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.