I Thought...

Dear Allison, I cannot help but talk with you directly this day, every day, actually, but right now it is what helps me move, manuever, make the climb that may feel like a mountain, but in reality, is only steps. Steps of healing, steps of coping, of managing, of following through with appointments and plans, of accomplishing the most mundane of tasks, that somehow feel monumental. Steps, Allison, it's all about the steps. I thought they may come a bit easier...

When my burdens are so heavy, which is really everyday, only intensified right now of course I turn to a loving God, you, His angels, His people, my sanctuary, my life, my loves. Why this intensity? I wonder if it has to do with the holidays, combined with your last weeks, almost days, now, that became more and more precious. I can promise you, sweetheart, that I do not sit and try to think what I, we, YOU, were doing this time, this day, this month, already five years long, long ago. I actually do what I believe will make you smile, what I KNOW will make you joyful, and that is to take those steps, to light the Christmas candle, to play the music, to decorate the trees. Yes, TREES! You would love it, and in many ways, I do it just for you, for Uncle Mike, but I do it for those who will visit, and for your sister, father, cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandparents. I do it because I know I am leaving a legacy. Oh, I know, I'm not supposed to think like that, but I do. I cannot help myself. That doesn't mean I think about the next life more than this one, I am just more aware than most that it is sooner than later, for me, for us, for everyone. And when it is my time, I want to preserve YOUR legacy, MY legacy, my parents and my grandparents. That's what the holiday is all about.

But may I say to you that it is so damn hard to do this without you, knowing you will not come through that door, and I don't care if it's been five minutes, five days, five YEARS, my soul hasn't changed. It aches for you. It takes every thing I have within to get to the store, to keep the lunch date, to hear the music in the stores, to look at the lights, to decorate. Last Sunday, when I put up your tree and decorated it, I have never felt so alone in my life. It took everything I had in me to make it a showcase of beauty, so easily done, once, now, painstaking and still raw, I know that tree exists, because you do not. At least not in the physical sense. And that is the brunt of my pain, fatigue, and soulful tears.

Thank you, dear daughter, for the Christmas gift of strength. Yes, I know you are not the source! You don't want that credit, and I can SO hear you say, "Jesus is the reason for the season"...and when I hear that, I smile. There was a time when I thought I had forgotten the sound of your voice, but it is back, and it is the sweetest song of all, to me, your mother. It is a gift, as is the reminder of your beautiful presence in that "last" Christmas. I cling to that, and I have never stopped thanking God for such a gift. Other things are coming "back", too, Allison. They show up, slowly, maybe for a short time, only to subside at another time, but they show up and make me realize you are helping me to heal. I can do things I never did before, but on the flip side, I cannot do some things I always did in the past! I follow my spirit and I let God guide my activity, my actions, my heart and my soul. I smile while I weep, and I hum along to tunes, while I see pictures in my mind's memory of a time past, when we were all so young and innocent, when Santa existed and toys were cheap, and traditions were cast and we sat in church together, singing out of tune, and going on our annual rides to look at lights. I don't see the lights like I used to, Allison, they all look the same, and I think that is because I see them through the tears that never leave.

Allison, I don't know what I thought, but this is not it...I thought I knew. I thought that someday my heart, mind, body and soul would respond differently. If truth be known, it IS different. I just don't often SEE it, for the ache of missing you prevails over all else. But you are reminding me of the so called "progress", the act of healing itself, the fact that I can actually load the Christmas CD's and play them while I work or cook, the fact that I can bake cookies and think of others, shop again, and wrap, and this year, perhaps send out a FEW cards with a photo of your father, sister and me. You remind me that I have walked down Allison Road and gained momentum and inner peace. You show me the pink sunrises and sunsets and your spirit reminds me that you are in the purest of all places. Your love reminds me through the song, My Wish, to accept God's grace and forgive my own shortcomings or mistakes. You remind me that I am always your mother, and death does not part us at all.

I thought I knew how to do this, by now I'd be seasoned or proficient or some kind of expert at grief, loss, and missing you beyond any dimension. I know now, that there is no time I will wake up and ARRIVE. I am where I am supposed to be, and for now, that's what I'll cling to.

My first of many Merry Christmas letters to you, my baby, my love.

Mom

Fragile Existence

There is a fragile existence to living life in grief, fragile indeed. I think of the delicate glass blown hummingbird I so cautiously move around when I am dusting, the carefully wrapped and packed ornaments that I handled yesterday as I attempted to place them on "her" tree, the wine glasses I will wash and place around the Christmas table, indeed, the fragile state of it all. In one instant or in one wrong move, all will shatter and crumble, giving way to nothingness. We are nothing, if not fragile. And grief makes it more so, or is it from knowing some things that others may not, is it our new found "wisdom" that helps us see just how fragile all of this is, all of us are, this day, this life, this mere existence.

Sure, we go about life, after deep, intense loss, as though things are as they once were. How can we not? We don't know any other way, plus, the world expects it, and after all, nothing has changed, externally, that is. We shop for food, we cook, clean, go to work, walk the dog, pay the bills, run the errands, shop for holidays, pack up the boxes, send them on their way, we do it all as before, but unlike ever before. We are fragile, now, an aura of protection around us, a bubble in some ways, a cloud, a halo of fog. We are doing the same things, but we are not the same. We are fragile.

I think I have awakened to the fact and reality that this fragile existence is my norm, now. Sure, by all accounts, I am ME, but take a closer look, beyond the new haircut or color of lipstick, deeper, look into my eyes, and you will find someone who continues to emerge, a metamorphosis caused by losing my child. Look deep and you will find something new each time we talk. I won't know myself some days, other days I will be so strong it will amaze you, it amazes me!! In the next minute, what once was "okay" to say or do with me, will hurt me, will aggravate me, will surge in me an emotion I am not familiar with feeling. Ask me about my day and I will want to sit down and tell you about other things than my day, I will want to tell you a story of Christmas past when Allison was with us, or share a memory of my daughters on Christmas morning, talk about a tradition my parents passed down, and talk even more about them, and how much I still miss them through every holiday and gathering, or I could talk about how I struggle to look past today, for the future is so uncertain, now that she is gone. Sure, I know the future is uncertain at any time, even when our loved ones are here, but I know something perhaps you don't know, and I want to talk about it. But you may not be ready to listen. So, I don't. I treat myself with the kindness I would show someone else, I take care, and own this fragile existence of living with grief. I have come to know that I am my greatest friend, soul mate, confidante. That does not mean I do not want your company, or your kind gestures, or the ornaments, the cards, and the prayers. I want it all, I desire it at times, and other times, I cannot bear it. I am fragile. I may shatter. I may not.

Emergency Appointment

At certain times, I find myself needing an emergency appointment. I'm not sure with whom, or why, or what needs "fixing", or mending, besides my heart, but nevertheless, I wish I could call 911 and get some assistance. But I cannot. They don't have the resources to "fix" this, the pain, the agony of loss, the physical symptoms that come with grief, the almost perpetual flu-like symptoms, that come and go, but like an uninvited guest, just show up and stay. At times like this, pre-holiday festivities blended with the final weeks Allison was with us in the physical sense, well, there is just no set pattern for maneuvering, I set myself on pilot in many ways, receiving comments and compliments of how good I look, or how I am out shopping again, or may even attend a holiday party this year. Or not. Most likely not. Why? Some ask. Why not? Others ask. Isn't it time? Some will say. Just come for a little while. Many will state. I love them for trying, I really do. But how do I explain what it takes to do all of that, to make the conversation, to look around and see their whole family together, knowing I still have to re figure the table setting, the plate distribution, the meal, the laughter, and now the tears, without her. I need an emergency appointment to get me through.

But who to call? I know full well that we are not the only ones staggering through the season, the final days, and I know full well, also, to count my blessings. God is so good. And I am so thankful. But that does not take away this pain, one minute feeling as though I may vomit, the next, feeling like I need to eat, and in the next, getting all ready to go to the store, only to find myself too exhausted. Emotional exhaustion, that all too consuming and I find myself needing assistance, an emergency appointment. But again, who to call? I can, and do, call my sister. We are one in our spirit, and thank God she is present in my life. But even in that, as she finds her own way in the loss of her husband, how can I expect her to know the right fix for that moment in time? I can call my neighbor, but in reality, I need to be there for her, and I wish to do more to ease her shattered world as she and her husband and daughters learn how to live and move after losing their beloved in a car accident. I can call a woman I often have coffee with, but one of her daughters is going through a cancer battle of her own. I can call a dear friend, but her sister just very unexpectedly passed and I know what this day is like for her. I can call a special friend, but she is waiting with her daughter for her first grandchild to be born. I have a whole host of people to call to make an emergency appointment, but some are getting ready for a wedding this weekend, others are having their own surgery, others are planning holiday parties, others are so strapped for time in their over busy world that my call would only add to their burdens. I can call family and friends, therapists, and healers, I can start at the top of my list, only to find every single person has something to face, work through, deal with, and yes, even celebrate. That is me, too. In my pain, in my suffering, that is known only to me, I truly understand that each one of us carries the whole world on our shoulders at times, and that it can seem monumental just to BE.

