Monday, May 16, 2011

The Numbness...The Pain


I have felt physically and emotionally numb since Allison passed away. Oh sure, to see me laugh, to see me cry, to see me walk the dog, respond in "normal" fashion to every day experiences, one may think that I am the same, or better, or healing, or improving. And, I suppose, in many ways, I am all of the above. I move. I live, I respond, I plant, I decorate, I cook, I visit others, I pray, I smile through the pain, I attend gatherings when I can, I find myself through many healing modalities, I listen to new types of music, I go shopping, I occasionally go out for lunch or dinner, I do a little socializing, I entertain, I drive, I fly, I travel. But what I FEEL is another story.

I have had cause to evaluate what I FEEL lately...from the numbness to the pain. I didn't know I was numb, at first. I just knew nothing, other than the maternal instincts for my oldest daughter, could make me FEEL a thing. In the early months, and even years, I would literally pinch myself, just in an effort to FEEL. I would ask God if I would ever respond again, the way I used to, to touch, to smells, to tastes, to just about anything involving the senses. But mostly, to pain. I just couldn't FEEL anything. I even recall going to the dentist, and may have even written about that, thinking, okay, now I will FEEL something again. But it didn't really happen. I knew then, no novacaine needed. I am numb. I am anesthetized for the time being, maybe for a short while, maybe for a long while, maybe for life.

In time, I began to notice twinges, but my heartstrings ruled. No sign or symptom of pain could overshadow the hole in my heart, and no pain could be trumped by the pain I witnessed my cancer ridden daughter in...the images, the crying, the moaning, yet, never complaining, trying to put on that bright and happy smile and persona became her mantra...perhaps that is why it is mine, now, also, maybe always was, and now, I know, it always will be. I saw more than any mother should see, but not more than many do. I just didn't know what it could do for my past, my present, and my future, when it came to the numbness, and when it comes to pain.

I have found myself in full blown pneumonia, hospital ridden, and lately, "battling" sinusitis, a chronic condition I have no doubt had for years and years. Impending surgery awaits, and I have a chance of feeling "good" again. I must admit I have felt this pain. But even still, not until it was beyond treatable with your basic antibiotics. I let the pain go and go, as I usually do, feeling little, knowing it's there, but feeling numb to it.

I need to be able to feel again, in many senses. I pray to feel again. Then when I do, I don't want to...am I ever going to be "satisfied" in this life I live without my youngest child? Am I ever going to FEEL the same senses that once were part of my so called normal existence? Or will I remain NUMB and find myself on the brink of hospitalizations, surgeries, or worse fated illnesses? I am praying for direction. I am praying to all that is good and bountiful to help me to know what is REAL, what is the distinction between what I must attend to, and what memory holds on to, to know the difference between real pain and this numbness that has become my inner and outer core.

The numbness, the pain...all blended into one, giving me something else to sort through, to tell myself that because I know what I know, saw what I saw, watched as my daughter, woman to the world, baby girl to me, battled with dignity, strength, courage and everlasting hope, that it is okay to tend to the things that ache, twinge, seep, shock, induce pain, for in doing so, I may learn the difference....between the numbness and the pain.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Do I Lie?


I have read this poem before, and each time, something different speaks to me...wherever I am in this process of grief, healing, journeys, "new normals", phases or stages, there is something I hear in the words that resonates well. I think it struck me this morning, when I read it on the Compassionate Friends Facebook Page, posted perhaps, in timing with Mother's Day. It struck me because just this week, as I have worked extra hard to work through the tears and the memories, the pain of loss, and the new realities that come with it, now, and probably forever, I found myself saying I was "fine" to a few people who have asked. Of course, the checker at the grocery store wouldn't want any other answer, nor would the neighbor who I chatted with while we walked our dogs, nor would a friend who called to ask my assistance in something monumental in her life, nor would just about anyone. Out of courtesy, we ask, "How are you", and we all reply, "fine".

I am really not fine. But even if I could, I don't have ways to describe how I am, so "fine" will do, just as good as anything else! I'm "fine", has become my mantra. It stands for, "I have found some moments of calmness today", "I got through another holiday without my daughter here", "I had to lie in her bed to cry myself to sleep", "I don't know why I keep thinking the phone will ring at 6:00 and it will be her", "I'm working diligently, day by day, in all ways to appreciate life and count my blessings", it stands for, "I'm tired of this", and "when will it be over"...It stands for the dreams and the nightmares, the despair of a future torn apart, and a shift in my existence. It stands for hope, and it stands for faith, and it stands for love. I am fine. Just fine.

This poem is dedicated to so many mothers I know who will find their own way through Mother's Day, even with the joys, the blessing of other children, family, friends, presents and sunshine, there will be that special place in our heart for that child, the one who left us too soon. This is for all of you, and the fathers too, for surely, they find themselves often saying, "I'm fine".

Ask My Mom How She Is-Author Unknown

My mom, she tells a lot of lies,
she never did before,
but from now until she dies, she'll
tell a whole lot more.

