Packing...Again!

As I am packing the green suitcase that has travelled many miles over the years, especially in the years since Allie has been gone, I am melancholy, I am thankful, I am blessed, I feel the full spectrum of emotions. And one constant thought filters through my heart, if not for her death, I would not be packing. I don't know what life would have held, had cancer and death NOT visited our family. I cannot even fathom where I would be right now, WHO I would be, had she not left us when she did. I try not to dwell on it, because it is never to be what it WAS again. And as thrilled and joyous as I feel about packing for yet another trip of a lifetime, I can only imagine what it would be like if SHE were packing, with us, with her sister, with my sister, with me, shooting e-mails and texts about what we are bringing and what we plan to do, and sharing the information we have learned, and looking forward to those banana daiquiri drinks with umbrellas adorning each one! I can only imagine...

Should I imagine? Should I be so vulnerable to tears, wondering what it would be like? Should I look at the suitcase and wonder what she would look like, what she would bring, what she would wear? Should I even go there? No answers. I just do. And when I do, and feel at my saddest, I remember. I remember that we are probably going BECAUSE OF HER, BECAUSE OF MICHAEL, because each day holds something new, now, now that we know. Now that we know the pain of loss and grief. Now that we know that next year is not promised, not even tomorrow is promised. We take advantage of what we can and new horizons when they rise up, and, so, we pack, again!

Packing and anticipating is usually half the fun. We already know it will go by way too fast, our four nights on St. Thomas Island. We already know, from perusing the internet and reading the brochures, we are going to paradise. We look forward to it with a zest for life, and I pray to appreciate it, savor each moment, my feet in the sand, taking in the sunrises or sunsets, perhaps trying new food and drinks, but most of all, appreciating with a new zeal for life, the time with my daughter and my sister. Yes, I am packing again, I thank God for the blessing of resourses, and in my sadness, I know it is Allison I need to also thank, she gives and gives and gives, through her spirit and her life. Even in death, she is helping me pack, again!

I shall miss her. The grief will not go away. It is not washed away by spending time at the beach. But the grief spurs me on when I am almost too exhausted, emotionally, to even think about going. That's why I don't think. I just take it as it comes. And in my heart of hearts, as I remember ours entwined until the end, I know she is pleased. She will be there. She will hover. She will whisper. She will guide. She will be smiling. She knows. She knows we are there because we are learning. Learning how to take the baby steps, the monumental steps, actually stepping out and leaving our comfort zones, taking advantage of new opportunities, learning what she told me, "I came into this world without anything, now I leave without anything". How true. And how profound for a 21 year old.

I take her in my suitcase, I take her in my beach things, I take her on each trip and journey of my life, and I take her in my heart. I am packing. Again.

"Chatty Cathy"

I grew up in the era of the Chatty Cathy doll, and those of us named Kathy, HAD to have one. Our parents indulged and must have surely been a bit annoyed by the string attached to the back, that was continually pulled, and released, pulled and released, over and over again to see what Cathy would say. I did love that doll! I wish I had kept her!

As many "Kathy's" probably were, I was referred to as "chatty Cathy", more often than not. I liked to talk, too! Just like my "chatty Cathy" doll, I could ramble with the best of them, talk, talk, talk, and unlike my inanimate friend, there was no string attached or battery to take out! I was Miss Social and talk I did! The talking served me well as I followed my life's path, in high school being so involved in many clubs, went to college, attending every social gathering possible, and then becoming a teacher where I got to talk ALL day long. Oh, yes, I could talk. I liked to listen, too, but if I am honest, I probably liked to talk more!