I do need an emergency appointment. Truly. And many would really be there if I needed or asked. It's not their fault that they cannot come running. I have learned, and need to remind myself, that at times like this, these days that are so difficult to stay strong through, that my emergency appointment is with myself. It is in the way I can make food for someone else today, bake a loaf of bread, pick up dear Rex from the groomer, deliver milk and eggs to some one's refrigerator that has been rather empty lately, order the Thanksgiving dinner for another family faced by extreme poverty, wrap the gifts for the children's home as MY gift to Allison this year. I have access to many ways of scheduling that emergency appointment. Most of all I have my prayer time, my devotions, the gift of intuition, the gift of time, the gift of being Jennifer mom, Joe's wife, Karen and David's sister, and God's child. I have the memory of being Allison's mother for 21 years on earth, giving me a host of memories. I have means to schedule emergency appointments that can pick myself up and share that part of me that is able to be shared, and while some days it's harder to find the right modality, at my fingertips, and in my soul, there is always reason to keep going.

Much has happened of late, causing me to take a deeper look into the spiritual side of grief. I will admit I have been consumed, gravitating toward the sadness of life, the pain and loss, because it is just everywhere. I allow myself to visit the place of darkness, but just a visit. I have learned not to stay too long, or else the darkness will swallow me, and I won't be able to see the light. I learned early on to work through this MY way, and through the many, many modalities, I work to live, I grieve, and I get swallowed up, just like anyone else. I accept the dark times, and through various healing sessions, I empower myself to do what is necessary to survive. I do what is necessary to live, breathe, and exist. Even on the days when I would prefer to stay in pajamas till noon, and those are many lately, I allow the indulgence, but I rise up and gather what is good to take me out of the pain. Or at least I try to...don't always succeed, often succumb to the suction of grief, but while doing so, all the while, looking for that crack of light.

We are all in a losing zone right now. Sometimes I can imagine that no one knows my pain, and I don't know anyone else's. I can get swallowed up in wondering how I am going to keep hearing and accepting the news that each day brings...cancer, death, car accidents, house foreclosure, hunger, growing death by suicide, devastation. I find myself inundated with the tragedies, because now I feel something I may have not felt before, and that is what true grief, right to the core of my being, is like, and I only "wish" it upon no one else. But it comes, and it goes, and we each get a turn.

I have come to realize that all of this is about who we are from a spiritual perspective. It's going to happen. Loss, pain, and all those things that can consume us. We are human beings and we cannot get through life without avoiding it. We are human beings who think about being spiritual, but in reality, we are spiritual beings living in a human world. I know that I have shared a quote of this magnitude in my writing and personal journals, because early on, when I began my quest to live after death, I relied on my own interpretation of it...I believe it was Stephen Covey who said, and I am paraphrasing..."We are not human beings on a spiritual journey, we are spiritual beings on a human journey".

It takes much work and energy healing, thank you dear Helen for being in my life, to understand oneself and where we fit into all this, and how we fulfill our purpose here, that is, while we are here. It takes that deeper understanding that scriptures and affirmations provide, but more importantly, it takes weaving them into my being, not my human BEING, my spiritual BEING. It takes making the choice to still my soul so I can hear, really hear, what God wants from me. Even on my days of angst, crying out, inner turmoil, confusion, fatigue, remembering what I don't want to, and forgetting what I wish I could recall, it is about the spiritual realm, the life that is bigger and better than me.

So much is uncertain, every step. I don't know how to do this. I find myself walking the steps of what Helen helped me term, "countdown energy", those hours, minutes, images, days, season, holiday, memories, that bring me closer and closer to a time that she, Allison, left this earth, left her physical being for her full and beautiful spiritual self, leaving behind a host of loved ones, trying to make sense of what this side of heaven is all about. It takes everything I have in me to move through this time, knowing I am being carried, knowing I am not doing anything special, this is not ME, this is a host of angels, and support from above. It takes every ounce of strength to remove myself from enduring the physical loss, to focus on the bigger and better picture. I am working on it, I am lifting my heart to her, to the light, letting her go, even when I don't want to, letting her go and spread her wings, knowing, she will never be physically mine again, but she will always come back to me, spiritually, fully and lovingly.

Any Given Day

Each new day, any given day, holds so much. I try desperately to look for the blessings, the sweet miracle of the day, the messages, the signs, the beauty, the love. It's all there. By looking for it, I hold myself together. I couldn't show up for LIFE if not for the beauty, the legacy of her life, my life, the lives of those I LOVE. But, still, I feel myself falling, descending, if you will, into some sort of pit. I carry the cloak of grief a little tighter when I desperately want to shed it. It's choking me some minutes, it's wrapping me as though it is a cocoon I cannot crawl out of, the next. It isn't very gentle right now, and I suppose that is because of what each new day represents.

In spite of the beauty of autumn, it is the season of grief. It is when we lost her, but we didn't know it. It is that time of year when there was so much to hear, digest, and respond to, and even before we could do any of it, there was more. There was always more. Always. Each new day held so much meaning. And while I am willing those memories to be part of a very distant past, they are too close. They are in the Halloween preparations, they are in the falling amber leaves, they are in brisk walks with our beloved, Rex, and they are in this house, in the form of chili cooking and sounds of laughter when friends gathered that "last" Halloween to play games. She couldn't sit. She couldn't stand. She was weak with pain moving down her spine and around her body. I was weak, looking at her, as she clutched her abdomen, her weight loss so evident and her skin color changing. It was a devastating time, we barely knew what cancer would come to mean, yet, there we were, facing each new day. Please God, I have begged today, let me remember her as a little girl, dressing up, trick-or-treating, going to church parties, and later, school parties, then teen-aged parties. Let me remember the other days. Let this be like any given day.

I am still pretty amazed at what each new day holds for people. As some of us are in constricting pain, others are going about life as if there is not a care in the world. Other days, we are the ones holding parties, or celebrations, humming tunes, dancing, feeling light hearted, and the others are the ones in hospital rooms, holding hands of their loved ones, or holding funeral services, or waiting for a doctor to call. A baby is being born right now, while loved ones are saying good-bye to someone dear. It's life. It's good. It's hard. Through it all, it is what it is. And, on any given day, it all changes.

I remember so vividly coming home from the hospital after Allison took her last breath. The sun that had illuminated her room with vibrancy at precisely 7:00 a.m. had made way for the grayest of days. My nose pressed to the cold window of the car, I looked in the cars we passed, or who passed us. I saw serious faces, ones singing to the radio, groups of what appeared to be students on their way to high school, or others on the way to work. I remember thinking that not one of them could imagine what we had just come to know. But I wasn't correct about that. They did know. And if they didn't know, someday, they might. It's not that I wished it upon them, it just seemed odd to me, that I was about to go home and plan a memorial service for my daughter, when I should be going about my "normal" day. I should be the one driving to work on that very road, coming home to cook dinner, waiting to touch base with both my daughters. On that given day, my world would change, and I would never know how much.

Each new day brings what it will, what it does, and in some ways, that's what makes each new day so beautiful. There is a lot to enjoy. There is much to be celebrated and honored. The little things seem so monumental now, and the problems seem so trite. I never believed I would be here for so many new days once Allison was gone. I knew I would die of heartache. As much as this "season" is difficult to maneuver through, I am thankful I didn't die as I thought I might. I would miss so much, mostly spending life with Jennifer, Joe, and all those I love. Each new day holds a promise of some sort. I look up and ask God, and Allison, to help me live it in a way that is pleasing, and as the descent comes upon me, and the pain of missing her becomes too unbearable, I don't look back, and I don't look ahead. I stay right where I am, expecting or anticipating nothing, just being where I am supposed to be on this new day. Any day we are "given" brings about so much, from pain, to joy, from love, to sorrow, but worth it? Yes, any given day is all we have, for now.

Cancer...I Have Something to Say to You (posted one day early)

Indeed, I have much to say to you, Cancer. I have much to say EVERYDAY, but this day, the five year "anniversary" of Allison's diagnosis, I believe I have more than ever to say to you. It may not be what you think. It may not be what I would have said five years ago, but I am changed, I am different, I was never to be the same, from that moment, on October 17, 2:15 in the afternoon, that most beautiful of Chicago's autumn days with the sunshine lighting up the room, us passing the time, as we did for four days, waiting, and wondering, hoping and praying. Please God let it NOT be a tumor, cancer, let us not hear the words we knew we might hear, that hundreds, thousands of us before, and since, have heard. But when those two doctors entered the room, one looking at the floor, one looking straight into my eyes, I knew, WE knew. As the doctor approached our girl, his patient, and tenderly caressed her arm, we knew. And the tears sprang. And they have never stopped.

