Dear Mom,
This morning started off rough. I was feeling discouraged about trying to get the girls up, dressed, fed, and ready for their classes for the day. You know how Aria isn’t a morning person at all… and Machaela sometimes needs to be reminded repeatedly before remembering the basics… like brushing her hair out of its perpetual Merida-look… and lately I feel like I’ve been forgetting everything…
When Nate went to hug me before leaving for work, he saw the frown I was trying to hide and wanted to cheer me up… so he pouted and lightly pinched my cheeks (the ones on my face, mind you… I already know what you were going to say if I didn’t specify), saying, “Don’t be sad, Pookie Pie… it’ll be okay” and then pulled me in for a hug.
Well, somewhere between “Pookie Pie…” and the hug, I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. I could hear your voice in my head singing the lullaby you made up for me when I was a baby and have since adapted for each grandchild. “Pookie pie lullaby, little one don’t you cry…"
I know I’m 32 now, but I’d still have given anything in those moments to have been rocked back and forth to your voice singing to me again. And then, as if that wasn’t enough … my mind connected that thought to knowing that you won’t be able to sing our lullaby to Norah… or swaddle her… or rock her to sleep… and even as I’m writing this, the tears are coming back. I can’t even imagine one of my children not getting the chance to know you the way the rest of us do.
Sometimes I’m okay. Today hasn’t really been one of those sometimeses though. I’m keeping it together well enough though. Functioning. Autopilot override when necessary. If it weren’t for the girls mentioning about being hungry (like 527,391 times a day… you know how kids are), I might forget to eat.
Someone asked me today how I feel. I replied, “bland.”
I didn’t even think about it until after I hit send, but it’s about as accurate of a word as any.
Bland…
That’s not to say that I don’t have so many things to be thankful for. That’s not to say that I don’t have anything to look forward to or any joys in life anymore. I do. I have so many wonderful people in my life and so much to look forward to… but for now it all just feels bland without you.
I wanted to call you today… because you’re the one I’d always call when I was sad… but not being able to call you anymore to hear your voice is the reason why I’m sad… I still haven’t listened to that twelve second voicemail you left on August 22nd. I don’t think I’m ready to yet. I feel like I have to ration my thoughts about you, so I don’t fall apart.
Writing to you helps. I think. I don’t know how I’d be if I didn’t write it out though. You always encouraged me to write my heart no matter what anyone else said or thought about it. So, I will. Sharing helps.
I feel bad for not being ready to really talk about it too much in individual conversation with people though. Everyone has been so encouraging and all I can seem to muster up in response are ‘care’ emojis. I’ve started trying to type out how much the outpouring of love means to me… how my heart warms just to read the comments, advice, and personal stories… but it just sounds so robotic of me to say even though I mean it genuinely. So, I deleted them… my replies. I think that people understand. I don’t know what to say. I just don’t have the words right now. And I think that’s okay. I’ll get there.
I’m fairly certain it was Kathleen Hathaway Mitchel who mentioned something profound in her book, “Treasures in Tragedy” about grief not being linear… I wish I could remember the exact quote… whatever it was, I understand it now.
I think I’ll make spaghetti for dinner. I should write it on a post-it note so I don’t forget.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
“Pookie”
My Mom’s favorite song that was featured on her favorite movie, “Somewhere in Time”
Dear Mom,
It’s Sunday. I have a newfound appreciation for the expert way you’d wrangle Jenn, Tris, and I together to help us get ready—and yourself—to leave the house early enough for us to get to church on time… Whenever we’re the first ones ready, I hear you saying, “All your father has to do is get himself ready and he’s STILL the last one out!” I think I might have even said something similar to the girls today too… but about Nate. I thought of you.
I wanted to go to church today, but at the same time, I had a feeling that Pastor Trent or the worship team, or SOMEONE would say something that would just set off the tears I’d been holding back. You know how I hate crying around people. I almost cried during praise and worship when we sang, “We’re gonna’ see a victory! We’re gonna’ see a victory! For the battle belongs to the Lord!...”
The last time we sang that song was two weeks ago, but it meant something different to me then. Two weeks ago, I was praying that song in my heart, sobbing at the altar for your healing. Last Sunday, Dad, Jenn, Tris, and I were at the funeral home making plans for your burial.