The shift began when personal experiences began and I chose to sit back and listen. The world is fascinating when we listen! Other people's stories, the sounds of the world waking up, or the sound of nature, the laughter, the cries. I slowly began to realize that I couldn't hear all there is to hear if I am talking. I suppose I awakened to the possibility that my voice didn't need to fill up the quiet, or the unknown, or the uncomfortable aura when silence is not golden. So, over time, I became more silenced and I listened. I could not have known that later in life, the silence would be a constant companion in the form of grief. I had to learn how to be still and silent, first when my mother passed, after all, she was the original "Chatty Cathy" of the 50's! She and I talked like no other. When she was gone, that part of my life became silent. Oh, sure, other talking was necessary, my daughters were young, my marriage was young, Joe and I were finding our way, and there was LOTS to talk about. Yet, a part of me became silent. Other losses and changes in life caused me to be silenced, as well. Not permanently. Not for eternity. But silenced, nonetheless. And the "chatty Cathy" changed, at least on the inside.

Losing Allison silenced me in ways that I can never describe. Although, to the "naked eye" that may not be the case. I still entertain. I still host dinner or other parties. I still feel compelled to make others feel comfortable at gatherings. I even laugh now. I share stories, again. I have a voice. But that voice is different. At least on the inside and from my own perspective. And silence fills my day.

The largest part of my day is quiet, and I don't feel the need to "fill" it with my chatter. If I am honest, there are times, still, and probably always, when I cannot pick up the phone, talk, or say a word. I hesitate to solidly "book" events or weekend trips (although no one would really know that by the looks of my often filled calendar), but when I do, it is with the stipulation that I will, IF I can. I cannot predict how life will be, and I have surely come to know that how I feel about something this morning, could very well change by this afternoon. This is grief. This is the silence of the heart.

I suppose I will always be "Chatty Cathy" in some sense. It's not that I don't have something to say. I do. Of course, I have an opinion and I have thoughts and ideas. It's just that all of that chatter isn't important to me anymore. In fact, again, being honest, the chatter and chit chat, that I do claim to enjoy on one end, brings me back to where I am in my life. A woman, a mother, a wife, a sister, a friend to many, but yet, a quiet, reflective soul, who does not mind where I am, at any given moment, who has truly learned that the next day, or even later today, is not promised, that life is so very short, that there is no room for bickering, or worry, or discord, and who knows that the only way to care for others is to care for myself. I often, now, cannot "handle" the chatter and the talking, it's whimsical and even mundane to me now. It is often over stimulating and when I experience too much of it, I have to recover, regroup, and rest, maybe even for days. That is what grief does, it changes everything, the social status, the conversations in our home, the visits with others, the listening. It changes virtually everything, this thing called grief. Grief is the master teacher, and the lessons are painful. Grief robs you and it stalks you. But it gives, and what it gives to each of us is different. Grief has given me silence, time to come to know myself, time to be Kathy, time to give up the chatter and learn to love the solitude, the peace and the wonderment of what God shows us when we stop talking. On a day like this, a perfectly beautifully spring-like, winter day, the quiet is all I need.

Blessings in Broken Times

I am sure I have written on this topic before. It has become my mantra, but I cannot take credit for it, I must give credit where credit is due. Not only through my scripture readings, but in particular, the book by Dr. Charles Stanley, "Blessings in Brokenness", has stayed by my side since Allison's diagnosis, not her struggles, not her death, but from the start of the journey. A friend gave me the book and I would have never known then just how I would have to turn to the blessings in the broken times. They are there. In spite of the pain and angst, and despair and fatigue, they are there. As I am sure I have written about, they can range from the small and ever minuscule, to the monumental and prevalent. The key is looking. The key is WANTING to see them, feel them, know them. And some days, I have not wanted to, but most days, they keep coming, even when I don't believe that anything can be considered a "blessing" in these broken times of missing my daughter.

As I write, I am not thinking just of my own blessings, this day. I am thinking of Cathy's. She has given me permission to write about her story, at least part of it. And somehow, as I know it helps me to see beyond this life, I know it will help someone else, too. For it is when we hold on, persevere, triumph, or even simply get out of bed when we have lost so deeply, that the blessings come, and we are given HOPE to carry on, and on and on.