I could use some of the all too common quotes that one sees in relation to cancer, "cancer sucks", "F*&% Cancer", and so on. I could curse and scream, cry and moan. I have, and I probably always will. But I also knew, right from that moment in time, that cancer was NOT going to define this beautiful young lady, on the threshold of her life, and it was NOT going to define us. She wouldn't allow it, therefore, we will not, either. Oh God, yes, we were shocked and saddened but the diagnosis, it had to be wrong, especially since Allison was "too young for lung cancer". We were brought to our knees in a fashion like never before. We were beyond devastated at what she would endure, what the side effects may be, what cancer may take from her. It was so mysterious, how could this beautiful 21 year old daughter of ours hold the lung of a 60 something year old smoker? And how dare people ask us, upon learning of the diagnosis, "did she smoke"? I wanted to scream, and still do at times, upon hearing the question over and over again. But, over time, I learned that, like us, many people are uneducated about lung cancer and the statistics, and maybe it was going to take Allison to help them learn. Sadly, I learned more than I ever imagined, right here in the confines of our loving family, and the education has not stopped.

In seventy-seven days Allison was gone. We could say cancer robbed her of her life, of her future, of ours, of her sister's and all those who faced a harsh reality that their smiling, life of the party friend, was gone. In many ways, we are all just now beginning to grasp this concept, proving, once again, that time has no relevance in matters such as this.

Yes, CANCER, I have a lot to say, many things to say to you. This day is difficult for me, for us. The memories are still as raw and fresh as the day we faced the giant together, surrounded by the love of family and friends. Allison didn't fight alone, we didn't either, and we still do not. It is Allison's warrior image that keeps us fighting, whether it is to just get up, face the day, walk the dog, run the errands, work a job, take vacations, see the world, participate in the Lung Cancer 5K, decorate for holidays, celebrate birthdays, show up for social engagements, or accomplish what once was done with ease. CANCER, you didn't rob us of our daughter, our sister, our grandaughter, niece, cousin, and friend. You may have slowed her body down and eventually took over to the tiniest of crevices, but you didn't take her from us. Instead, what you gave us in return, is an eternal presence, a constant companion, a heart that beats stronger than any before it, for her spirit fills ours, and we are one with her, never to be separated, never to be alone, or never to be forgotten. You have taught us that THIS world is temporal, and as you keep striking, over and over again, with no discrimination at all, and you wear down the bodies, you intensify the spirit. You leave legacies like none before them. You give us the gift of time, the chance to say what most may never have the opportunity to say, and that time becomes our greatest treasure.

CANCER, you don't WIN at all. I would never take back the memories of that strong spirited daughter of mine, fighting with everything she had, to live....to go have dinner with friends, giving them a lasting memory, lying on the bed with her sister watching Ellen every day, laughing and planning for their day, what to eat, what to do, and when the simple things, like playing a game, or watching a movie, became the great accomplishment! I would not take back the friends and family who came to lay with her, eat with her, laugh with her, LIVE with her, even if living held a new definition. I would not take back the image of her older sister rocking her to eternal rest, watching in wonderment as two sisters' souls entwined and became one. I would not take back the talks and plans for eternal life, the questions and the hopes of peace and comfort it held. I would not take back the unseasonably warm November evening when she and I walked her beloved Barkley for the last time. I would not take back any of it, except for it to have never have happened at all.

Allison looked you right in the face, CANCER, and she won. You didn't rob her of the beauty of this world, her beauty, her smile, and you won't rob us. Perhaps it is because of you that our senses have magnified and our travels have broadened. Travels near and far, yes, some days just to the porch or deck to listen to the chimes and speak to a loving God, to "her" pink blooming tree in the yard, to touch a bloom, caress it as though it were her face, or to far off places where she leads us to explore. Does it make sense to you, CANCER, when I tell you that you took nothing from us, yet you took everything?

I know that you will not stop! I know that others will hear your word and fight their own battle, follow their own journey, and make their own way. You are not finished, in fact, you have only begun. If you can strike the healthiest of young woman, "strong as a horse" her doctors would say, with lung cancer of all things, fine one day, heading to college classes and planning to become a teacher...if you can infiltrate and magnify and become relentlessly aggressive, it is clear you will not stop. But guess what? WE will also NOT STOP, for Allison, for Michael, for names way too numerous to mention. I only wish I could honor each and every one right here, right now. But I do, in my heart and in my soul. And whether those special souls are survivors, or soar alongside my daughter in sweet, heavenly peace, I can assure you, CANCER, you have not won.

CANCER, you are part of every day of my life, now. You always were to some extent. You hovered. You visited others, mostly the older ones, and my heart was sad. One day I opened my eyes to see that no one could really escape you at all, you infiltrated children, babies, folks of all ages. Then you attacked my own and brought a true and new understanding of your meaning, and now you have given me a different mission. You have taught me to do what I can, whether it is participate in a walk/run, take a meal to the families, send a card, make a donation, sit and talk, pray alongside the family as their loved one enters final hours, whatever it is that the spirit nudges, you have given me the gift to know. You have grown me up spiritually, to put no God before the Heavenly Father who promises all things to those who believe. You have given me the true and utmost respect for a new day to live and breathe and take nothing for granted. True, it would be easier to focus on what you have taken away. I cannot do that. Allison will not allow it. It is not fair to those who still depend on me and it is not fair to myself.

CANCER, I have something to say to you. You are relentless and cruel, menacing and piercing. You have taken much, taught me every parent's worst nightmare in burying my child, but perhaps it is because of you that I am who I am today. I do not choose it, I do not want it, I didn't opt for this journey. I give in when I must, I grieve every day and in every way. I cry tears from the inside that often make it to the outside, every single day of my life. Yet, at the same time, I smile, I smile because she lived, she didn't die. You didn't win. You didn't take her from me.

As I write today, I grieve for my child and I grieve for all those, including myself, who knew, and loved, a fabulous soul, Felicia Levo Harrington, gone too soon, a short battle with pancreatic cancer...mother, wife, teacher, whose legacy will be everlasting. Here today, gone tomorrow, like so many before her, and so many yet to come, teaching us to seize the day, for this is the day the Lord has made.

What We Learn

What we learn from the deceased is what makes us go on, I know this to be true. If we are able, and open to it, we learn so much. It doesn't matter who it is, even those we didn't personally know in this lifetime, it is upon their "death" that we often come to know them more deeply, intimately, and their lives make a difference. Whether it is the sad passing this week of Steve Jobs, the recent passage of two daughters in political families, former presidents, the many friends who have joined our circle of loss, those burying their children before them, it just doesn't matter. Loss is loss and the impact is astounding. Death takes their bodies, but their souls and spirits are left to teach us more. I know this because I cannot look at a snowflake without remembering Phil, a piece of artwork without knowing more about Jessica, a beautiful August day without understanding baby Faith's presence. I cannot look at little Jasmine's picture on my refrigerator without smiling inside, thanking her and her family for paving the way and embracing my own family, some years later, when it was "our turn" to face death. I cannot look at little Cowen's pictures without seeing his sister, Lily. I feel and know Michael is with me in all aspects of my day, guiding and inspiring, and reassuring me in ways he would not be able to do if still here. I will always associate the beauty of a winter day and a life well lived with Chrissy, a sister, wife, but most importantly, young mother who left us way too soon. The hummingbirds that rest on our feeder and who provide such beauty and mystery will always represent Jim, not his battle, but his life. I am connected to Mary, whose own Erin has passed on and each time I see a sunflower, I feel as though I know her, and my heart feels joy. Then there are the connections of CJ and his family, a circle we both travelled well, yet paths never crossed, until Allison and CJ were our heavenly children. I still draw strength and resilience from Elizabeth Edwards, a political wife, who in spite of all the tragedies in her life, her own cancer and spousal betrayal, till her death contended that the loss of her son to a tragic accident was the most devastating part of her life. I have come to know and learn from each death along the way. Whether it is the wife and mother across the street, and now the young man, Steven, also a family member from across the street, it is what we learn that now sustains us and gives us strength. We cannot possibly know everyone in this lifetime, but the beauty of death is that we come to know so much more, and it is what we learn that keeps us going.

Obviously, I cannot look and see, very deeply, the signs of autumn, in all its beauty and splendor without knowing that this season was to be Allison's last. There is no escaping the memories, the triggers, the flashbacks, even when I don't want to. The sleepless nights have begun and the memories are strong, showing me that time doesn't make a difference, what is in our soul, the deepest crevices of our hearts, remains. It's how I choose to deal with them that matters, after all. So, I choose to learn. I study, I reflect, I pray, I listen to music, I read, I take every opportunity to learn from the deaths before me, long ago, and recent. It is important to me to honor each life in the way I can, especially Allison's. And I must admit, on any given day, that is going to look different. I may spend it in solitude, scrapbooking, cooking, baking, reading, relaxing with head phones, sleeping, socializing, whatever it takes to get through that moment. Not that day, not even that hour, sometimes, it's still, just that moment.

