Tag: stages of grief

Posted in Dear Mom

16 November 2020: I was alone.

Posted on by Kaleidoscopic Grace

Dear Mom,

Today is the first day I find myself actually alone since you’ve been gone.
I thought I’d be handling it better.
That seems to be the case a lot lately, actually… the thinking I’d handle something better than I actually do.

I heard an ice cream truck drive by and remembered the days at Grammy’s house on Hayes Street when we’d play “My Car, Your Car” and see the ice cream truck moseying along.
Sometimes we’d have leftover pocket change from the corner store for a treat… or Grammy would slip us each a few coins to go pick something out if we’d been well behaved.

I’d usually choose the red, white, and blue popsicle… or the flavor-of-the-week ice cream shaped like a random popular cartoon character.

I told myself that if I heard the ice cream truck go by again today, I’d go outside and choose something–even if it seemed weird that I didn’t have any children with me.

But I didn’t anticipate reaction time for the current situation of how long it takes me to waddle around with a baby bump… and before I could get to the door, the familiar song had already faded off down the street.

Yeah, I teared up. Over ice cream I wasn’t even hungry for… or perhaps it was over a few memories I couldn’t get back.

I went to call you today… so many times… to update you about Aria’s first day back to school since before the pandemic… to talk about the weekend… to see how you’re doing and if you and Dad still get to sit up on the deck and watch the birds at the feeders with Ranger leaping around energetically, scaring them away… and when I couldn’t, I cried for that too.

I thought I’d be doing better today, but it seems like I keep getting choked up over the little things all connecting back to this massive crevice in my heart without you here.

So far it’s been a missed ice cream truck, a knitted baby blanket in the wrong shape… again, a gas tank, a plastic cup in the driveway, incomplete calls, and so many thoughts cascading through my mind without anywhere to land.

I’ve never missed anyone so much, Mom.

Love always,
“Pookie”

Posted in Dear Mom

18 October 2020: I carved a pumpkin.

Posted on by Kaleidoscopic Grace 
Dear Mom,

I think you'd be smirking at my facetious antics. The girls, Nate, and I have been spending time the past couple days carving pumpkins together. 

Aria's has flowers, hearts, and a peace sign, Machaela carved a chinchilla into hers, and Nathan said his is going to be Mario. 

I had no idea what design to cut into my pumpkin canvas. Nate suggested "Peach" to go with his Mario Bros theme. The girls agreed. I didn't have any better ideas of my own, so I obliged.
 
I worked really hard on it and was honestly kind of impressed with the outcome. Smooth lines, decent shapes... it was easily the best one I'd ever carved... but when I showed them the finished result, they didn't seem as thrilled with my efforts as I was. They rolled their eyes and said it looks nothing like her. 😆

I hereby present to you, "Princess Peach" (and your favorite fruit). I still think it's my best pumpkin masterpiece to date, regardless. 

I miss you, Mom.

Love always,
"Pookie"
Posted in Dear Mom

8 October 2020: I got a phone call.

Posted on by Kaleidoscopic Grace
Narration – there are tears
Dear Mom,

Dad called me today. He said that he’d been on the phone with one of your specialists. Dr. Lisa. She stressed that there was nothing any of us could’ve done differently. He wanted to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault that you’re gone. As he’s tried to do many times. My sisters have, too. I hear the words and I understand what they mean. “It wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t a thing you could’ve done or been differently to prevent her death.” I tell myself too. But it’s not that easy, is it? Denial can function in reverse. I hear the words and sentiments… but I’m stuck inside my own head. It gets dark in there sometimes. “She’s gone from us because you failed.” 

I know it’s not what you want to hear. I know it’s not what you want for me. I know that you would be taking my hand right now—tears in your own eyes—pleading for me not to ever think this way for even a moment. But I also know that you understand.

I can’t pass a mirror without noticing. The scars haven’t faded completely from the catheter that was installed with hopes of collecting pieces of me that would save you. Even when the wounds vanish, I’ll still know. Whenever my fingertips glide across my neckline to adjust a clasp or chain, they graze the two shallow divots near my right collar bone where hope once lived. Evidence of effort, marks of love, traces of failure. Don’t cry, Mom… 

The last time I reached to hug you before your eyes closed was the night the hospital kicked visitors out because the pandemic reached the city, and everyone was in a panic. The transplant was only halfway through—my part wasn’t even over yet. 

The last video I have of us together captured a melancholy, but hopeful “goodbye” … forcing back tears trying to be strong for you while you forced back tears to be strong for us. I didn’t know it was the last time our voices would occupy the same space. “Don’t worry—I’ll see you again soon, Mom. I love you.” 

The last time you saw me, I was wearing a mask, but not even a mask could hide the pain in my eyes… not from you. Months later and just a few rooms from the left, I saw you for the last time—but you couldn’t see me. You wouldn’t open your eyes again. “It wasn’t meant to be.” We didn’t know.

I should have ripped the mask from my face back in March and held you tighter. I should have smiled another memory for you, so the room didn’t feel as lonely, cold, and empty without us there. I should have refused to leave your side… I should have said or done more of something—anything… but I didn’t. Instead, I left. Just like they told us to do. I didn’t know any better… none of us did. I know people will say none of it would have made a difference. They want to be reassuring. “You did all that you could.” And they’re probably right. I hear the words—trust me, I hear them. And I know they should compute. But grief doesn’t always make sense. In fact, it rarely ever does. But I’m new at this.

Everyone says it’s a process, but it feels more like a Möbius strip… I can’t pass a mirror without being reminded… without it all replaying in my mind… the strip tightening into a noose. “Focus on the good memories… she will always be in your heart.” I see the words. I identify the sentiment. They want to reassure, and I want to believe. I know you’re in a better place now, Mom, but I’ve found myself in a worse one without you… it gets dark in there sometimes. 

I forever miss you.

Love always,
“Pookie”
A photo still of the last video I have of my Mom and me together.
This. Song. Will Always. Always. Make me cry. I remember my Mom talking about it and verbally imagining if that’s what it’s like… and now she knows. And I miss her.
Posted in Dear Mom

30 September 2020: Inadvertent birth announcement.

Posted on by Kaleidoscopic Grace 
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. ♡
Posted in Dear Mom

30 September 2020: I spoke at your funeral.

Posted on by Kaleidoscopic Grace 
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.”
Posted in Dear Mom

19 March 2020: We celebrated.

Posted on by Kaleidoscopic Grace 
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.