A year ago yesterday, on a snowy, Sunday afternoon, gray and bleak looking, yet beautiful in its own rite, Cathy's son, Phil, left this world. Cathy had gone home on what was to be a "normal" three-day weekend, only to find her son unconscious and losing life. On his own accord, he had perhaps decided that life was not worth living. The details, known to Cathy and her own grieving heart, shared with those of us she trusts, are not important. What IS important is that her son was gone, on Valentine's Day, took his last breath, a decision made by a mother who would extend her "final" act of love on this side of heaven by working with doctors to remove life support. Soon after the decision, he was gone.

Suffice it to say that the year since has been one of heartbreak, devastation, loss, pain, emptiness, wonderment, and every emotion on the spectrum. For, as we know when our child is gone, we have not JUST lost them, we have lost a part of ourselves, a big part, maybe even all of ourselves, for awhile. And we rebuild. Cathy is rebuilding. She tries. She lives with an elderly mother. She lost her job soon after her son. She had lost her husband to cancer not long before her son. The losses piled up and still do.

So, where is the blessing? What has happened? We could start small. Cathy has emerged, some. She has cooked and regrouped, and been to her garden, and stopped smoking. Cathy has found a little of her voice and she has shared her unique sense of humor. She created a facebook page and connected with friends. She has tried and tried and tried to live through the broken times.

It was on this very facebook page that it happened. The connection. You see, Cathy had a son at the age of 16, some 39 years ago and due to circumstances, gave him the gift of adoption. And lo and behold, the son grew up, and married and the son's wife found Cathy. The son's birth certificate should NOT have really shared his birth mother's name, but somehow, part of it showed through, and he knew her name. The "connection" has been made and mother and son have chatted via e-mail and now phone, and plan to meet in person. The son is very open to meeting his mother and getting to know her. And Cathy has told him about his brother, a brother he never knew, but nevertheless, will know through Cathy's heart. Blessings in broken times? I would say a resounding yes! God's intervention and miracle? I would also shout a resounding yes! I say YES because when we lose our child, no matter how they go, we come to view and know heaven in a new way. We come to know that God makes room in His Kingdom for all who accept Him, even if they do so in transition. Even when they left on their own accord. Even when the circumstances are so bleak, He is there, on that side, with arms wide open, to receive.

This is Cathy's story, not mine. We relate in ways of loss, and our children have brought us closer because of it. Our circle is widening. That's the sad and painful part. We know what we KNOW when our children leave. We know what we KNOW when we are forced to make arrangements and sit at a table, choose a casket, select a burial plot, make decisions we are never prepared for...but as God promises, the goodness comes in the morning. It does not go away. In Cathy's story, there are so many unknown variables. But there is time. And there is grace. And there is HOPE. And there is one more part to the story...her son has a son. Yes, a grandson for Cathy. A year later, who would believe, that as we honor her son's life, another is brought into her life, complete with a grandson, a grandson who bears the name of her own father. The story continues, life goes on, and we must BELIEVE that blessings DO come on broken times.

Be My Valentine

The stores are packed with the pinks and reds of the season, have been since right after Christmas, I suppose. I didn't get out much. Lately, I have been out a bit more and the Valentine displays tug at my heart. I suppose that is what they are meant to do! And of course, like any other day in the walk of life and loss, my mind drifts, my heart aches, my spirit soars, only to plummet with the reality...she is gone. No Valentine cards or gifts to buy, no care package to send to college, no special little touches or baked goods for her. So, what is a mother to do? This mother chooses to redirect the energy. The energy that once went into TWO daughters, and one husband, our family of four, and those in my immediate circle. The energy that once was "easy" and "comfortable" and "natural". The energy that is no longer any of the above, yet, still ALL of the above. Too difficult to explain. And for those who journey with me, no explanation is needed.