What we learn from death becomes important. That's how I feel, cope and maneuver this loss. What I have learned from Allison and her passage could fill volumes. I have learned to smile, savor, slow down, sip, enjoy, smell the roses, so to speak. I have learned that life is so fragile, a concept I wish every one of us could grasp, but we don't, until it's our time to do so. I have learned that there is nothing worth complaining about. There is no doubt the way in which she faced her diagnosis and ultimate death left us a legacy of hope, faith and love. I can do anything now, and will gladly do so, face the challenges, and come out stronger. I am weak but I am strong, that is what I have learned.

I so wish to touch her, to hold her, to feel her. The ache of physical desire takes me to my knees at times. I allow that grief to pour over me, infiltrate and I rise, taking on the challenge of suffering once more. I cling to the promise that I will see her again one day, that THIS world is temporary, and that in death, her death, and the death of so many, I have much to learn. That is her legacy, their legacies, to us. God grant me the serenity to accept what I cannot change and learn what is intended, so that when it is my turn to take that first breath in heaven, God will know the true intentions of my heart, and He will consider me a good and faithful servant.

I will keep learning, trying, and put perseverance to the test. What LOOKS easy is not. Nothing comes by second nature any longer. It's a new day with much to see and do, and learn. With God as their Father, Allison, and all the others, are great teachers.

At The Moment Of Separation

The moment of separation is different for all of us. Allison was surrounded by her family and that was bittersweet for sure. Death of a body separated us, showing us just how precious and fragile this life truly is, here one minute, with hopes and dreams, plans and life to live, gone the next, leaving that shell, that body that held a spirit, the earthly tomb laying there, with a spirit released to soar. I felt then, as I do now, that it was such a privilege to give birth to this bundle of joy, and be there to usher her into heaven, to witness her last breath on earth, and her first in heaven. It was joyous, yet as painful as anything I believe I will ever, ever do in my lifetime. Joyous in the sense that her failing body was given relief, the trauma over, and the life she was born to have had begun...but in just 21 years, on the threshold of her life, it just didn't seem bearable. Most times, it is not. I wonder if it ever will be...I wonder many things.

I have given deep thought to this world and the next since loss began in my life, years and years ago. And loss doesn't stop. With each passing loved one, I learn more and think more about what life is like AFTER this. But no loss has compared with THIS loss, my child, my daughter, my light, and my life. I am truly blessed to have yet another daughter, still on this earth, and ever growing into a tremendous soul, living life, now, for two, herself, and her sister. I am blessed in so many ways. But through the multitude of blessings, comes the pain. The pain that never leaves, eases, or subsides. Sure, after five years, it is different. That's all I can say, it is different. And as I have given thought to what happens after this life, I have been closely reminded, once again, about how we breathe in this world, and in one second of time, all changes or shifts, and loss happens again, and breath on earth is exchanged for breath in heaven. I know I am particularly touched by a life of someone I had only briefly met, yet, who followed in a circle of connection that keeps growing, and a soul who happened to belong to the neighbors across the street. Their son, Steven, whose life was cut short in an instant by a drunk driver, careless and reckless, this driver changed the course of Steven's life, his family, his students, his friends, ALL of our lives. We are never the same once a tragedy like this occurs. Hundreds mourn and will be forever changed.

In honoring Steven's life at the funeral, the pastor shared many healing scriptures and messages. One in particular was of our last breath here, and our first in heaven. A thought that has crossed my mind, and burdened my heart on many occasions since witnessing that moment of separation, my daughter from me, from us, from this world. I often wondered how it would have been had I not been there, had we not been helping her release the fight and let God take over, ease the control that she thought she had. I have been thankful to have been there. But it's a memory that has been difficult to overcome and to shed, the painful part, that is. Did she fight, did she struggle, did she linger, did she have pain of all kinds, yes, she did. And as a result, so did we. We begged for God's intervention as it took all of us to soothe her, cradle her, rock her, assure her. And He came through. He was there all along but came at just the right moment in time and took it all away. At the moment of separation, the worries and pain of this world were but a memory to her. She took her first breath in heaven and all was right with the world.

That is the case for Steven, too. He was a believer. He held faith and hope. He lived his life pleasing God. How beautiful to know, because everyone who loves him can have the sweet assurance that he is in the loving arms of God. A car accident, a suicide, a cancer diagnosis, another disease or type of accident, we are all going to take that last breath here, and that first breath in heaven. As it does with Allison, it brings me peace to know that is promised to those who believe. Does it make the separation easier to bear? Sometimes. Yes. No. Maybe. It depends. Sometimes nothing can bring comfort for that moment. Sometimes, the thought of that first breath is all that can get me through the day, knowing the peace that must accompany that breath.

Those moments of separation, permanent and eternal, are forever framed in our minds, hearts, souls, subconscious. For each of us, it takes our own time, and our own journey, to come out on the other side. We can be tortured and sickened by them, and by the circumstances, but just as quickly as the toss of a coin, those moments of separation can bring comfort, hope, faith, and peace that passes any understanding. For in those moments of separation, we grow and we learn and we believe. We believe in something higher and more divine than ourselves, we trust in the hands of the Father, and we try to breathe, in and out, until we find that inner peace, one day, and until we take our own first breath in heaven.

9/11

9/11. No words necessary...indeed, "this is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it"...my blog name, applies. Not because of what happened ten years ago today, but what has happened since. The stories, the lives, the impact, the shaping of a future, the life that has come from loss, knowing that God is in the midst of it, God is in the midst of me, ONE DAY AT A TIME. Admittedly, I have chosen to watch only snippets of the broadcasts. Then, and now, the devastation can take over, and we can be brought back to the place of pain, but only to a certain extent. I say that because our/my life was not as impacted. Yes, our country changed, war changed, our innocence was washed away. But, my children didn't have to grow up without a father, mother, sister, or a brother. My spouse nor I were not left to manage on our own, maneuver grief, setting aside our own pain for the sake of raising a child alone. I have no relatives who went in to those towers to do battle, fight fire, destruction, only to lose their own life right then, or later, when the effects of toxins took over. I can only imagine, from the television coverage, what began as daybreak on the most beautiful of all mornings, became night and darkness, hovering over a city for days and months to come. I can only imagine. And I know that I never could.

9/11. A day to remember. They gather today, ten years later, and they are resilient. They are teaching us how to be, also. Their aching process is known only to them, as they stand tall, dressed beautifully, tracing the names of their loved ones on the new structure. We gather today to do what we choose, fly the flag, remember, find a fitting scripture, pray, try to imagine. Only we cannot. But we try. And we honor, and we remember.

We hear the stories and we cannot help but wonder, how have they managed, how have they come through TEN years, how have they rebuilt their lives, honored their loved ones, respected the memories, yet lived their lives? Through the snippets you can see it in their eyes, listen as the names are read, voices crack, tears come, hear of the widows and widowers, children who were not even born, who never knew their parent, or listen to the older ones who have lived out the legacy of the one who left too soon. All ages, young, old, all innocently working or going about normalcy, only to find in the next second, life as they knew it is shattered and torn, perhaps gone, or fractured.

Their stories teach us all about quality of life, resiliency, courage, bravery, solitude, a need for God, love, hope, and faith. Just to hear of one, let alone, thousands, inspires little old me, who gets up each morning, bearing the losses of my own world, my own child, gone too soon, never to be forgotten, and teaching me lessons every minute of every day. Life DOES come from loss. Men and women, boys and girls, living to tell the tale of 9/11 from their perspective, share how life has gone on to be lived. Babies have been born, men and women have remarried, through the tears they find laughter, graduations and weddings continue, and the circle of life is ever present. That's what this day is for, to live it, to learn from the loss, to take it to a new level, heal and grieve as we must, but to draw strength, servitude, and to make it as full as we choose. Certainly, that will look different for each person, each of them, us, parents, children, friends and neighbors. Living through grief is as individual and personal as the person experiencing it.

Loss shows us the beauty of life. Time means nothing, is not even relative. We can all stand in wonder over the fact that it's been TEN years. To those living without their loved ones, that amount of time means nothing. I share that in common with them. Time stands still, in some ways, and in others, as we reflect and remember, we see how strong we can really be, right to the soul of the matter...the soul where God sends the Holy Spirit and speaks to us, and we choose how to respond. And ready or not, time marches on, and on, and on. It is up to us how we spend that time.

