We had some generous friends donate to a garden nearby, for us to plant a tree in her memory.
Our family will all gather together (as many of us that are able) and have a picnic at that garden, now that the tree and plaque are installed. Not a sad thing, but a “togetherness” thing.

Hard to believe she’s been gone a year already. I still miss her every day. The pain is different, but not gone. Still a hard day to face. Mother’s Day, the day my mom left.

I’ll have to find new things to celebrate on Mother’s Day. Will keep my eyes and heart open, and it will not be hard to find something if I keep looking.

Bob is 13 months out from Bone Marrow Transplant number two. Though he’s cancer free, he’s taken a few steps backwards in life. He states that this second transplant has wiped him out. He doesn’t have much stamina, doesn’t have much of an appetite, and frankly doesn’t seem to have much of a life.

He saw the counselor with me a few times, but Bob has never been much of a talker. He didn’t have much to say other than, “I’ve had 2 bone marrow transplants in 8 years, I’m tired. The complications from the first round of chemo 8 years ago fried my brain and I have a hard time with my speech. My memory sucks. Everything is hard.”

The counselor asked if he wanted to live. Bob said yes. Enough said.

At this point Bob is trying to define life. Aren’t we all?

So my last visit was essentially a ‘break up’. We discussed life, death, moving forward; he apologized that life was so hard. I told him it wasn’t his fault that life was hard. I thanked him for listening to me for so many hours of venting.

Bottom line: counseling let me know (from a professional) that I’m not crazy and I’m not losing my mind.

I’m just a normal person going through a difficult time. My life, like so many other people’s lives, is filled with difficult circumstances. Some more difficult than others. I suppose that life and it’s normal stress became amplified during grief and became so unbearable that I needed a professional to tell me “yes, this is hard. yes, this is life. yes, you will get through this. now find your strength, your healthy coping mechanisms, and move on.”
(there were also a few “wow…life has dealt you some harsh blows, you’ve been dealing with some really hard stuff for awhile now! you are not weak, you are not having a hard time dealing with normal stress, you have really had a hard road and some complications!” which helped justify my feelings) None-the-less, the counselor didn’t actually FIX anything. I think that’s my job.

So where do I go from here? forward.
without a paid counselor to tell me how to walk through life, I’ll listen to the counselor that is inside me. The spirit that guides me. I’ll talk to God again, I’ll listen to Him again. I’ll seek, I’ll find. I’ll ask and He’ll answer.

Because after this break up, it’s time to get back together with God.

Yes, my plan sucked.
Grief sucks.

Maybe grief turned to depression? Maybe I stayed there too long, waiting to battle it all at once – mistakenly thinking that I’d finish grieving and never face it again. Well I was wrong. And maybe time is what heals. The grief will always be there, I just need to choose not to live IN IT every day.

So, waving the white flag and walking away from it. Grief – you win. You’re bigger than me. I can’t beat you or make you go away. But I can choose to walk away from you. I know you’ll be there waiting for me, should I choose to come back and wallow around in the mud again.
But for now, peace out.

So I feel like I’ve turned a corner, or walked out of a fog, or crawled out of a hole. I’ve been here in this hole for over seven months. Grief Stinks!

Oh I’ve tried to get out…but every time I’ve lifted my head up or peaked around the corner I’ve faced a LIFE that was filled with depression, grief, sadness, cancer, fear, loneliness, yuck, yuck, yuck!

LIFE is still there, and I could continue to see the bad stuff, but for some reason (thank you God) I am able to choose to see the good stuff now too. And I’ve decided I’m going to focus on the good. God is still here in our midst and He will be my strength; again. I’m going to lean on Him again. I’m not going to run away from Him, or be mad at Him…because I just can’t anymore.

I’m choosing to walk out of this. I’m praying that I can not be sucked back into that hole….that seems oh so close still.

I’m starting to realize that he doesn’t have all the answers. Not that I thought he would, but would’ve been nice for a few answers.

He says, “This is called complicated grief.” It’s complicated alright.

Working through it. Finding my faith again. I don’t know how that looks….my faith.
I do know that I need a relationship with God. I just don’t know what it will look like after all this grief. I thought I wanted the same relationship I had before…
But maybe, just maybe, it can be better.

It’s complicated.

It was Mother’s Day 2012.
After mom was moved to the ICU, the family was moved to the waiting room. We gathered. Dad, Rusty, Me, Bob, Stan, Teresa, Paula, Nikki, Aimie, Nick, Katie, Jordan. There was a radio, we turned on christian music and we sang. We paced the hall. We watched nurses and doctors running in and out of her room. We waited. Pastoral care members came to see us, we talked to them and told them that we had faith, we told them about mom. We waited. Doctors came to see us and tell us how sick she was, did we hear? We prayed, paced, sang, waited. It seems like we were in that room forever. Why wouldn’t they let us see her?
There were songs that, to this day if I hear them, I’m transported back into that waiting room hearing them again. Was God talking to us? It seemed that every song had a message specifically for that night.

