Don’t Look Away

 

My heart is very heavy. So terribly, horribly heavy. 

You think I should be better. Feel better. Handle it better. You think I’ve had closure. 

No. 

You haven’t seen the tears I shed, the pain I feel, the hurt I am going through. You haven’t picked me up off the floor when I cannot stand on my own. You don’t know my heavy heart. 

You look away. 

There is no closure. No end to my grief. There never will be. My Mom is gone and I will never be the same. My heart is forever broken. 

I’m not asking you to understand. Each one of our grieving processes are different. Unique to us. We have to respect that. 

What I ask is that sit with me in my pain. What I ask is that you ask how I feel or what I need. What I ask is that you not try to fix me. 

What I ask is for you not to look away.  

All Consuming

Remember when you were pregnant?

Everything and I mean everything, revolved around the pregnancy.

What you ate. Where you traveled. Or not. What you bought. How you were feeling. Who you told. Who you celebrated beside. What you wore. When or hell, IF you slept.

From the moment you peed in a cup, saw the lines, went to the doc, from that moment on… life changed.

Every thought, every feeling from then forward you could attribute to the anticipation of this journey to motherhood. The finish line is not necessarily the birth of your child, but at least the finish line of the pregnancy and all that goes with it. You knew there was a happy ending. 

 

I feel like that. 

But not the happy ending. In fact, there isn't an ending. No closure. 

Instead, it is all consuming grief. Grief revolving around eVeRyTHinG. 

Yes, there are happy times. Yes, there are great days. Yes, I'm good. 

But even in those happy times, it’s there. Like I’m carrying something deep in my belly. Something heavy, and sad, and overwhelming.

It doesn’t go away because I’m not telling you about it. It doesn’t disappear because I’m happy, or busy, or occupied, or working. It lingers. Waiting.

It’s not waiting on you, though. Trust me. Honest. Being afraid to bring up my grief, my hurt, my Mom, doesn’t save me from anything. Being afraid to make me cry is foolish. YOU do not make me cry. That’s grief.

Talk about her. Remember her. Tell me something funny, something you learned from her, something I do that reminds you of her. If I tear up, you helped. If I sob, you helped. If I smile, laugh, roll my eyes, sneeze or burp or fart (one of my fav movie lines), you helped. If I hug you, you helped. If I join in the reminiscing, you helped. If you sit with me and say nothing at all, you helped! 

Grief isn’t depression. Grief isn’t a choice to be sad. Grief isn’t a mood. If grief was, it wouldn’t be called grief. It has its own name because it has its own pain.  

It’s always there and will always be.

If You Don’t Have Anything Nice to Say…

Finding myself, more often recently, giving excuses for the rudeness around us.

I’m not exactly sure where that is coming from, but I seem to be making up reasons in my head for this person or that person’s bad day. Hoping it’s only a bad moment.

For this rudeness to approach a stranger with such self-perfection and expectation of perfection on my end is ridiculous. We all make mistakes, we all have opinions, we all have feelings.

When those feelings are ignored is when I get upset. Attacking a person for the company’s rules, yelling at a passerby because you feel intentionally cut off, berating an employee for a long line when you’re in a hurry. Who gave you that right?   

If you are hurting, or mad, or just plain in a bad mood for the day, going out in public should be your pick-me-up. Not your spreading of that misery. If it isn’t, perhaps you should stay home and recoup. You need your downtime, too.

And, here’s the thing, is it not rare that any stranger would maliciously, purposely, intend to hurt you? I don’t leave my house daily just to attack others. I don’t set out to make the world miserable. Do you? 

Please Don't

 

My broken heart won’t exactly heal.

It hurts even more when you tell me it will.

 

Someday I’ll be with her again.

Some day isn’t TO-DAY.

 

Missing her HERE has nothing to do with THERE.

Telling me she is in a better place is futile.

 

She wouldn’t want you to: feel this way, be upset, be sad all the time.

                She wouldn’t WANT any of this.

 

Be thankful for the time you DID have.