Out of THEIR losses comes my own gratitude. God knows that Joe and I have thanked Him each and every day since January 9, 2007, for the chances...the chance to be with our daughter as she faced her journey, to hold her hand, to love her, to come to know Christ through her eyes and in a different way, to laugh, to find our inner truth, to live, and to say good-bye, by far the greatest gift in all of our pain. My gratitude stems from within, in such a deep and profound way, for her life, for 21years worth of memories, for being her mother. And it goes past her life, it weaves into others, the ones I knew before, since, and trust will come into my life for a purpose in the future. I am in deep gratitude for the chances I have been given, not known in their entirety to me at the time, but now, serve as the greatest treasures known to my heart.

I cannot begin to do this day justice. Of course, like everyone, I recall where I was at that distinct moment in time, in shock, horror, disbelief, setting aside my own concerns and curiosities for the sake of the 500 children in the school building. One day the shock began to subside and reality set in...but it was MY reality. Not the reality of those living it firsthand, day in day out, not really comprehending what it must be like to lose like that, my loved one, then on top of it, an income, a home, a life that was "supposed" to be one way. All gone in an instant.

Since that time, I have learned much, and in no way would I ever think of comparing. I will not, do not. For me, though, I have learned the value of a day, of a moment, when that phone rings and life as we knew it was gone, in just that instant. Definitely not as monumental and historical. But still, a lesson in that moment of time, that all we have is this day. We seize it, we grasp it, we accept it, we give thanks for it. Rain or shine, light or dark, this is the day, let us rejoice and give thanks for it.

I'm Busy Getting Stronger

I love the Sarah Evans song, and have, from the moment I heard it. Knowing a bit about her life, I understand what the lyrics are intended to portray, but I look at it differently, hear it in a way it probably was not designed to be heard, and I think of so many...myself, my husband, our daughter, Allison's family, friends, my sister in her loss of her husband Michael, many mothers and fathers who have been left to maneuver grief, a widening circle of loved ones who are grieving parents, siblings, other friends and neighbors. Yes, the circles are growing, and whether they know it or not, they, too, are busy getting stronger. Being our own best, or worst, critic, we tend to NOT see what others see, how can we? Our souls are screaming, our arms are empty, our house is quiet, the phone rarely rings, and when it does, it is not her, or him. In our case, it is not Allison. The cruel reality is that it will never, ever be again. There are many cruel realities, most too hard to bear. Sometimes, I just don't want to bear them at all. I have to literally shake my head until it rattles to dismiss the doom and gloom that this grief can bring to me, if I allow it, if I embrace it, if I let it consume me. It surely will, all the days of my life, if only I allow it. I work to do just the opposite, for what good will it do me, my heart, my soul, my emotional and physical state, what good at all? So, from the start, even though it didn't seem like it, I have been busy getting stronger.

Stronger may mean different things on different days! And if truth be known, I don't really want to work at it at all! I would like to take the low road, and just NOT show up for life, at times. Other times, I want to embrace all of it as quickly as I can because I now understand, at a deeper level, just how short this lifetime really is...never did I know that so many conflicting emotions could surface at the same time. It is no wonder that grieving is hard, dedicated, tumultuous work. But, in spite of myself, I am busy getting stronger. How do I know this? What is the measure of strength? How can I feel so strong, yet so weak?

I know I am busy getting stronger because of what I can not only DO, but FEEL, and SEE, and TASTE, and SEE, and even SMELL. My senses have come alive, because I have allowed them to do so. The numbness is wearing off, not gone by any stretch of the imagination, but shedding layers, if you will. I am working at it. It would not be doing so, if not for the work put into it. The readings, the prayers, the devotions, the healing modalities, the rest, the shifting of priorities, the shift in my life. All changed. Never to be returned to again. All because of one phone call, which led to one diagnosis, which led to treatments and protocols, which led to eleven weeks of time together, which led to a chance to say good-bye, which led to death, and in death, led to life. I cannot explain it. I don't need to explain it. I know what I know, and that is I am busy getting stronger.

I see beauty in the simple forms. I have slowed down to capture moments that will stay with me forever. I help make a memory. I even ran into the ocean this summer with my clothes on, thank you Allison, thank you Michael, thank you God for removing the inhibitions for that one moment in time. I attended two weddings this summer, and danced at both, just a little, but I danced. I listen to music and hear the lyrics, now, and sing, with my out of tune voice. I affirm that I have a purpose and trust that God will lay out His plan for me. I am busy getting stronger without even realizing it.

I am taking care of physical needs. Yes, I am often numb, and don't want to, but in spite of myself, I am busy getting stronger. I find my way through housecleaning chores, projects, trips to my sister's house, some vacations, have been to two movies, and have lunches with friends. If there is a measure of getting stronger, I am making my mark. Yes, I do so with tears in my heart, and a soul that is crying out for my deceased child, but I am living, some, and that is pleasing to her. I hear her whispers and feel her love, and know she is proud. That, and the life of those I love, myself, my daughter, husband, siblings, family, gives me the strength to carry on, to live as best I can for that moment, and to stay busy, getting stronger.

I Can't Recall

I'm sorry...I can't recall...I don't remember. I wish I could. I wish I had been able to be present in the moments, to remember, to be aware. But so much of it, I just can't recall.

Since losing my daughter, well, not losing, I have come to disregard that term, in some ways. I didn't lose her. I know exactly where she is, and that is not here. She is not lost. Really, if truth is known, she is found. But not too many people can understand that concept. So, I don't elaborate. I just use the term, interchangeably, for "passed away", "died", "lost her life to a dreaded disease", whatever it is that I am desperately trying to say. But for this purpose, "losing" will do...since "losing" my daughter, well, I can't recall much. Oh sure, there are some snippets of memory. I can see some things so clearly, and others are such a fog. And that all began with the diagnosis. I was doing everything I could to digest it, interpret it, reflect upon it, keep the daily journal, write Allison a daily letter, face it, move through the day by day change of protocols as that lung cancer spread faster than anything I had ever witnessed. In the process, of course, there are memories, snippets, moments when I was surely lucid enough to notice, physically strong enough to acknowledge, or emotionally stable enough to appreciate and thank those who provided offerings during that time, and after Allison passed. But so much of it has had to be told to me. I remember looking at the guest book from the visitation to see who had attended, no, I was not drugged, but numb, or in shock, or sad, yes. I read each name over and over again, knowing that I had seen people who had not signed their name, and knowing that some signed their name and I don't remember seeing them. I can't recall certain things.

I can't recall who brought what over, flowers, food, books, gifts. I tried to keep it straight, write it down, my sister did her best, but the love poured in and I couldn't keep up. In the eleven weeks of Allison's life with cancer, she, Jennifer, Joe and myself, and daily treatments or doctor's appointments was my focus. Then she was gone, and while the offerings still poured in, I can't recall who did what, what I ate, what I did, how I lived. It doesn't really matter anymore, really. But for so long, when I had casserole dishes and gifts that I did not know where they came from, I felt those twinges of guilt that recipients never received cards or notes of thanks. People asked me about their dishes, their items, the things they loaned me for months and years to come. I just couldn't recall what they knew to be true. I will never, ever, again, expect a grieving person to know or remember what I brought, I will pray it will be a love offering with no strings attached, no acknowledgement needed, that it was an angel gift from the heart.

There are so many other things I can't recall: How did I get to this point, coming up on the fifth year of her diagnosis? How did I manage to attend functions when my heart was literally breaking and I was sick from the emotional toll? How did I fill my days once I retired, or even more out of my mind's reach, in those first weeks and months when she was gone? How did I manage to even return to work and go through the day by day events for several months? Who did I see? What did I do to fill my time? Well, of course, some of it is with me, and most of it is not. And again, it doesn't matter. What matters is where I am now, and a sweet hallelujah that I am beginning to remember Allison as a baby, a toddler, a little girl, a pre-teen, a young woman. For so long, I couldn't recall those times outside of eleven weeks of cancer, and I would be brought to my knees, wondering if I ever would, praying that it would come back to me. That her spirit would fill my soul and I would remember. Through a lot of prayer and soul searching, I can recall a little more, more and more, day by day, and I am thankful.

I have given gifts that I can't even recall. Recently, when giving a gift to someone, I could tell I had already given that to her. Hmmm....so, I asked, and sure enough, the same gift, monogrammed and everything. I'm sure this is not the first time it's happened! But, I can't recall. I can't recall what I do, what the spirit leads me to do, what I have given, what I have received. It's not a desirable place to be...but it is what it is.

For those things I can't recall, I have to let them go. I have to forgive myself for not acknowledging or thanking those who have called to see if I got the flowers, or the meal, or the gift they left on the porch some years ago. I'm sure I did get them. And I'm sure it made the difference needed at that time. But, being so numb for so long, and damaged and heart broken, there is much I can't recall. I am learning to say that it is "okay", affirm it, and go on. I can't do anything about it now. I will recall what I can, and let the rest go, and be thankful for what I now CAN recall.