On the surface, this Sunday didn’t feel like we’d seen much of a victory—at least not in the way I prayed for. I felt bad for even thinking that. I almost wrote out a prayer request not to be mad at God for not answering my prayers the way I believed He would.
And then, the musicians started playing a song Machaela introduced me to months ago that she heard in youth group that really spoke to me. Do you remember “Way Maker”? I had you listen to it before. And played it for you in the hospital. And again, at your funeral service. I had never heard the worship team play it before during Sunday service, but they did today.
Part of it goes like this:
Way maker, miracle worker, promise keeper Light in the darkness My God, that is who You are Even when I don’t see it, You’re working Even when I don’t feel it, You’re working You never stop, You never stop working You never stop, You never stop working
“Way Maker” – Leeland
I don’t know why God chose not to work a miracle in your healing here on Earth. I know that I’ve felt betrayed—like He broke His promise… and I still struggle with that emotion sometimes and have to remind myself that even though I don’t always see or feel it, He’s working in our lives.
They played the song again at the end of service too… I really needed to hear it again. And this time, as I sang with my eyes closed, trying to hold back tears… I felt such a warm, compassionate hug. I didn’t even have to open my eyes to know which of my church sisters it was. And I’m telling you, Mom, that if nothing else, I needed to be there today for that hug. And that song. And for Pastor Trent to talk about the importance of praise—even when you feel like you’re stuck in a rut, or in a pit… surrounded by darkness. In the midst of it all, sing praise.
I’ve been noticing a lot of things about myself lately that remind me of you. Even some of the things I never used to understand—or even be slightly irritated over as a kid… guess what… I do them too. Like today, after church… after we got home and the girls started audibly getting on each other’s nerves… I heard you doing that thing you’d always do when Tris and I would argue and your patience was running thin… the casual prayer voice… “God, give me patience with these WONDERFUL children You gave me…” except I was the one saying it. And they were the ones looking at me like I had twelve heads.
I get it now. It wasn’t easy raising three girls whose personalities tended to clash at the most inconvenient times. If you prayed for me to be able to understand those struggles ‘one day’… I guess God answered that one because that’s about to be me too… Well played, Mom… well played.
I miss you.
Love always,
“Pookie”
This is the actual version of the song… not my half-singing between tears version.
Dear Mom,
You didn’t know this, but on September 20th… around 3 A.M., I couldn’t sleep. I was upset about something personal and didn’t know how to work it out in my mind. So, I started writing again… for the first time in a while. You were in the hospital at the time. Bilateral pneumonia… and then they found bacterial infections in your blood. They couldn’t identify all the different strains. The doctors were scrambling trying to figure out the best course of action.
When I sat down to write, there hadn’t been any update in a while. I thought, “Okay, well no news is good news, so I’ll wait as patiently as possible.” [You know how well that works out in our family though… do we get that from the Slovak side? Probably.]
My journal entry started out with updates from the months I hadn’t written… then turned into unburdening my heart of all of the thoughts weighing it down… but somehow on the lines of page 4, my unburdening started turning into a prayer. It’s been on my heart again today.
I’m so thankful for your examples of humility. For teaching us that it’s okay to be human. It’s okay to be imperfect. It’s okay not to have it all figured out. Because I’m undoubtedly imperfect. And I certainly don’t have it all figured out.
So around 3 A.M. on September 20th, I poured my thoughts out into my journal… and somewhere in the midst of page four, I started to pray:
“Please help us, God. I know you have a purpose for us… I know and trust that You want what is best for our lives—even when we don’t know what that is ourselves… maybe even especially then. I’m sorry for all the times I fail. I’m sorry for all of the times “meaning well” didn’t translate to “doing well”. Thank You for loving me even when I fall short. Heal my heart & make it more Yours than ever before. Revive my spirit with Your holy breath of life & recalibrate my focus to align with Your will. Mold our lives into testaments of Your glory & knit our family together with the strength of Your love. Holy Spirit be my conscience… be my compass… Lord, help me lead by Your example & be the woman of God my family needs. Help me to resist temptation to falter, be discouraged, or guilted out of Your mercy. I want to love my family with the love You have for us. Thank You for even the things I haven’t seen… the times You’ve upheld us & have kept Your angels watching over us. Thank You for being a God who answers prayer. Help me to worship You selflessly & live my life the same way… to glorify You in everything I do. Thank You for giving us the fruits of the spirit & the armor of God… help us to use our gifts wisely. Thank You for providing for us & for our loved ones & healing our bodies, hearts, minds, & spirits. I know I didn’t start writing in here at 3 AM expecting it to turn into a prayer, but I’m thankful it did. Thank You for hearing me, loving me, understanding me, and always being there for me—even when I’m stubborn & prideful & get things all wrong… and thank you for putting it in my heart to write. Help me learn to use my gifts in a way that brings glory to You. Help me love You more. That is the first step… and lots of patience… for myself & others. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.”
