On The Tightrope

I am on the tightrope right now. I know it. I feel it. I own it. It is what I call doing quite the balancing act, when, in fact, I have never had any real "balance" at all. At least not in the technical sense. I balanced many things, for sure, being a daughter, wife, mother, teacher, principal, Sunday School teacher, car pool driver...sometimes ALL at the same time. I didn't know any better. It's what we did, us women. It's what we DO, I should say. It's what I still do, but my balancing act has become quite different. Especially during these trying days. Especially now.

I am on a tightrope and I feel sick. But I am not, not really. Yes, a cold, a slight fever, a clogged nose. Nothing important, nothing that a little rest won't take care of it. And rest, I do! I am learning to heed the signs, unlike before, when it would take a "mack truck" to knock me down, typically when my body was given permission to shut down and stop (like every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's, the family could count on mom being down for the count, AFTER the festivities). This year, I am trying desperately for it to be different. I am pacing and resting, buying and wrapping, preparing and cleaning, but at a pace that is mine, all mine.

Still, I feel the tightrope closing in. I am numb at times. Other times, there I am, humming along to a Christmas Carol. Really? That is happening? Yes, after four years, the humming is coming, and I can even listen to O Holy Night, my all time favorite! But that's where the tightrope comes, and throws me off balance, because I am fine one minute, and the next, I am falling off, and not sure how to get back on this balance beam of life. The snow comes, and it is THAT day again. The day we laughed and hoped and dared to dream. The music comes, and it is "1990 something" when we sang Christmas Carols and Allison played the piano, presenting her grandparents with the homemade Gingerbread House. It is "2000 something" when the girls were older and handed out gifts in their Santa stockings. Then it is 2005, our first year in the new house, dreams of a future of families and perhaps grandchildren, a house filled with college kids coming and going, and two surprise gifts that became priceless. The photographs, one of the house where we had raised the children, the other, THE children, now grown women, standing back to back, side to side, commemorating this moment, and Allison telling me they wanted me to have a portrait of what they looked like the year we transitioned from one home to the other. My old soul of a daughter, and her beautiful sister, creating a gift that became life's greatest treasure. Then it is 2006, a Christmas filled with so much joy and hope and love and fun. The year my cancer ridden, bald headed beauty came to life, showed us what strength really means, rose above the pain, and thanked God for this Christmas, her last on earth, now her fourth in heaven. And two weeks later, to the day, she was gone. She left us. God took her home. But He gave us that Christmas. And we were blessed.

The tightrope is of pure emotion. My fingers linger on her Girl Scout ornament and I am brought to my knees. I accidentally run across the photo that always hung on the tree, the one where she is sitting on the Nutcracker's lap, what do I do with it? I cry out so hard. Where are the hopes and dreams now, God? What am I to do? Will I feel like this every Christmas? When will this grief end? Will it subside? Will the two always be one, the holiday and her last week at home with us? Why do the tangible items, like ornaments, and bows, trees, and presents, have to be so damn painful? Why did cancer have to invade and take her eleven weeks later? So many questions, with simple answers. I know them. It was her time. I know the promise of the Heavenly Father. My mind knows, but my heart still has not caught up with it!

The tightrope pulls and tugs and strains every chord. What do I do? What DON'T I do? She is part of this Christmas, she is part of every day. I am still her mother. We are still her family. We will find a way, we will pave the way, and we will not forget. We will speak her name, in the stories, in the memories, and in the love. We hope others, will, too, as they become more comfortable, knowing it is more than okay to speak of her. Yes, they think we will cry, but what they don't know, is we already are, only they cannot see from where they stand. We will have her by our side, even though her presence is in spirit. She will live and guide us through the pain of loss. Her smile will radiate the room, as it did every Christmas since 1985, and did so, on what has become an ingrained memory, in 2006.