Re-Enter Life

For me, the death and loss of my child, my Allison, stopped ME dead in my tracks. I'm sure many people can relate to that. Many can relate to the fact that often times, if not for those we love the most who are still living, we, the mourning, do not really want to keep going. The newness is paralyzing, all consuming, physical, emotional, spiritual, and downright devastating. It is something to sort through, and it defines us in ways we could never have imagined. It is where we now start from. Loss. Grief. Pain. The point at which all we knew turned on its axis and a new start began.

The beginning, which starts with the loss, caused me to immediately look within. And what I saw, I don't think I really liked, let alone, embraced. I had to re-enter life, right then and there, because for all I had imagined and thought, life did not STOP because Allison Haake left me, us, this earth. In fact, with hindsight being 20/20 as they say, it had only just begun. It began, and continues, in looking deep within, and understanding that this journey is not only about her, in fact, HER journey was HERS, MINE is MINE. They correlate, of course. This was my child, brought through my womb to exist, to be, to live, to dream. So, naturally, they are entwined, meshed, woven together. I am her mother. Her mother. And I had to learn, I am, still. That hasn't changed. I am, always have been, always will be, her mother. But that took on new shades of life, new images, and a new relationship. And all the while, I couldn't just sit in a chair and focus on how this was going to evolve. I had to trust that it would, that it will, and to this day, I am really thankful I have THIS DAY to sort it out.

I do not know at what point I really began to re-enter life. I am sure it was right from the start. It just didn't feel like it, the numbness took what seemed forever to fade. It is still there. The pain washes over me like one of those extreme flushes of heat, my own reality and mind reminds me of what is mine to face, and I learn to cope and carry this pain through the conversations with friends, the social engagements, the movies, the trips, the travels to new places, the housecleaning, the family gatherings. Sometimes I nod my head and try to be engaged, really. I love my friends, and my family. Sometimes I seem interested in a show that Joe and I watch together, but my mind isn't there. It's way back there, a 5 year old birthday party, a teenager's dance, a shopping trip, moments in bed reading what seemed to be endless nursery rhymes. Or my mind is asking God to help me breathe and get through the next minute, that there can be real substance to my life, that the superficial aspects are abandoned for meaningful and spiritual depthness.

I offer up gratitude for the simplest of things....there has not been a day that I haven't asked God to help me know what I am supposed to know from this, re-enter life the way it is intended, to accept it, to know that there is a plan much richer than mine, to find my purpose, to be productive, even though it may not seem productive to ME, to find my way through this life, knowing that tomorrow, this afternoon, this evening isn't even promised. To love, to live, to laugh, when I can, and to visit the places I need to, physically or emotionally, spiritually or mentally, but to only linger in those that are good for me.

Each stage of re-entering life is new for me. I suppose it will always be, but to know that I AM capable of it, well, I can only imagine how pleased that makes Allison. When she passed from this temporary life to the one of eternity, I'm quite sure she didn't intend for her mother, her father, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and friends to stop living. No doubt, she wants us to re-enter life, our way, in God's timing, in the way that brings all good things to our souls. When it doesn't seem "right" or "fitting" or even doable, all I need to do is look at that smile, those eyes, feel that spirit of hers, spend time with my living daughter, share a laugh with my husband, or a deep conversation with my sister, take a trip such as this summer that resulted in changed lives, make a meal for a friend, bake a cake, put a scrapbook together, hold a baby, share a glass of wine with my nephews, go to a movie with a friend, just spend the gift of time with those I enjoy, read, write, walk Rex, look at the sunrise or sunset, savor a rainy Saturday morning...whatever, whenever, I know that this is my way of re-entering life. And I am thankful enough to seize the day.

The Blueprint

Letting go of MY blueprint, my plans, my thoughts of how life was supposed to be has been, IS, a process. It doesn't come easily, without pain, without kicking and screaming, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively. I thought I had it all figured out, after all, I followed somewhat of the pattern of expectations, did I not...I went to college, married, became a teacher, raised children, went to church as a family, attended all of the girls' activities or events, was the scout leader, the Sunday School teacher, on and on it went. And on and on, so it goes.

Only, life is really about MY blueprint. In the devastation of losses, that now begin to accumulate, I can sit in disbelief, I can shake my head, I can wonder, how in the world did I get here, of all places, to the here and now? I can also find myself slipping into a state of mind that perhaps allows me to feel completely and utterly alone. When those moments come, I DO allow them, I DO visit them, as one of my wise and wonderful therapists encouraged me to do, but I DON'T allow myself to STAY there, or at least not too long. I visit, I ask God to get me to the next minute, to help me remember to breathe, and I ask for gratitude in the situation or moment. It doesn't come easily, and it doesn't come willingly. I must open my heart to accept all that is mine to accept. And acceptance comes, it wavers, it makes detours, it vacillates, but it comes...acceptance that the blueprint of my life is not as I had planned, but is here for me to handle, respond to, embrace as I must.

I know the God within me is what has empowered me to pick myself up again. There is no other explanation. Joe goes to work each and every morning, Jennifer is building her own life, my family and friends have their own lives to attend to, so who is it that gets Kathy up, and going and moving and living. It surely is not by my own design, I have learned that much, it is only by the grace of God that I am this far, living out the new blueprint, the one created just for me. I surely didn't design it, nor did I ask for it, but now, instead of being handed one, I am a student of life, maneuvering through the blueprint that has been created, and I pray to release the one I HAD planned, and embrace the one that is mine to own.

We can all hear stories and know of situations that could be considered far worse than our own, and we can certainly look at others and find ourselves almost envying the goodness in their lives. Life is perplexing, situations are confusing, and even as I sit here, close to five years ago when Allison was diagnosed with cancer, only to leave us a few short eleven weeks later, I still feel a sort of shock ripple through me, when I feel her presence, when I look into her pictures, when I travel the same roads we did to bring her home. I am awestruck! I am perplexed! I am in disbelief! And one thing I do know, time, in no way, represents a place where I should be...I am where I am. And I am okay with that. I may "look" good, "sound" good, "appear" good in all ways, but I am what I am. I have my own blueprint, now. I will manage it, I will follow it, or at least try, I will learn to live with the brokenness AND in spite of it. I will continue to seek God's wisdom, and put myself clearly in His path, and be open to receive. This is how I must follow my own blueprint, for this moment, this hour, this day.

Courting Grief

I read this term, "courting grief", on a page I receive from Second Firsts and how the then therapist counseled and advised others on grief, but later, lived it first hand through her own pain of a loved one dying. She didn't expand on it, but used the term that resonated with me..."courting grief", and all of a sudden, I had my own interpretation of what it meant.

Perhaps it's because of the many conversations my sister and I have had in the wake of her husband's passing, perhaps it's because of the many ones I have held with my own husband in the passing of our daughter, or the ones I have with nearly everyone I come into contact with these days. Loss is everywhere. It is in our own family, so tightly, so uniquely, so unimaginably, so unfairly, if you will, yet, what is FAIR? It's intense. It's a wave to ride. It's here to stay. It remains that constant companion that I have spoken of for nearly five years now. Grief. Courting Grief!

When do we stop COURTING grief, and taking it on as our partner. What are we supposed to do with it? What does it look like, feel like, sound like? How do we know when we are at the "right" place, or in the "timely" stage? How are we supposed to go on, live, pay bills, let alone breathe, laugh, sing or dance? When does the naive and numb pain of COURTING grief become our new found reality? When do we trade "going through the motions of life" for the life that is now ours to live? What is the purpose of grief? Are we supposed to wake up one day and "get it", become "healed", and let go? Questions. Questions without answers. Or should I say, questions with answers that are as unique as each one of us are, as unique as the relationship we had with the loved one, or as unique as the type of loss.

Does the courting stage of grief become "easier"? Would we, would I, go back to what my perception of that term means...those months and even years, after Allison passed on, when I sat numb, went through the "motions", tried to grasp the reality of her physical absence, making dinners that I didn't taste, filling the emptiness with cookies, or puddings, or a late afternoon glass of wine, only to find that the pit grew deeper and wider. Would I return to the blank look in my eyes, the inability to imagine taking photographs again, the quiet of my voice, the quiet of our home, of our very existence? Would I recall, even if I could, how I "got through" those motions, those first steps, when friends or loved ones put timeframes or perimeters on my grief, my pain, my loss, my ability, or inability to "move on"? Would there come a time when some of this would become natural and part of my very existence, when grief would accompany me in much the same way as the winter jacket for a cool night, or the right purse to match the colors of the day? Would it ever become "comfortable" and fitting, will it ever penetrate me completely, waking up my senses enough to know this is my new normal? Would I accept it?