                Of course I am, which is why I wanted MORE of it.

Mom's Zucchini Bread Recipe

I’ve made Mom’s Zucchini Bread a million times “before” (as my Family & Friends can attest to). But, I haven’t made it “since” well before May 7th, the day that measures all-time in my head right now. Before and since.

This was my first go of it since. I was worried I’d cry. I was worried I’d mess it up. I was worried I wouldn’t do it justice.

Only one of those worries came true. I proved, that even with the added tablespoons of tears, it turned out just like Mom’s. I think she truly helped me bake it. The supportive hug from my gentleman kiddo when he heard the sniffles in the kitchen helped big time, as well.

I’m not exactly sure where her original recipe came from, in my eyes, it only came from her. Feel free to try it out, warm from the oven with a little bit of butter. If it is familiar to you or came from Betty, I don’t want to know.

My Mom’s Zucchini Bread Recipe. Enjoy.

Dish Garden

When a dish garden makes you cry alligator tears that make a plop sound on the kitchen floor I guess you just let them flow. 

On second thought, I could have watered that dish garden with them. 

It’s beautiful. Green. Full. Blooms every once in a while. It’s 66 days old, if you’re following along. 

It was sent by my office. The first thing delivered after Mother’s Day weekend. 

It needs to be divided and repotted into individual pots. Then they’ll grow more beautiful. Greener. Fuller. 

A couple years ago, after we lost a friend of mine, her Mom put out a request on Facebook to anyone that could divide and repot her dish garden from the service. My Mom jumped into action. 

My dish garden made me cry today. I wanted to call my Mom to take care of those plants for me. 

Where Is This One Going?

Sunday, the 4th, I let the boys swim and decided to try writing my Thank You notes once again. I thought that poolside, fresh air, sunshine would be a happy place to write such sad thank you notes. 

I reread them all. I held back my tears as the boys splashed and laughed. I even giggled at the fact that I was left with the ultimate chore from my Mom. She insisted on thank you notes. They’re important, they’re polite, they’re part of the gift. 

 

This was no gift though. Not in the traditional gift sense. True, blessings, perhaps, but not gift for which you would normally write a thank you note. 

 

Blessings. Blessings of flowers, and food, and books, and photos, and dish gardens, and support, and hugs, and time spent thinking of us. 

 

One card I specifically set off to the side, to handle later. I didn’t know why. 

It was the card from my Uncle and his family. I stared at it and considered texting the only member of that family that I regularly speak to. 

He and I have long texting conversations. They started years ago and have been a source of support to reach out to over the years. On both sides of the phone. 

I decided I would text him later/soon/tomorrow. I would check in with him. We had talked on my birthday. We had talked when I lost my Mom. He was so sad, for me, for my brother, for my kids, for himself. He always loved my Mom. 

His love and xoxo's were in that card.  

With a Heavy Heart

My heart weighs a million pounds. Is that what a heavy heart means? 

Or does it mean my chest hurts like it was in a one way punching battle with a boxing glove on an angry kangaroo? 

Because it does. The ache in my chest is relentless. It hurts even in the still of the night. It hurts when I cry, it hurts when I laugh. It hurts when you may think I've temporarily forgotten. 

My heart is so very heavy. Oddly I have no idea what that means while simultaneously using that title perfectly. 

This heavy heart has seen seventy days since it lost my Mom. Seventy days since I left without telling her how much I love her and that I wasn't ready for her to go yet. 

With a heavy heart I miss our quick texts of the last few months. How just getting a heart or a red headed emoji meant she was ok. Not great, but ok. It was enough to make me smile and be grateful she could still fight. 

A heavy heart is so lonely. From one missing person in my world, I'm lonely. Whether in a room full of family or alone in the car, the loneliness is deafening. But yet, the silence is what I can handle. 

My heavy heart can't catch its breath sometimes. When something comes along to remind me that she isn't here anymore. That certain something that stops me in my tracks. 

Heavy hearts have a hard time healing. I'm thinking they never do. 

What Did You Say?