Right after I signed my name, my phone rang. It was Dad. He called me to say that they had to connect more tubes and machines to you. I tried to be encouraging… “That’s good news in a way, isn’t it? It means they have a plan of action to start getting the fluid out of her lungs.” I choked back tears, hoping he didn’t hear the unsteadiness in my voice. It was a test. It just had to be. What is the likelihood of signing off on a written prayer and—within seconds—getting a call that early in the morning?
I still don’t know “Why?” or what it all means. But even though there is still confusion, there is also clarity. It’s okay for the concepts to coexist…just like grief, acceptance, and joy. I feel them all.
Mom, you taught me to cast my cares. You taught me to look up. You taught me to trust in God and you tried so hard to break me from my stubborn perfectionism getting in the way—and hopefully, it’s finally starting to sink in. What can I say… I’m still a perpetual work in progress.
The girls miss you a lot. Aria prays for you every night still. Since September 25, though, instead of praying for your healing, she prays for you to have good adventures in Heaven. She wants to know if you’ve found Eliot there yet and if he’s behaving himself. She said it’s okay if he’s your pet now.
I know that some days will be harder than others, but today I’m okay.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
“Pookie”
One of my Mom’s favorite songs that has always made me cry… ever since I was a little girl.
I'm sorry for any confusion; there really hasn't been an appropriate time to make a special announcement with everything going on the past few months... so we were going to wait a while longer.
But my Mom's writeup in the "Morning Call" sort of made the announcement for us.
My Mom would have wanted it written that way, though. She believed that each life is precious right from the start... even before birth [and so do I]. She was already excited to meet her newest grandbaby in 2021... we talked about different name suggestions and their meanings; she was never bashful about telling me which combinations sounded weird or if the potential initials/monogram would spell out an uncouth acronym.
While I stood next to my Mom's bedside early Thursday morning, I leaned over to whisper the name we chose for our little girl. So, yes... "Norah Jane" is ours... and she is named after the most remarkable woman I've ever known... Patty Jane Terry. ♡
Before I start, I just wanted to mention a few disclaimers:
I’m not a public speaker. I’m also probably going to cry at some point although I’m hoping to get through saying all of this without that happening. We’ll see how it goes.
First of all, thank you for your presence. For listening. For caring. For your patience. For understanding… or at least trying to. This all still feels so surreal. I’ve never lost my Mom before; I don’t really know how I’m meant to behave and since she’s not here to scold me, thank you all for withholding judgment and for bearing with me… well, for bearing with all of us as we process such a gravitational loss.
You know, you don’t really realize how grammatically strange it is to speak about someone in the present who has passed… until it becomes relevant. The tenses get all tangled up… the “was”s and “is”s get mixed together and it’s really difficult to navigate which one to use while still making sense. But then again, not too much makes sense right now.
I know that’s supposed to be her over there. My Mom. I know the doctors said that she ‘passed away’ … and I know that I was there. I saw it. Parts of me even died with her… in the literal sense, too. But it hasn’t really clicked yet.
It’s only been 5 days… Already, I’ve cycled through a spectrum of emotion I hadn’t even realized existed. I honestly don’t know that I’ve ever been so resentful in my life. I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed for her healing. So many of us did. All over the world. For months. For years, even…
But when the answer didn’t come the way I expected, I felt lied to. I felt betrayed. I felt abandoned. Did you? In a span of mere minutes, my thoughts went from, “God, I know You’re here and You’ve got this under control.” to “God, where were You? Did You blink and miss it? What happened back there? Why did You let her go?”
