And for whatever reason reflecting on joy just felt right. I’m not very joyful yet, but I’m trying to be, and the seventh month mark is as good a time as any to start trying.

I remember...

I remember walking by the checkout at Target and seeing these warm, fuzzy socks with animal faces sewn onto them. They had lots of different kinds – penguins and polar bears and reindeer that only kind of looked like the animals they were supposed to be. Her feet were always cold, especially after she couldn’t walk, so I bought her a pair.

She loved those socks. She wore them almost every day, at least during the wintertime. When the faces started to come off she had me sew them back on. I ended up buying her more pairs of different kinds of animals, because I wanted to see her smile when I brought them to her.

It’s getting colder, and I guess the cold made me remember. I’m really going to miss seeing those socks. I really miss seeing her.

---

This is my 200th blog post. That seems significant, somehow, even though this memory isn’t, really. But I guess that’s what its like when someone dies – even the insignificant becomes important.

Liar

I say that on my good days and my bad I love you more than one more day. But I don’t think that’s really true.

Pretty much every day I wish you were back with me. And I don’t care if that’s selfish or impractical, painful or misguided. I just wish you were here with me.

And maybe I get to wish this – I am your daughter, after all. Your child that you spent your life caring for and protecting. Maybe this can be part of what it means to be your daughter – like a child, just wanting her mom. 

I don’t want to be the bigger person, I don’t want to be rational and adult about this. 

I just want my mommy.

Reflecting

Location: the floor of my room, with this view:

Soundtrack: Josh Garrels, "Ulysses"

Reading: C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

"What sort of lover am I to think so much about my affliction and so much less about hers? Even the insane call, 'Come back," is all for my own sake. I never even raise the question whether such a return, if it were possible, would be good for her. I want her back as an ingredient in the restoration of my past. Could I have wished her anything worse? Having got once through death, to come back and then, at some later date, have all her dying to do over again? They call Stephen the first martyr. Hadn't Lazarus the rawer deal?"

---

I'm always more reflective when I'm sitting on the floor. I don't know what it is - maybe I feel more free? I can sit, lay, curl up - be in whatever position I want. The Christmas lights (which are really year round lights for me) help too - they give everything a warm glow (though some of that is admittedly from the filter I chose for the photo).

C.S. Lewis strikes again.

I really am pretty selfish - I mostly just think about how this all affects me, about my affliction and not hers. I do wish she could come back, for my sake. It's easy for me to forget how much pain she was in after the stroke, especially right before she died. She was in pain - so much pain that any little movement hurt. Would I really wish her back, after that? To have to go through something like that again, later on?

On my good days (and with the help of my dad, who helps me keep perspective) I remember her pain, and I'm glad that she doesn't have to endure it any more. I remember how hard she had to work after her stroke, to do everyday things, to communicate, and I'm glad that she doesn't have to work that hard any more. I remember how selfless she was as she struggled with both bouts of cancer, choosing to fight to live more for us than for herself, and I'm humbled to live my life like hers.

And so on my good days, and even on my bad days, I try to love her "more than one more day."