I understand. I get it. It's hard to know what to say to a Griever. 

"Will I upset them? Will I put my foot in my mouth? Will I cause them to cry?"

Here's the thing- SO WHAT!? 

So you say something stupid. Something someone else has already said. Something EVERY one else has already said. 

SO WHAT?!

Say it anyway. Reach out. Say something! Anything! 

Tell them they are on your mind.  Tell them you want to help. Tell them you Prayed for them.

Here's a big one! Tell them something their loved one did that made you smile. Tell them one of your memories. 

Will you make them cry? Probably. Can you hug them while they cry? Well, do you have arms? 

To be honest, YOU didn't MAKE them cry. The death of their loved one is why they cry. You actually have no idea how often that happens. More than you'd be comfortable knowing. Much more. 

Here's the other thing- doooo something. Nothing big, nothing crazy, nothing costly. Just DO something.

Show up on a random Tuesday with pizza in hand. Invite them to a movie. Drop off a plant. Bring them lunch. Touch base with the kids. Wash their dishes as you talk in the kitchen. Don't offer. Just do. 

Asking a Griever if they need anything is adding to them more to think about. They have no idea what they need or what you would be willing to help with in their grief. 

Greif is lonely. Even surrounded by family and friends. There could be ten people calling per day and they will still be lonely.  Not because those callers didn't help. They most certainly did. But, because the void left behind by their loved one is huge. It is impossible to fill. 

You can help by sitting in that void with them. You can help by listening. You can help by not being afraid to grab a tissue for them. You can help by opening up your heart and showing a little vulnerability yourself. You can help! 

Grief is HARD. Grief sucks. Grief gives no mercy. And what's worse? Grief sticks around for a very long time. 

Is It Time?

 Trying my best. 

I swear. 

Sometimes, it's just too much. Too much to process. To think. To understand. 

I lost my cousin Sunday. 

    The 4th of July. 

        Gram's 90th birthday. 

            A week after the one year anniversary of her death. 

                Three days shy of two months since I lost my Mom. 

That's how my brain works. In time, anniversaries, dates. I despise it. It just happens, subconsciously. 

Time. 

Time just happens, as well. It's the Grief Solution everyone gives me. Time. 

"In time you'll feel better." 

"Time will heal." 

"Give it time." 

So far, lies. 

Time hasn't made anything better. 

Routine

 

I purposely leave work later than my end time now. My short commute once a time I called my Mom. 

My radio hasn't been on in my car for four weeks. I don't feel like listening, I suppose. 

The flowers have all wilted and dried. Hanging by a clothespin the favorites are losing their color. 

The sympathy cards have all come. They are neatly organized in a basket made by my Mom. 

The customary loss meals have all been eaten. Delivery is all I can handle right now. 

There are funeral frames that still need disassembling. Borrowed decorations that need to be returned. 

The dress I wore from a friend keeping me company in my car since the day after the Service. 

Not a fan of birds, I'm actually hoping the cardinal sticks around in my back yard for awhile. 

Living on the edge of her death for so long, I expected to be more prepared. I should have been. 

May 7th- I Didn't Think It Would Be Friday

 

I joined JP in the sunroom, sitting on a love seat, cuddled in together. He laid his head on my shoulder as I silently cried. I remember feeling hurt that my Mom didn't want my help, kept asking me to go. 

I know better now. I didn't think it would be Friday. 

She screamed for help and Dan went running. He tried over and over again to help, to get her comfortable. She said it hurt too much. 

Situated at the opposite end of the hallway I could hear her telling him, " send Juli home. Tell her to go home." Dan told my Mom in the softest, sweetest tone, "I'm not the boss of her. Juli can do what she wants, Diane." She kept telling him to send me home. 

This time, I don't know why, and I wish I hadn't, but I listened. I obeyed. I granted her request and I packed up to leave. I sent Dan a text from where I was in the kitchen to him in Mom's room, "We'll leave. Love you guys."

It was 6:38pm. 

I didn't think it would be Friday. 