But what I’m starting to realize is that He didn’t let her go… Instead, He held onto her and pulled her closer… to Him—even if that means that she’s farther away from us for a while. Our prayers were answered. She’s not in pain anymore. And the only reason we are is because we were so abundantly blessed to have her presence in our lives that her physical absence leaves such a heart wrenching ache. She is still alive in so many other remarkable ways.
When I look in the casket, I don’t see my Mom. That’s not her likeness at all. My Mom was much louder. [Ask anyone who has ever overheard a phone conversation between her and any one of her siblings… fourteen or so “Okie-dokie”s later…]
When I close my eyes, I see her the way I remember… understated beauty, sometimes with the 90’s poodle-perm hairstyle, sometimes without, but always full of expression—even if more-than-occasionally that expression was the ‘mom glare’ … you all probably know the one…she’d most-likely be giving it to me right now for talking about her like this.
My Mom wasn’t much of a spotlight chaser, but it’s kind of hard to have a funeral without the day being centered around who she was, who she is, and who she has in some way helped shaped each of us to be. Sorry, Mom… but you’re the reason we’re all here, so…*shrug* like it or not, you’re getting some extra attention today. “Deal with it. Cope. Adjust.” (that’s something she’d always say to us… I promise I’m not being rude).
There is so much more to be said, but I don’t want to monopolize the podium. I know that Jenn has something prepared and hopefully we can convince Tris to come up here and share the one about Montgomery Moose…. Plus, I have a feeling that if you’re here—or watching from afar… you have at least a few fond memories of your own. I’d love to hear them.
But first, a quote from a book she would always read to me:
“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living, my Mommy you’ll be.”
Love always,
“Pookie”
“Turn your eyes upon Jesus
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of Earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace.”
Dear Mom,
This is the hardest thing I've ever had to write... go figure, it's about you.
For once, I can't find the words.
P.S. -
On the way driving back to the house from the funeral home today to set up the photos (we made sure you'd have approved of most of them; some were just too funny not to include), we saw a van that said, "P & J" (whatever type of company it was)... I smiled. Patty Jane.
And then, the car in front of it had a license plate that said "BPOSITIVE"... your blood type.
You're even creative with your subtle encouragements.
I miss you.
Love always,
“Pookie”
I just saw that I have a 12-second voicemail from my Mom from August 22nd... the day Nate and I got engaged... and I haven't even listened to it yet. 😞
I don't know the protocol for things like this.
I threw an online surprise birthday/transplant party on Facebook while my stem cells were transplanted into my Mom's body...and invited the whole family to it so we could all 'be there' for her. ♡
[Nathan made a guest appearance via my phone during the video chat to say hi to everyone too... as did Spence (pictured above)]
Keep the prayers coming (and thank you for them)!
The doctors/nurses are heavily monitoring her for at least the next 2 hours and then tomorrow she gets the part of her treatment where they encourage/coax the healthy cells to replicate more/faster...(health professional friends, as always, please feel free to correct/elaborate on my explanations)... and they have to suppress her immune system for a bit to make sure her body doesn't naturally try to reject the new cells... then, a week or so later, she goes through another treatment to rebuild her immune system with lots of monitoring and fluid level correction in between/during.
Narration. Sorry about the two random dings somewhere in the middle.
March 16, 2020: Monday – 8:36 a.m.: Thoughts:
I’ve never seen such a beautiful sunrise over superstructure horizon. The view from the 21st floor of the Lyric, overlooking the heart of Philadelphia during the golden hours, takes my breath away. There is a brief moment of magic on the cusp of daybreak before the city's skyline dims when Heaven’s masterpiece melts into a collaboration between the Creator and man’s delusive efforts not to be outshone.
When I look outside, I can see across to the building where my Mom is staying for the procedure and part of her recovery. Her window stands out, 5th trio from the right—the distinct outline of her transplant calendar framed evenly by the middle pane of glass. Sometimes I can even see her silhouette peeking out through the left of the nurses’ schedule (from my perspective, that is). There aren’t any windows above hers—although there is at least one more floor… a helipad appears to float, centered above her room, tethered to steel pillars invisible to the naked eye. I like to watch the helicopters in flight, maneuvering through the sky as they land, and whisper anonymous prayers for everyone inside.
