A Year Goes By

I am VERY tired as I sit to write this post. I arrived home this morning at 5:00am after a fairly long and emotional birth. Nothing today is going to go the way I'd planned. And somehow it all seems appropriate.

This morning at 2:48am, a beautiful baby girl was born into the world on the 1st anniversary of my mom's death. As I stood back and watched a mom and dad welcome their baby girl, the power of this experience was not lost on me and my eyes flooded with tears. I recomposed myself, but 6 hours later, those emotions are still very alive and the tears easily flow.

I had plans for today. A whole day of plans. And none of them will happen. I am much too tired to drive having had only a couple of hours of interrupted sleep this morning. I have another client who still is trying to go into labor. And so today, I stay home. And perhaps I would still have attempted a trip to the cemetery except that I made a deal with my mom at 2:15 this morning that I would not go. I don't know how to explain it. But my mom was there this morning. I felt her. I almost argued with her over everything that was happening. I KNEW that she didn't want a "fuss" made over her today. But I didn't understand why she had to go this far. At 2:15, I told her I would not go to the cemetery if she could just let this mom have her baby. Things were getting a little upside down and it was taking a long time and there was concern for mom's health. And then 1/2 hour later, baby was out. I realize it could be a coincidence, but it wasn't. I have not felt that close to my mom since she died.

On the way home, in the elevator, I reiterated my promise not to go to the cemetery and begged her to let me get some rest before my next birth. My other client had texted at 2:43am that her contractions were getting a lot stronger. I knew I needed rest. I also knew there was a part of me that REALLY still wanted to drive to the cemetery. I felt like that text was a reminder for me. I had made a deal. So, in the elevator I repeated my promise and asked for a little break. And here it is 9:00am and no big signs of labor from my other mom.

And yet I still want to go to the cemetery. But I can't. I am too tired and I made a deal with my mom...crazy as it sounds. I cried for my entire drive home from the hospital. It was that cry from deep down that came this time last year. It was a cry of anger and of sadness. It was a cry of loss. It's all so real again today. And once again, I thought I was prepared. But I was not. Of course, lack of sleep doesn't help much with the emotions. :-O

I feel stuck in this day. And I feel like that is how it is supposed to be. It's odd to feel both pain and numbness. But, it will pass. The day will end. I will not be sleeping on the floor of my mom and dad's house like I was last year. I will be in my own bed. And I will have survived an entire year without my mom. There will be many, many more. But today is the last "first". And it's not going the way I had planned. I wonder if I'll ever come to understand that I can't plan much of anything in this life. That most of it is out of my hands. Probably not...

Perhaps the boys and I will do something in town. Perhaps we will simply stay home. This morning I made a donation to Providence Hospice of Snohomish County. That felt important and it felt good to honor the people who helped us so much last year. I will do that every year. That I know.

As for the rest of today, who knows. I will stop at 5:15pm and I will have my own moment of silence and I will remember a year ago. I will remember what I can't ever forget. I will remember those last moments. I will remember the sounds. I will remember the moment my mom left the earth. And I will remember a lifetime of my mom in one moment.

I miss her so much. What I wouldn't give for one more hug or one more conversation. To all of you reading, if you still have your mom, please, in honor of my mom, call her today. Tell her you love her. Whatever your relationship is with her, one day you will miss it. I wish I had understood that the way I do now.

I believe today will be a day of rest. A day of reflection. I don't really want to deal with the daily business of life today. I don't want to do any school work. I just want to BE. I rarely do that and today seems to be the day to try it.

A baby girl was born this morning, on the 1st anniversary of my mom's death. The circle of life continues. We all continue to move forward. I don't know where this blog goes from here. I always sort of imagined it would end today. But ending it feels like ending my relationship with my mom in an odd sort of way. It doesn't feel right yet. Perhaps there will be no more posts. Perhaps there will be one or two. But I just don't feel ready to officially say it's the end of this blog. I feel like there is still more to be said...but we'll see... The next year holds some big stuff in store in my life and sharing it here seems right, but I guess time will tell.

But to end this post today, I'm copying and pasting the information for the video we played at mom's funeral and Michael's eulogy. They are as powerful and beautiful today as they were a year ago.

I miss you mom. My heart physically hurts today. And with every ounce it, I still miss you.

Mom's Video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KxfhCYkL8PA
(The first song is Address in the Stars by Caitlin & Will and the 2nd is Fields of Gold by Eva Cassidy)

Michael's Eulogy

This past summer my wife and I took a vacation to the Washington Coast with some of our closest friends. We all have two year olds, so we consider vacationing together kind of a support group.

Knowing Gus, I figured he would be initially cautious, but once he got a flavor for splashing in the water, he’d want to get right in. This concerned me. So I did some research.

I learned about sea creatures, winds, swells, and other such matter. Then I read about rip tide and what I found surprised me.

It turns out if you get swept up in a rip tide, if you try to swim against it you’re doomed. If you fight it it’s useless. You’re only hope to survive isn’t to swim, it’s to let it take you – you need to completely let go.

This operates against logic, against human will.

To fight it is futile. You have to surrender to it to have any hope.

When Mom was first diagnosed, I thought the decision on what to do next was obvious:

You fight it with all of your strength.

Go in swinging, go down swinging.

Doctors didn’t give her much in the way of hope. Her chances were slim. Fight it and you have maybe a year, and it wouldn’t be a very pleasant year. Don’t fight and you have a few months.

But this is my Mom we’re talking about. Stubborn. Resolute. Iron-willed.

And yet after a flirtation with a protracted battle, she did the unthinkable and she just stopped.