Somewhere along Rt 1 Dan called at 7:05pm. He said Mom agreed to an ambulance and to meet him at Kent. I finished the ride to take JP home so I could turn back around to the hospital. 

Dan called again. "Your Mom is in the ambulance, she's unresponsive." 

It was 7:28pm. 

I didn't think it would be Friday. 

Dan had called the ambulance and returned to my Mom. She was then speaking gibberish to him and he later told me he wished I could have helped him decipher what she was saying. He left her room once more to open the door in preparation for the paramedics. He took the pistons off the screen door. He propped it open with a flower pot on the front step. He propped the front door open on the inside. 

In the span of 30 seconds after that call I texted Evans an "I need you. NOW" message. I called my brother. I had JP pack a bag. I called his best bud's to say I was dropping him off. I Prayed. We met Evans in the driveway. He was already there. 

As Evans sped me out of Clayton, we were pulled over. I was hysterical, to say the least, in the passenger seat of his truck. After a short greeting of comrades and a wish for safe travels, Evans began to pull out. But my phone rang again from Dan. 

He had returned to her room and...

"She's gone. She's gone, Juli. She's gone." 

It was 7:37pm. 

May 7th- The Next Part

 

JP & I arrived at Gramma's faster than I've driven there before. 

Looking back, other than Dan's text "reading differently" I had no reason for alarm. Mom had an Infusion Treatment that morning, normal. She was tired, normal. She was in some pain, unfortunately somewhat normal. I think I thought I was there to assist Dan in getting Mom comfortable. Yes, that's what I thought. 

And, the bonus, to see my Mom and sit with her. 

I had to call Dan on his phone to unlock the back door for us (whilst I danced the potty dance). I could hear Mom telling him this was not a good time for me to visit and to send me home. I told him it was too late, I was already there. He agreed and said, "I'm not listening to her, I'm coming to unlock the door." Weird, but we both chuckled awkwardly at ignoring her orders. 

JP remained in the sunroom, I took off to the bathroom and when I emerged she said from down the hall that I shouldn't be there, I shouldn't see her like this. She insisted JP not see her in pain. I told her it was too late for me, JP was in the sunroom, and asked what I needed to do. She was uncomfortable, in pain, couldn't feel her legs or her arms, and said she felt like she was crawling out of her skin. It was heartbreaking. 

Over the next couple of hours Dan and I tried to find her comfort. Between medicine, water, pillows, props, bed raising, bed lowering, moving her legs for her, putting compression socks on, playing classical music, inhaling lavender, screaming, we three tried it all. Even a couple jokes here and there. She was so uncomfortable. She was in so much pain. 

I asked her about going to the hospital. She said there was nothing they could do there for her. I explained that they had more training and resources at their whim and could help. She told me, "only in an ambulance, NOT in any car." I agreed and asked if that meant to call for one now. She said, "not yet." 

She asked me a few more times over those hours to go home. Not nastily, not demanding. More so pleading with me that the kids must need me, or Evans could take me to dinner, or I could go home and relax. I blew her off every time. I ignored it. I wanted to be right where I was. 

We were able to convince her to let Dan call the Doctor at the hospital. The doctor discussed, what seemed to be to them, side effects of the Infusion that morning. They were a little surprised this was the first time she had felt side effects having been her fourth Infusion Treatment. But, nonetheless, they seemed to make it sound like, to our dismay, it was mostly normal. 

At some point, alone in her room with her, I took her hand. She said she could feel warmth but that was all. She asked for lotion. I massaged her hands as much as she could stand until the next bout of severe pain in her legs returned and I switched back to moving them to a folded position again. This leg trick was used every 2-4 minutes that afternoon. 

I held her hand again and placed it to my chest. I asked if she could feel my heartbeat. When she said she could not I told her we weren't going to move her hand around "for the chance of her feeling my boob." She grinned. 

I knelt down beside her bed with her hand to my chest. She looked at me kneeling and said, "OH GOOD! Are you going to Pray? Please Pray." I did just that. 