It’s 10:17 a.m., 43 degrees Fahrenheit, and I miss her.
We video chat sometimes—when she remembers to activate the WiFi on her phone; I jotted a reminder on her wall before we left on Friday night when Covid-19 precautions ‘kicked us out’ of the hospital. Dad is low-key driving me crazy, but I love him anyway. He’s just not used to being away from Mom for any extended period of time—they’ve been together over 40 years and I don’t think they’ve ever even been separated this long throughout their entire relationship. It’s sweet, but also sad. He doesn’t seem to know what to do in her absence…and she’s only 3 blocks away.
I’m fairly certain that he’s already tweaked and fixed anything and everything in the mini-suite that needed fixing or tweaking…a squeaky door hinge, wonky shower curtains, a bent mirror shelf, etc…but that’s how it works, isn’t it? When we can’t fix what matters the most, we go around adjusting the things we can so that we don’t feel as helpless as we really are.
People keep telling me I’m brave. They say that what I’m doing for my Mom is a selfless act, when in all reality, it might be the single most selfish thing I’ve ever done. It didn’t take bravery; it took obstinance.
The truth is, I’m just not ready or willing to imagine my life without her in it.
Others have been far more courageous with far less at stake. I’m doing this because I don’t want my children to lose their grandmother, my father to lose his wife, my sisters and I to lose our mother, or for her to lose all of us.
I’m selfish.
I have more memories to collect, more hugs to share, more wisdom to hear, more smiles to see, more laughter to feel, and more adventures to plan with her. My mother plays one of the absolute most important roles in my autobiography—and we’re just about to get to the really good parts—the chapters where perseverance through hellfire and tribulation unfolds into the beginning of “happily ever after”.
I want her to see that the prayers she cried through clenched fists and tear-stained eyes over the years…prayers for my life… weren’t uttered in vain… and for her to be standing next to me when the knot is finally tied in the right place. She’s got more grandchildren to have, more giggles to enjoy, and so many more stories to tell—many of which have yet to be written…including this one.
So no, this isn’t selfless and it doesn’t make me brave—not from where I stand. I look in the mirror and see a little girl who still isn’t ready to let go of her mother’s hand to face a scary world alone…and I am so darn lucky that this is all it takes from me to keep her.
She always confused this band with Hootie and the Blowfish.
Narration. (Sorry about the planes in the background towards the middle/end)
Transplant Procedure Update #1: Day 1: [Un-revised Mind-Rambles]
This morning, my parents made the 3-hour(ish) trek to Philadelphia to start the journey toward my Mom's healing/recovery. As I’m writing this, she’s enduring her first round of radiation… and for those of you who know its process, you understand what it means…”enduring”. For this procedure, it’s needed. Before they left (around 2:30-3:00 a.m.), I gave her the biggest but most gentle hug I’ve ever given in my life and reminded her, “don’t forget to cast your cares”. Hopefully, I’ll get to see her on Wednesday when I join her at the hospital (from my understanding, we will be in different places throughout the entire week—so I don’t even know if I’ll get to actually be with her at any point during my part of the transplant) but if not, I know that heartfelt hug will carry us through the days ahead.
To be honest, I felt a bit empowered yesterday—being the only one really able to embrace her since she’s going to be sharing my blood soon enough anyway. I had to forcefully tug my ego down a notch. (just kidding). [Humor has always been my default ‘defense’ mechanism of sorts when I have something serious to say; those of you who know me, or who have been following my quirkily-eccentric life adventures over the years, can probably already identify the pattern in the way that I write.] It’s time to be serious now, though. [I wrote the first part for her birthday, but didn’t get a chance to finish it until today when it sort of took off in its own direction.]
---
What more can I say to honor a woman who already speaks for herself through the selfless way she lives?—the very same woman who had been cultivating within me the meaning of sacrifice since the day her piercing gaze locked onto the blue of my father's eyes and she proclaimed that if it ever came down to the wire and a choice needed to be made between her or me during childbirth, she would choose me in a heartbeat and he must too. We were both nearly lost in the process of my delivery; I firmly believe that my parents' unwavering faith and the inconceivable strength of my mother's love saved our lives that day.