Ask my mom how she is and
because she can't explain,
she will tell a little white lie because she
can't describe the pain.

Ask my mom how she is, she
seems to cope so well,
she doesn't have a choice you
see nor the strength to yell.

Ask my mom how she is, "I'm
fine, I'm well, I'm coping."
For God's sake mom, just tell the
truth, just say your heart is broken.

She'll love me all her life, I loved
her all of mine.
But if you ask her how she is,
she'll lie and say she's fine.

I am here in heaven, I cannot hug from here,
If she lies to you don't listen,
hug her and hold her dear.

On the day we meet again, I'll smile and I'll be bold,
I'll say, "You're lucky to get in here, MOM,
with all the lies you told!

The last line, Allison, sounds just like what you would say! I'm fine, my sweet, I'm fine.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Aftermath


The aftermath is something we all face when loss occurs, pain, sorrow, destruction, suffering, and illness. It is during the aftermath that our reality sets in and we must "pick up the pieces" and move. Move any which way, forward, backward, sideways, just move, as we stagger through our personal trial.

I am still learning about the aftermath. Who isn't, really? After all, even though I can feel completely alone in my journey as a mother who has buried her child, I am not. Many more mothers join this inner circle each and every day. Every time we see a soldier dying, there is a mother grieving. Every day more and more young children and adults are diagnosed with a disease that takes our children from us far too soon, and there is another mother grieving. Every day a baby is born and that mother doesn't get to take him or her home. Fathers, too, of course, but I cannot write from the perspective of the father, only the mother. Sure, I can write from the perspective of a couple married for 29 years when their youngest has passed in their arms, the selection of the grave site memorial, the visits to the cemetery, the life in general, and the aftermath. Oh, indeed, every aspect of life holds an aftermath now. I surely knew it before, but not in this way. I had not been shattered in this manner. I honestly believe that had every bone in my body broken apart, and I had to recuperate, that the pain could not be worse. I may be wrong, or someone who does sit in a body cast may beg to differ, but it is how I feel. No matter, we each have our own aftermath to deal with and we find our way. No one sees it on our faces, there is no sign, no image, no outward message that states what is going on in the inside, or what we just dealt with, or what phone call we just received and with what kind of news. Life goes on, regardless, and the aftermath continues.

I could speak of grief aftermath for pages and pages. It is part of life. And how we respond to it, just as how we respond to the loss, makes all the difference in the world. As we see the news and watch the tsunamis and tornadoes, one hitting right in our own back yard, so to speak, it isn't the moment, or even the day, that I think of, it is the aftermath. It is in the days and weeks to come that I pray others will still be there, helping, offering, bringing items, and replenishing resources. It is down the road when the shock wears off and the folks impacted have a moment to sit and realize what has happened, that I hope someone will sit with them and let them talk or cry, and not make it about them! Just listen and BE with that person. The aftermath is when we need each other the most.

The destruction taking place all over the world is profound and impacting. I ask myself at times, why would I think I am immune from this? Why would I think other mothers must face the fact that they will not see their daughter or son again? Why would I believe that my "perfect" world would, and could, continue, without pain and strife? Why do we seem so shocked and surprised when others die, or houses are destroyed, life is mangled and taken by fellow man, why are we surprised when it hits so close to home? God shares with us that suffering is part of life, and that with His love and grace, we can sustain. I believe that to be true. I am sustaining. And I know full well that without the grace of God I would not be standing. I have begged, pleaded, screamed, cried and been brought to my knees in ways I never thought possible. Is that what He wants from me? To be totally dependent on Him? Again, I believe that yes, He does, for without Him there is no way to move and find our way through the aftermath of loss.

Loss takes on new meaning every day. From my vantage point, I believe that as long as there is life, we can find our way. Others, who have lost every shred of paper or belonging, may not necessarily agree with me. Yet, over and over again, so many people impacted by the recent tornadoes, who have to rebuild from the ground up, have been interviewed and I hear them thank God for life. That is how I do it, too. I thank God for life. Do I wish I could turn the clock back and have this all be a very bad dream? Of course. Do I ponder, still, in my own shock and aftermath, how this became my life? Of course. But I pick up, and no, I don't know the same loss as others, but this is mine. I have my house. I do not have my youngest daughter to share it with. I have my family, a family still learning how to adjust to being a family of three, and not four. I have this day,I have my life, and I am learning how to maneuver it all with a hole in my soul, a hollowness that cannot be filled, no matter how hard I try. Still, I am grateful and appreciative and I no longer have time for foolishness. Real life things change a person. Ask a tornado victim if they are too worried about the things people complain about! Ask a mother who will visit her child's grave this week if she is concerned about the complaining and griping they do about workplaces and neighbors! I know, I know, it's important to them at the time, and they are not in the aftermath. Not yet.

The aftermath is when we need to be there for others. Long after the funerals, the pieces and debris of our lives have been picked up, and long after it seems as though life has returned to "normal" for others. When reality sets in and life must be lived, the aftermath is what we live through. Helping one another through the aftermath of their life is one way we can serve, and in the process, we cannot help but heal ourselves.