I had been silently Praying. And at some point in the hallway even sent out a desperate plea on Facebook for Prayers for Relief. I don't remember typing it. 

I laid my head on her bed and choked back tears. She couldn't see me cry. I couldn't let her see me cry. How could I? She was in pain, not me. A short time later she asked that I would leave the room for her to rest. "I can't rest with you in here, Jul." I thought maybe some medicine had kicked in. I obliged and left her room. 

May 7th- Early On

 

I was to be working remotely Friday from my Mom's. 

I had been there on Saturday morning to pick up a load of clothes she insisted be donated. 

I had been there Tuesday afternoon to thumb through some pictures and some paperwork she wanted to look through. 

Tuesday was hard. We encountered so many pictures that made us teary eyed, a few that made us giggle, and some paperwork that sparked some conversation. Not quite enough though. 

Mom cried telling me she just wanted more TIME. She didn't go in to detail, she didn't stay on that subject. Just that she wanted more timmmme. She emphasized the word. 

About an hour and a half into my visit she excused herself for the restroom. I helped her to her standing position and she used her walker from there. Several minutes later she called for me from the back and said she was just so tired. So very tired. As I helped her into bed she gave me instructions on finding some more pictures she thought I may want. She joked of the framed wedding photo she still had and said "you gave me such a big big picture." We chuckled over that. 

I continued looking through photo boxes and searched for the frame, to no avail. When Dan returned home from errands he joined me at the table and I showed him a few pictures I had set aside. He suddenly remembered he had been looking for something specific recently and asked me, "have you found a more recent photo of your Mom by herself?"

I choked back tears until I could reply, "I don't even want to know why you need one."

We both knew why. Neither of us could say the words. So we silently cried instead. 

I was to be working remotely Friday from my Mom's. I had told her I could come back down to go through some pictures again. She was scheduled for infusion in the morning and I would come join her at home late morning. 

Her appointment ran late. They had kept her waiting. When she returned home exhausted Dan was, at first, unable to get her inside from the garage. She couldn't walk, she couldn't stand, she was so weak. He said he may need my help getting her in to bed but he would try one more time. 

He later texted to tell me it wasn't a good day for the pictures. My original plan of going down had changed. 

I was due to visit the beach the next day for an overnight stay with the kids. The next text was  Dan saying "you may want to stop by on the way {to the beach} to see your Mom." 

The text read differently. JP & I left Smyrna immediately. 

Two Weeks Ago

Two weeks ago, I lost my Mom.

I’m completely heartbroken.

I have no idea how I’ve gotten to today.

I have no idea how I’ll get through tomorrow.

Preparing for my Mom’s Funeral tomorrow has been the most surreal, autopilot task I’ve ever completed.

This morning while, as my Mom would say, “puttsing around the house” I picked up one of her baskets on my cabinet to dust. It’s one basket that has never been filled. Not with knick knacks, plutos, kitchen supplies, snacks, blankets, flowers, jewelry, mail, keys, nothing.

It just sat empty.

THIS is what’s inside.

Mom, message received. I love you. I miss you.

I hope we have, and continue to, honor you.

Decisions Decisions

                 By this Single Mom

 

How cool! Right?

What’s for dinner?                          I decide.

What are we doing Saturday?         I decide.

Does he have to clean his room?    I decide.

Can he go fishing?                            I decide.

Can she have friends over?             I decide.

 

These are all great!

They are easy,

and sometimes fun,

and almost thoughtless.

More of just an instant answer. Simple.

                I got this!

 

Whoa! Hold your horses, Mama!

What about….

Can she drive to Milford alone?

Should we go back to school?

Should we stay home?

Are their grades good enough?

Does she need to take Honors?

Do I contact the teacher here?

Is her SAT score good enough?

Should they go away to college?

When do they need to get a job?

Are they sick?

Should they retreat or fight back?

Can they date?

Hell, can I date!?  

Am I too hard on them?

Was I too easy this time?

Are they good enough?

Am I teaching them?

 

 

Am I doing this right??????