“It’s the moment when humanity
Is overcome by majesty
When grace is ushered in for good
And all our scars are understood
When mercy takes it’s rightful place
And all these questions fade away
When out of the weakness we must bow
And hear You say “It’s over now”

I’m alive
Even though a part of me has died
You take this heart and breathe it back to life
I fall into your arms open wide
When The hurt and the healer collide”

She had collided with the healer alright, and I’m certain that she was choosing to go, to go into his arms. She’d told us many times during this final journey that she was ready and didn’t want to fight so hard to stay here. The fight that she endured five years ago with her last round of chemo/cancer had been her last. She wasn’t afraid to go, she had made her mind up that if her staying required another fight…she’d rather just go. She knew she would be in heaven, she knew we’d meet again. She’d left us all the life lessons and words of wisdom she had. She’d cooked for us, laughed with us, cried with us, and most importantly taught us. She taught us how to not sweat the little stuff, how to care for others, how to enjoy life, and how to accept ourselves.
And whether she knew it or not, she taught us how to die.

When we were finally allowed to go into the room and see her, they first warned us. The doctor explained how very sick she was, how they’d tried to revive her and that they’d placed her on life support. She was on a breathing machine, and being pumped full of so many drugs to keep her heart beating that she wasn’t really sustaining life on her own anymore. We numbly listened then walked slowly down the hall as a group…into her room. There she lay. Not mom, but mom. We all took turns kissing her, holding her hand, whispering into her ear, telling her how much we loved her….and crying.
As a group we walked back to the waiting room. What were we waiting for?

Doctors and pastoral care people (there were two now) came back. The doctor explained again how sick she was, and that the medicine they were using to keep her alive would actually hurt her other organs if she remained on them long term. Aimie explained to him that we’d seen miracles before. We’d seen Bob, Mom, Connor beat all medical odds and live after we were told they’d die. Aimie wanted this story to end as it had before. The doctor was fabulous, he told us that anything was possible. We asked if we could pray for him and he readily agreed. (not sure he knew what he was in for) Immediately about half the room stood up and approached him, we all laid our hands on his back, shoulders, arms and prayed, “God give this man wisdom. Give him the ability to do everything that he can to help mom and then you do the rest God. Amen”

Some time after that, after more praying, singing, pacing…the nurse and doctor came back in to tell us there was no change. We asked if we could go in again and see her. The group moved down the hall again, we went in to see mom/not mom again. We stood and watched the machine blow air into her body and listened to the beeps and whirs and mechanical sounds of the machines keeping her alive. I don’t know how, but we wound up outside her room, gathered around the doctor who was asking us if we wanted to keep her on the machines….dad cried, but said “no, she wouldn’t want this.” We each agreed, except Aimie. “NO! Don’t give up! We can’t give up.”
“Aimie, if God is going to heal her, He can do it without machines.” that’s the best I had. It worked. Though she didn’t seem ready to test it.
“Can we be in the room with her when you turn them off?”
Yes, we could.
We went back in, and this time circled around the bed. We held her hands, we touched her, we cried. The beeping was slowing down, her heart rate was slowing…the machines were turned off, it was getting quieter.
And then, Aimie started to sing. As off-key as you can imagine, we all joined in between sobs.

“Bless The Lord Oh my soul,
Oh oh oh my soul.
Worship His Holy Name.
Sing like never before,
Oh my soul.
Worship His Holy Name.”

Over and over and over again…until the beeping had stopped and the machines were completely silent. Nothing left to hear in the room, but 12 members of a broken family pouring their hearts out to their God, singing our mom, wife, grandma home. Singing like never before. Hoping that she somehow knew…that this was somehow conveying to her that we were going to worship God no matter what, we would trust Him even now.
We sang praise to the God who was taking her from us, we sang praise to the one who she was going to see. I hope she knew, I hope she heard. I hope she was proud of the legacy, the lessons, the strength that she had instilled into the 12 in that room. I hope we can carry on in that same manner. Lessons learned, praising God. No matter what.

So going into the ICU again, riding up the elevator, walking through the waiting room…all familiar. But that’s not my memory of mom. That place, that physical location holds a very strong memory for me, but not the memory of my mom. The memory of her leaving is not the same as the memory of HER. Make sense? But the memory of her leaving, which is really quite amazing, rushed back to me last week.

When mom was admitted to the ICU, she was very sick. As a matter of fact, she never regained consciousness once moved to the ICU. I don’t know how long she was there, time was a blur. But I do know from reading the hospital bills later, she was not even in the hospital for 24 hours…from the time of the ER admission the night before, to the night when she left us…less than 24 hours.

I think we brought her to the ER at 2am, Sunday. Mother’s Day. She was gone by 11pm that evening.
But the way she left, the way we released her….that’s the story I want to tell.

next post.

Maybe (just maybe) a counselor is just for you to express out loud what you already know, and have been hiding….hiding from who? Yourself?

Stay tuned, this may be a bumpy ride.