Grief is work. I have spoken to others willing to listen, able to hear the deepness of my inner soul, and even written about it. It takes so much work just to maneuver. And "courting grief" is a phrase I can totally relate to...as I said, I have my own perception of its definition. I have danced with it, fought with it, cried through it, hated and despised it, begged God to understand it, acknowledged it, affirmed it, embraced it, tried to let it go, but all the while, finding it to be a process that is mine to behold. Mine is mine. My daughter's is hers. My sister's is hers. Yours is yours. Unique, yet, the same.

I don't think I am just "courting grief" any longer, I know I am in full fledged living through it. Like the days of "courting" our mates, dates, partners, it has flirted with me, brought me to places in my heart and soul I never knew I existed,physically taken me to new places, made me euphoric, only to let me down, it has kissed every part of me, and it has sustained me. And when the "courting" stage has ended, and the real work begins, or when I see others in the "courting" stage, and wish with everything I have within, to go back there, I know that I had my time. The courting, for me, is over. The real work has begun. I will embrace you, you unimaginable pain, you, this part of life we will all endure at some point, for loss is inevitable. "Courting grief" is in my past, but I still go back to that place, and revisit it, when I learned what it was, how it would impact my life, and I hold true to the fact that I am in this place, this very moment in time, for a reason only God can know. I will do my best. That is all He asks of me.

Summer Theme

This has been the summer for themes. I cannot help myself, I am a thematic person. It doesn't matter if I was hosting a birthday party for my girls or family members, decorating the girls' rooms, teaching a lesson to my students, hosting a staff meeting, giving gifts, or just hosting a family dinner, themes are part of who I am. I love them! I gravitate toward them, so it should have come as no surprise this summer, when my sister was planning a one year memorial celebration for her husband, Michael, that my mind went toward themed items to send, or bring, along. I never asked her what she was planning specifically, but lo and behold, we both had the same "theme" in mind, pink and green lanterns, white, pink and of course, green balloons, flamingo type decorations and plates, because, naturally, there was a story attached to them! So, pink and green it was...and a new theme came to light, No One Fights Alone. How appropriate to find these words on the choosehope.com website, so koozies were ordered, and on an on, we found our way to a pink and green summer.

Karen's picnic table had pinks and greens among the other colors, painted by a neighborhood, as she says. As friends and family gathered around, colors and designs emerged, words surfaced, providing love and inspiration. This table became the focal point of conversation. Prior to the memorial weekend, every store she went through, as did I back in St. Louis, held items of pink and green, green and pink, Allison and Michael, Michael and Allison. One with the other, as we have discovered, it should be...and what was really Michael's one year anniversary into heaven, became yet another honoring of this angel of ours that left us all too soon.

The honoring came on Allison Road. The story sweet and simple. And timely. Perhaps to be shared more in depth at another time, the gathering of loved ones, and scattering of ashes occurred on Allison Road. Matt spoke so beautifully of how Allison gave his father so much strength to persevere and fight. Joseph played the guitar with a quiet voice of "Blue Skies" on the bench as we filed by, one by one, with our own thoughts and memories. A family friend spoke so humorously and yet, seriously, of Michael and the year since he left us. All so beautiful, and all so much than one heart can almost hold. The details will come, but right now, our hearts are filled with pink and green, green and pink.

The koozies came to mind one day when I was perusing the Choose Hope website. The colors struck me at first, because lo and behold, that day, they were featured on the front in yes, pink and green. Then the words...NO ONE FIGHTS ALONE. Visions of "fighting" came to mind, fighting to live, to breathe, to walk, to talk, to attend, to BE, to sleep, to wake-up, to take the drugs, to endure the transplant, fighting to find faith and hope and love and GOD in all of this...our loved ones fought, but they didn't fight alone. We fought with them, each one of us, sister to sister, sons to father, wife to husband, mother to daughter, father to daughter, uncles and aunts to niece, and on and on. NO ONE FIGHTS ALONE. We hope, anyway. We know our loved ones didn't fight alone. We fought. We still fight. And we always will.

The summer theme will go on and on, I suspect. It will be pink and green for eternity. We will find our own way to bring the brightness of those beautiful colors to our existing world. We will remember the sunset we prayed so hard to receive, we will stand in awe at God's wonderment, knowing we received more than we ever hoped for...we asked for beauty and we got so much more. We received, in that indescribable sunset, the sweet assurance that all is well in their world, and we will hold onto that in ours. We will find the shades of pink and greens and we will know, we will just know, it's more than a theme. It is as they want us to be, happy in our pinks, and in our greens, in our sunrises and our sunsets. We will try. And we will not fight alone.

Sabbatical

We all need sabbaticals in life, from work, from daily living, from pressures and stress, but in loss, my sense is that they are needed even more. Sabbaticals come in many forms, and right away, after Allison passed away, and grief set in, I knew, that I must handle grief before it handled me. Never had I experienced anything of this intensity, from my inner core, to every part of my very existence, I only knew one thing, and that was, I was never to be the same again. I didn't know what it meant. All I could do, and still do, is to respond to where I am at that moment. Thus, the first sabbatical I took was from work. Questioned and even judged by many, it was what I knew had to be done. I asked God for guidance and I listened to the spirit within, and I took the many weeks needed to restore, reflect, regroup, rest, and prepare in the only way I knew how to go on living. That sabbatical served me well, on a personal level. It set the tone for what would become a lifetime of adjustments, a day by day existence without my child, a role that would not settle in, and if truth be known, still has not. The sabbatical did NOT set well with certain people, but as I have come to learn, it is much easier to believe what others SHOULD do, rather than try to understand what they choose to do.

This is not to say that I had not taken sabbaticals before. Certainly, we all do. In my case, they were often out of intense necessity, such as after my mother died and I struggled for three years, to the point where my health was failing. I took a short time away from the pressures of life, very short. Another time, when my father lived in our home, facing his own cancer battle, I took that time to tend to him, then to tend to ME, so that I could tend to my family. There was that oxygen mask theory again! But I took so little time. Guilt set in, all the people at work were holding the school together, I needed to be there. So, once again, the sabbatical was short lived, necessary to refuel and restore, but not enough to really gain anything from it. Even when I took the sabbaticals in forms of vacations or trips, BEFORE, I was always linked to the family issues, the job, the house, the bills, the pressures. Sabbaticals were short respites that served a purpose, but there was no way to really get away.

Now, I know so much more about them! And if I have anything to offer from this experience and earned wisdom, it is to encourage others to find their own way to REAL sabbaticals. To shut off the phones, the computers, the links to the stress of life. To lie down for 30 minutes with the inspirational music on and listen, really listen, and be present to the lyrics and instrumental melodies. To sit on the deck in the wee hours of the morning when all is quiet and God is near. To savor that sunrise or sunset, or to really listen to the laughter of their children, or just the children in the neighborhood. To listen to the sound of buses rolling in the morning and smile at the memories. To cling to a picture that brings beauty and joy and cry if you must, or have that moment of gratitude for the life that was lived. To simply BE. To savor quiet. To embrace the noise. To cuddle with the dog. To hold a baby. To pray with someone. To pray and give thanks. THESE are my sabbaticals now. I wish for my daughter, Jen, and my nephews, and the young men and women raising children that the merry go round of life, and the activities, and the pressure of the world we live in, could stop, that they would make it stop, for a short time, and take their own sabbatical. That in doing so, they won't have to wait until they cannot make it another step to seek help, that they won't have to become ill and continually torn before they slow down, that they won't find that emotional pain takes over and consumes them before they stop to take a bubble bath, or read a book of prayer, or of inspiration.

I suppose we have to learn about balance and life in our own time, that it comes to us when we are most ready and when God's nudge tells us to put ourselves first, and in doing so, we can be most helpful to others. We have the right to say NO, I'm stepping back, I'm closing the doors of life, and doing what is best for me. We have the privilege of communicating to others that this is not a good time for me, or that event is not healthy for me right now, or that I must take care of myself and my loved ones before I take you up on that opportunity. We must have the courage and the wherewithal to take our own sabbatical. Sure, work must be done. We have jobs to go to, bills to pay, and for someone retired it might be easy to say and think all of this. But it isn't about that, it's about the here and now. It's about learning to heed the signs when it is OUR time, no one else's. We have the control, I only wish I had used it much earlier, when a half hour out of my day seemed like it couldn't be done. But I found time to do all the other things, take care of the children, husband, cook, clean, study, teach, watch the neighbors children, attend all of the girls' activities, be a Girl Scout leader, Sunday School teacher, sister, daughter, friend, and social diva! What I don't think I did enough was give myself the sabbaticals needed, but now, thank you God, thank you Allison, thank you Michael, I have learned a hard lesson.