I redirect. I give to myself so that I may give to others. Not necessarily in the monetary way. Maybe it's that cup of coffee I chose to have this morning, in bed no less, with Rex curled up beside me. Maybe it is making cake balls with love and patience for a little gathering I am having soon. Maybe it is taking time in the late afternoon and writing out cards to two mothers who lost their sons this very week, one year ago, two years ago. Maybe it is going and getting a facial and enjoying the "luxury" it provides, that I once would never have afforded myself. Maybe it is making that fudge for someone special and putting it in the mail. Maybe, I believe, by doing what I like to do, taking care of me, and others, I am finding a way for her, my Allie, to still be my Valentine.

This year I even put the vinyl clings on the windows and a Valentine tablecloth on the table. My hand runs along the little hearts and lingers on the pink. The pink in the house is her. The pink is love. The pink is comfort and God's grace and a reminder that any day needs brightening, for myself, and for others.

I talk myself through yet another little milestone. It's the memories. It's the moments. It's the candy, her favorite, her joy at cards, and the sentiments within. It's her humor in a funny card and it's her smile upon opening a gift given in love, from the smallest trinkets to the biggest treasure. It's the heart she always wrote above her name. It's Valentine's Day. Everyday.

As I went about my week, something compelled me to look through pictures the other day. Not for Valentine's Day, but just because. So, I followed my spirit, until the pain came, and I had to close the drawer. But, then, stuck in the back was a folded piece of paper. I opened it up and didn't know whether to rejoice, recoil, hold it tight, laugh, cry, say my prayers, and praise the angels! So, I did just about all of that. It was a Valentine, her Valentine to me, I don't know when, and I only wish I had marked the date. But, it does not matter. There it was, as I was saying to myself that I/we have come through FIVE Valentine Days without her, wondering how the months and years can pass and I can STILL find myself in this walk of grief, longing for my child. Longing to see and know her as a soon to be 26 year old. And just as I was thinking to myself, there it was...and it felt like a whisper from above, "BE MY VALENTINE, MOM", Be My Valentine.

Kiss Goodbye

Today, I was driving along and thought of my last touch, hug, and physical connection to my daughter. I cannot say what triggered it, possibly nothing, no reason needed, no way to explain it. This was one of those days where I longed for her smell, the feel of her skin, the strength of her hand, the compassion of her heart, her "I love you, mom"'s, her cheek on mine, my lips on her cheek, her forehead, her shoulder, wherever it landed. I need to feel her today. My body is screaming with the need and desire to touch my child. It is something we can take for granted, I'm sure I did, the swiftness of the hug, especially when they were babies and we longed for our own sleep, or when they were growing up, or moving along into their teens, their twenties, their thirties....I doubt it ever ends. But then one day, it does, or it can. In those moments I stop and thank God for the time I DID have, but when the ache of loss and loneliness creeps up, there seems to be no reprieve. No reprieve at all from the need to touch my child. I have had people actually tell me things like, "well, at least you have another child", or, "maybe you can put the same energy into Jennifer", or "do you know how lucky you are to have another daughter". I would like to scream at times, and say, don't you know I know that, don't you know how thankful I am each and every minute of the day that God has kept another child of mine living to this point, don't you know my relationship with Allison was different, no, not better, not worse, just different, and don't you know that I cannot put all my hopes and dreams into Jennifer and smother her...she has to be her own person. She cannot live for two. She has to live for herself. And that part is hard enough to watch, knowing that in an instant she became an only child, never to have a sister to share the natural course of life's journey with any longer. Don't you know, people, that it doesn't matter if I had one child, five, ten, or NONE, I still long to touch my Allie. What came back to me, this morning, was OUR last moments. Anyone who knows my heart at all, knows that I am eternally grateful that we were part of her final months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds. Simply and gloriously grateful. My circle has widened so large to include many mothers, and fathers, who were not given that opportunity. Cancer DOES give, at times. And in this case, what better gift could any of us receive, or her, as well, than to be together in the name of love and family. But, it's still those last moments that sometimes come into my soul, heart, mind. And today, I was actually thinking of that last, good-bye kiss, when on the radio I heard a song about a kiss goodbye. Thankful for SHAZAM, I pressed it on my iphone and found the title to be Kiss Goodbye, by Little Big Town. I don't know what, or who, the lyrics were written for, no doubt a man, a woman, maybe not death at all, but all I know, that in that moment, I wasn't sure whether to feel elated, cry, feel sorry for myself, or what. I wanted her back. I want it all back. And I want to kiss her goodbye again. Sometimes, we can ache beyond description. The loss we feel as a mother, or father, and any other grieving person, has to be part of life's most challenging journeys. We not only lose them, the physical presence, but we lose a part of ourselves, we rebuild, or not, we respond, or not, we recoil, we live, we breathe, we get from point A to point B, week to week, month to month, year to year, having no idea how we did so. We go on. We hold on to the part of life that brings us reason to live, another child, a grandchild, a spouse, a job, a purpose, a mission, a cause. Whatever it is, we find our way, and we certainly do it our way. I cannot begin to know how the young mothers who have known their child an hour, a day, a week, a month, a few years do it. I don't know what would be worse, there is no reason to compare. Nothing prepares us for this part of life. Some days we are "okay", we manage, we even soar, others, like today, it's an uphill climb, it's treading water, it's lonely and dark, and bleak and despair can overtake me if I let it. Today, the kiss goodbye has saddened me, but it has strengthened me, too. And while I want another, I am grateful, so grateful that my heart knows the fullness of gratitude and God's grace. And when I close my eyes and let it go, I feel the brush of her lips on my cheek, the hand that held mine, and the love between mother and child that death does not part.