As an infant, there were times when she wasn’t around as often as I’d have liked. I have traces of memories from the early years on Liberty Street [don’t worry, it’s not the answer to any of my security questions…but it might be my sister’s!]—missing the warmth of her voice when she left to work nights to help make ends meet for our family.
One of the biggest sacrifices a parent can make is to have to spend time away from their child(ren) in order to offer them their best chance at life. I can’t even imagine the number of times she laced up her shoes and kissed me goodnight with tears in her eyes before walking through the door to head off to the Manor to clock in. Or how many soiled bed sheets she changed while watching the clock and praying time would go by faster so she could get off her feet and wrap her arms around her husband and children instead of an IV pole that needed to be wheeled down the hall to room 13. She must’ve been worn out by the time she returned through the doorway to the apartment… top floor, I believe. My sisters would know; they were older. [It was the ground floor; I stand corrected.]
Through her, I learned what sacrifice means—the way she never spent a cent on herself when it was needed for her children. The times we’ve all fallen ill—including/especially her—and she kept going… steadying herself, as frail as she was, against the counter top just to make soup for us or measure out our antibiotics. She was always there with a warm cup of tea, a splash of milk and two sugars—she still is. “Nonnie tea,” Aria calls it.
And for as much as she talks and opinionates (she’s Slovak, it’s expected), she also listens. I honestly don’t know how I’d have gotten through the past year had it not been for her shoulder to lean on when the rest of my life felt like it was crumbling right from under me.
Don’t get me wrong though… we didn’t always get along so well.
One time during high school when I was sitting on my bed (it was arranged in the room differently than it is now—parallel to the door instead of perpendicular, against the wall) and we were having a discussion—I don’t quite remember now if she went to grab something from me, or what the context was… but she ended up accidentally leaning forward too far too quickly and smacking her face on the doorknob. She had a bruised eye for quite a few weeks from that. I remember going to church that month and feeling bad when my Dad was getting the side-eye from some of the other congregation members—as if he were the one responsible for it when really it was indirectly my fault. My Dad has put up with a lot over the years… he’s a champ too. The angriest I’ve ever seen him towards my Mom resulted in him setting a remote controller down on the table slightly louder than usual. That’s it. He has always set a fine example of unconditional love and respect in his relationship with my Mom. Her being sick has been very hard on him too… maybe even especially him in ways… but I’m digressing—as I usually do when jotting my thoughts down in a candid series… you can see the way the gears twist and concepts connect from one to the other to create the big picture as a whole… fragments coming together.
Speaking of the big picture… I haven’t even started packing yet. Am I scared? Parts of me are… like my stomach that finds itself in tangles thinking about what she must be going through right now. How humbling (for a delicate choice of verbiage) it must be to have to sit vulnerably and uncomfortably-positioned in a cold room with cold air in a cold chair surrounded by unfamiliar machinery—left with nothing except for maybe a 1-ply dollhouse-ratio napkin to cover the essentials and unbridled thoughts bouncing around in a frenzy… flesh invaded by dangerous particles making a war zone out of you. “Don’t move.” Stillness in body, synapses transmitting a billion miles a minute.
My mother’s tenacity is contagious. I learned the true meaning of strength the night we almost lost my older sister, Tristina, when a tumor inside of her burst. My parents sped to Lebanon, PA in the middle of the night as she was rushed in for emergency surgery. This isn’t the first time mom’s had to fight it… cancer… the first time was for her child. She’ll win again. We all will. There has to be a reason for it all. And I’m going to keep searching until I find out what it is.
She doesn’t expect this to be easy…the procedure…but there isn’t a bone in her body that has ever been spoiled with the overuse of the definition of that word. “Easy.” She’s tough.
So, what more can I say to honor a woman who already speaks for herself through the selfless way she lives?—the very same woman who had been cultivating within me the meaning of sacrifice since the day her piercing gaze locked onto the blue of my father's eyes and she proclaimed that if it ever came down to the wire and a choice needed to be made between her or me, she would choose me in a heartbeat and he must too... this time, years later, the decision is non-negotiable... "Both."
We’ll get through this the same way we’ve conquered all of the other trials in the history of our family… unwavering faith [yours too] and the inconceivable strength of a mother's love.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 