I need my sabbaticals and I don't mean in the form of trips or anything that costs money. In doing so, I find my balance, my center, my purpose, my strength, my core, and my way to keep living. I won't look back with any regret, but I will continue to spread the message within to those I love and hold dear, take that sabbatical, it will be well worth it.

Looking For God

There is a saying, "looking for LOVE in all the wrong places", that has stuck in my head the last few days. Not sure why. I think I heard the song on the radio recently. Anyway, as I go about my day, each one, and I ask God to be a part of it, invite Him, sometimes even beg and plead to help me see Him in all of this...in the day of a life, so to speak, I look for Him. And I ask Him to let me see Him clearly. When the pain of loss is so wrenching, when the news of the day from friends and acquaintances, let alone a nation, can tear my heart out, I just ask Him to help me focus and be one with Him. And what I am so pleased to know, is, He never lets me down. But He has me working...oh, does He have me working.

It's not easy to see where He fits in the puzzle, at times. At other times, it is that very God-like moment that I know He is carrying me, protecting me, giving me gifts that I am sure I do not even deserve. Michael used to ask me how I could think like that when my daughter was here one minute, gone in eleven weeks, leaving parents, sister, cousins, friends, family, all here to try to live on, live strong. He also questioned "why" when by his standards, Michael's that is, WE were good people?! Michael came to know, through his own journey, that it does not ultimately come down to how many good deeds, doesn't factor in what WE think of ourselves, or others, that God truly knows our heart. And best of all, Michael came to realize that no religion, no politics, no opinions matter when it is your time to meet your Creator. It's between Him and you, and that all along, we are ALL looking for God.

I have looked in the eyes of a dear friend in the last day, had a heartfelt conversation, able to share some things about Allison's last days, that I have shared with only a few, this relationship built on trust for many years...it just happened, I didn't plan it, but there it was, and it was a God moment. It's a God moment that our dear Cassidy is alive and able to rehabilitate, not leaving her children, her parents, her loved ones, rather, being saved for a purpose that none of us can know. It's a God moment every morning when I have the privilege of taking Rex around the block and sniff each blade of grass while I look up and I see what I see in the formation of the clouds, knowing my daughter is in my spirit for eternity, yes, yearning for her physical presence with every fiber of my soul, but knowing she is at peace. I don't have to look too far for God to be assured of where she is, for He gave me a gift, to be with her and usher her to her heavenly home, and in doing so, giving me the sweet assurance that she is in very capable hands. God moments are everywhere, if we look, even when we are so crazy busy with LIFE, even in pain, even in our deepest sorrow, even when we cry and scream to Him to please reveal what is good about this life we live.

It was a definite God moment, I knew it then, and I know it now, when I had the "last" full and necessary conversation with Michael, July 4th, as I headed for home, leaving the family of four in tact for what I knew would be their last full week together. I knew, not only because God sent the spirit for me to know, but because He had me journey through it before, so the signs were obvious, but only to those in the know. The conversation was sweet and spiritual and blessed, and it was our last. He knew it. I knew it. He needed some assurances of his own about the people he was about to leave behind. I was able to give them, making no promise that I knew I could not keep. And he made me a promise, asking me if there was anything he could do for me. I tried to answer. The words wouldn't come. They were stuck in my throat. How could a man who was dying ask ME if there was anything HE could do...but he knew, anyway. That was a God moment that we didn't even have to go looking for...and in a whisper he told me that he would tell Allison that we are okay. The tears flowed, his, mine. That wasn't Michael talking, that wasn't me, that was a higher power and a spirit that is so strong that it cannot be denied. Walking away was the most difficult thing I ever did, but it had to be done, as his son took me to the airport and the tears flowed. I could tell no one, at the time, what had just happened, but God knew.

It was another God moment, when seventeen days later, I was back with Michael, Karen and the boys. As I arrived, there was a whisper, "are you really here", and I said yes, and in that moment, he knew, his beloved Karen would have her sister there, his sons would be there, and all would be right with the world. No, he didn't go easily, but he went in God's timing. He got to hear all of his family gathered, talking, laughing, loving, his home filled to the brim with people, just as he liked it, and when the small peninsula town was fast asleep, a blanket of fog keeping all inside, God intervened, morning broke, the sun rose, and Michael left, yet he stayed. That is God and God is good.

No, it's never easy to find God at times. Especially in the despair and devastation. But He is there, always right there. At that moment, on July 24, I left the family for a bit, went to the hammock and cried the tears that needed to come, sobbed, couldn't breathe, but I wasn't alone. I was held up, just like I have been every day since I was born, and in every trial and tribulation. I didn't have to look far for God that day. And I still don't.

So, today, when my heart is crying and the remembrances are cutting deep, I keep looking. I always will, and I will see Him. I will see Him in so many things today, in the blue eyed angel, as Ciara calls Allison, in the spunk and vitality of my physical daughter, in the love I have for my husband, brother, my sister, my boys, Matt and Joe, for Sarah, who will become the next Mrs. Powers, for so many, I will see Him in the blessings that surround me, and I will see Him when I ask to be held up, when I ask Him to carry my sister through these trying days, and when I ask Him to bless us all as we move through these weeks ahead and gather in His name to celebrate, celebrate a life, many lives, many memories,

I pray I am looking for God, and looking in all the RIGHT places.

The Oxygen Mask

Through it all, the pain, the grief, the loss, the devastation, I learned something very quickly, and still learn every single day, no one is going to know how to take care of me, like me. It became painfully clear when I needed more time off from work to begin to process the shock waves that were rippling through my body, soul, mind, and heart, that the "world" wasn't quite ready for that. The "Kathy" that they knew before, who dedicated herself to everything and everybody for over 25 years, was now stepping back to take care of herself first. Later, much later, one of my life healers who I sought out, and still do, shared with me that there is a reason that we as parents are asked to put the oxygen mask on first in case of emergency when flying on the airplane. That is so we can take care of ourselves, first, then take care of the needs of our children. In a way, that is what I have found myself doing since Allison's passing, taking care of me, first, so that I can nourish the soul and just get up, live the day, possibly get some sleep, not dream, not hold nightmares to mean something, breathe, get through the milestones, wake up through the tears that feel as though they consume me in the night, make the meals, host the family functions, take the trips, be a mother, wife, sister, friend, and neighbor. I am learning to put the oxygen mask on myself, first.

When I first did that, it was surprising to many, as I have said. It was even surprising to me! I had not done that to the capacity in which I needed to, just to survive, just to live. I didn't really know how to go about it. So, I read everything in sight, became a learner, looked into my own soul, grappled with the loss, and still do...I soaked it all in, I stepped away, away from my career, social functions, weddings, graduations, and yes, in the process, have "lost" some friends and acquaintances along the way. Those friends and acquaintances that cannot understand and cannot help but make it personal, those I meet in the store, or run into along the way, that turn their eyes, and move along as if they didn't see me. No, it's not my imagination. It has happened. And I am "okay" with it. At least now, almost five years into this journey. Many have their opinions, still do, over why I "left them", whether it was from school, parties, phone calls, important family functions. I would like to scream out that it is not intentional, it is where I am, I have to be selective, pick and choose, and sometimes, just getting up, walking the dog, cleaning the house, or shopping is all I can do, for that day, for that moment, still, and maybe always.

The "oxygen mask" must be put on...It must take precedence over all things. It has to be a big one, though, for in grief, the many layers have to be peeled off, attended to, massaged, cared for, and loved. If I have no oxygen, I have nothing to give. And when the life, air that I breathe, partial reason for existence was stripped away, I had to learn, all over again, how to give myself sustenance. I find ways to do that. Today, on the Grieving Mothers Facebook page, I read a passage that means a lot to me, and I wish that I could turn the hands of time back a bit, and take care of ME sooner. But it's not too late for me to help spread the word to others, to my daughter, husband, sister, now in her own grief walk, nephews and niece, young mothers, friends and their children, the list goes on and on. For when we give ourselves the nourishment of oxygen we need, it is then that we can get through the madness, the crisis, the pain, the loss, all the challenges that come with life. We don't really need such "nourishment" when things are going well, but one day, when it all caves in, and it will, we need to know that we know how to reach for the oxygen. No one else can apply the mask, give us air, or sustain us.
We have to find our way, and thankfully, for me, I have a variety of ways that I can center myself and keep on breathing, keep on living, keep on giving.

Closing, and comprehending, and listening, and being aware of what I read, I will share this from the site I mentioned, for me, when I find my way, yes, even in my deepest grief, to apply to my own life, one of these, two of them, all of them, I am applying the oxygen mask.

Take time to think, it is the source of power.
Take time to read, it is the foundation of wisdom.
Take time to be quiet, it is the moment to seek God.
Take time to laugh, it is the music of the soul.
Take time to be friendly, it is the road to happiness.
Take time to love and be loved, it is God's greatest gift.
Take time to pray, it is the greatest power on earth.