Life Is Eternal

Did I really need my child to leave me way too soon to understand that life is eternal? Did I really need to see her go right before my eyes to begin the process of understanding my own mortality? Hadn't I thought of this before, after all, I had LOST before, my grandparents, my mother, then my father, then my daughter...now my brother-in-law, and in between, many, many souls. We live. We die. And in between, we must think of it, yet we don't really. After all, we are too busy living to think of dying.

We only need to look back to the stories in the Bible, in Jesus' day, in the lives of our ancestors, to know that life is eternal. We are here but a short while. Yet, we don't treat it as such. We know it at one level, or at least our mind knows it, and our heart, well,that is a different story. We watch the changes, we find our loved ones gone, we one day find WE are the elders at the family gatherings, WE are no longer the youngsters, we have been replaced. So, why is it that we don't think that one day we will be in the eternal kingdom, sitting at the right hand of the Father, living out eternal peace and glory, should we know and believe what we are taught? Why is that we don't get that, and that we still spend time worrying, fretting, griping, complaining, fearing, believing that life is unfair, wondering what we did to "deserve" this or that...why is it that we don't look at each day as the ultimate gift that it truly is, and why did it take my daughter's death for me to see more clearly, and more dearly...as the song goes!

I certainly cannot take credit for this poem, entitled "Life Is Eternal". I found it on a card while shopping with my sister last week. What drew my attention, at first, was the picture of the seashore, and everyone knows I love anything with a beach scene on it! I even have a secret "bucket list" to see as many different beaches as I can since Allison passed, call it crazy, call it my way of "connecting" with her. Thus far, I have seen two new ones and a third is on the way at the end of this month, if God wills! At any rate, the poem was even more beautiful than the photograph, and I bought the card, maybe for someone, maybe for myself. In the moment I read it, I feel it was written for Allison, and I would imagine others would think it is written for their loved one. Nevertheless, it is beautiful and helps us to know, LIFE IS ETERNAL!

I am standing upon the seashore, A ship at my side spreads
Her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch her
Until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the seas and sky
Come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, "There! She is gone."
Gone Where??
Gone from my sight, that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side,
And just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her;
And just at the moment when someone at my side says, "There! She's gone,"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up
the glad shout, "There, there she comes!"

How do I know life is eternal? Allison taught me. God used her in such powerful ways.