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.