Stopped chemo, stopped taking her blood pressure medicine, ignored her diabetes. She stopped fighting against the tide.

She let go.

This is my Mom we’re talking about. Realist. Practical. Wise.

I can’t say that I agree with her decision, but I recognize that she gave us a gift. She let go in order to make full use of the time she had left. So instead of the next chemo appointment, the next meeting with doctors, the next round of being too sick to get out of bed, she connected with her friends, she was visited by family, she got to spend time with her grandchildren Jonathan, Christopher, Gus. She got to hold little baby Ike.

She went to the casino.

She ate pizza.

She even drank beer.

She let go so she could live.

With this decision, this gift, we were able to simply love her during her remaining time and reflect on what she meant to us.

In thinking about Mom’s life I realize that she was the master of knowing when to let go.
Mom entered nursing school in a class of 43 and only 18 graduated. It was a grueling program. Students needed to study, intern, many worked on the side to earn money. She was good at what she did and she enjoyed it. One of my favorite stories that Dad told me years ago was that Mom would get home from work and leave a note about where they were going out with friends. Dad would get home a time later, change, see the note, and drive separately. They’d have fun all night, race each other home, wake up and swear they’d never do it again until my dad saw Mom’s note that night after work. And they’d do it all over.

I tell you this story because Mom had an endearing line she used to like to tell Kelli and me. “My life was really over when I had you kids.” And then she’d grin and look at us with adoring eyes and say “but I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Mom never wanted to be a cook. She didn’t want to shop for groceries. She didn’t want to vacuum, clean the bathroom, do the laundry. She didn’t want to do back-to-school shopping. She didn’t want to discipline.

But she did it.

She let go of her career, she let go of her fun, and she became a Mother. Because she was selfless.
I recall being in first grade and my buddy Andy wore a key around his neck and I asked him,
“why do you wear that key around your neck?”.

“So I can get in my house,” he said rather incredulously

And I said, “You mean your mom won’t let you in the house?”

I never knew what it was like to not have Mom at home, there waiting for me, to take care of me, to ask me about my day. What I learned. What I liked. What I discovered.

Mom had a knack for knowing when things were beyond her control.

I remember being a young boy... and let’s just say my Mom and my sister were having trouble seeing eye to eye. Mom did the best she could but there wasn’t much she could say or do that would derail my sister’s determination to be her own person. I recall Mom telling me, “honey, I love your your sister but I just can’t fix her right now.” And she let her go. I believe it was this decision that allowed my sister to make her own choices, grow up, learn from mistakes, and mature. It’s why she became the empathetic, intelligent person she is today. Mom let her go to let her grow.

I also remember wondering why Mom cried so much when I was leaving for college. It wasn’t as if I was going to Central. I was only going 90 minutes north. I’d certainly be coming home for a good meal and to do my laundry on the weekends. It was much later that I realized that she cried because she had to let me go – she had to let me go and make my own mistakes, my own decisions, and learn from them on my own. When other Moms called night after night, mine let me call her – and I credit her for that.

Helen Hunt Jackson wrote:

Motherhood is priced of God, at price no man may dare to lessen or misunderstand.

When I first read that, the understanding part struck me – it reminded me of something I wrote for Mom that I never gave her.

Last year, I started to write her a letter for Mother’s Day because I was now a parent and I had a new respect for her with Gus in my life. Ironically, I never finished it largely because I have Gus in my life. In reading it over, so much of it seemed appropriate for today. I’d like to share some of it with you now.

Mom, I understand how you must have felt when I was born and they told you I wouldn’t survive.

I understand now why you always read me one more book before bedtime if I asked.

I understand why you didn't want me to play football.

I understand why going out for pizza on Saturday was so important to you. You didn’t have to cook for us – and prepare two different meals: one for Kelli, and one for the rest of us.

I understand why you spoiled me.

I understand why you couldn't stand my hair long in college.

I understand why you forced me to go to confirmation.

I understand why you asked me to clean up my room. I also understand why it upset you when I never did.

I understand why you always made me send thank you notes promptly.

I understand why you couldn’t come to my baseball games because you’d throw your back out.

Mom, I still don't understand gazpacho, but I understand why you made it. Because Dad liked it.

I understand what went through your mind when you heard the tires screech outside our house when I got hit by that car.

And Mom, I hope you understand why the first thing that I told the medics was that Mom was going to kill me.

I understand why every time I left the house, you told me to "be careful". And as if I couldn’t look at the gauge myself, you asked if there was any gas in the car.

Mom, I'll never understand why you packed two kids into a 1981 VW Rabbit and drove 800 miles to Reno Nevada, but I'm sure you had your reasons.

I understand why you didn't like some of my girlfriends.

I even understand why at Christmas time you always hung that picture of an ox that Kelli made in grade school even though it really had nothing to do with Christmas and it barely looked like an animal to begin with. I get it now.

I understand now why you always shopped on the sale rack.

I finally understand why you sobbed when I broke that ugly green vase that sat on top of our 1960's television in the basement. It was the last thing your mother had given you.

I understand why you had a well stocked bar.

I understand how much you cared for us.

I understand how much you loved us.

I finally understand all the sacrifice. And Mom, I was going to say that I don’t know what I’ll do without you – but in fact, I do know what I’ll do without you. I’ll honor you by attempting to live up to your example, and you all can do the same.

To be selfless.

To sacrifice for those you love.

To be loyal to your friends.

To be loyal to your family.

To love your family almost to a fault.

To know when to stand and fight.

And to have the wisdom to know when to let the tide take you.