Still Saying Goodbye

I find myself still saying good-bye to Allison. How was I to know, that moment, when I knew the time had come, as morning broke, to say good-bye, that I would keep saying it, over and over again, now, even years later, until some day it would become real. Yes, I know in theory that this is MY reality, but it is still not real, at times. I said good-bye. I told her I loved her, and that I would see her again. She said good-bye, and the thought of that one moment in time, still brings me to places I do not know how to visit. Saying good-bye. The final good-bye. That is, until we meet again.

As I said, I am still saying good-bye. But in a sense, an unexplainable, undefinable way, I am saying hello. Maybe because it is still too painful to say good-bye. The "official" good-bye was beautiful in many ways. God showed the grace and mercy we literally begged and pleaded for, to release Allison from her pain. The mental as well as the physical. A parent can barely stand to see a child suffer, fall off of a bike, grow weary from a broken heart, lose friends, be mistreated, struggle with depression or suicidal thoughts, lose their own child, without feeling every bit of the heartache right along with them. But to see your child go through the pain and agony associated with cancer, let alone the inability to breathe, the pleading in her eyes for it to be over...well, I have no words for that. Truly, I do not. So, yes, it was "easy" to say good-bye and thank God above for hearing her, us, even the nurses and doctors. Dear God, it was so easy. Then. Then, the hard work began. Oh, the shock helps at first. It paves the way with numbness and disbelief. It shelters and it holds you till you feel like you will crack. It even protects you. It makes you stare off and not fully comprehend what has happened. Until one day it begins to fade, bit by bit, and it becomes real. I said good-bye to my precious one. And now, I have to live. How to do just that is my curious mission.

I live by saying my continuous good-byes. My good-byes turn into hellos. And how to explain that is beyond my repertoire of words. It's just something that happens, and for me, it helps me to say good-bye, yet say hello. Good-bye to her physical state, but hello to her new, spirited self that guides me and lives on in the chamber of my sometimes hollow soul. A spirit that can often show me the path to God above and bring me so much joy, just in knowing that He is there when no one else, or nothing else, could possibly be...Good-bye to that beautiful voice, the sweet sounding "mama" that she would call me, but hello to new experiences that she guides me through. Good-bye to the touch of her fingers. Good-bye to shopping trips, future plans, and hopes and dreams. But hello to endless possibilities of travel, time, understanding and reflection. Good-bye to one daughter, but hello to another who lives with a defined purpose and renewed enthusiasm for life, who encourages me to try new things, and travel new roads. Good-bye to what I believed was a chartered course of life, but hello to places yet to be discovered.

As I stood at the Grand Canyon this week, with thoughts of my father, my mother, my brother-in-law, my child, my friends' children, my friends themselves, and many others, tears poured. I miss them all. I have said good-bye to so many. I will say good-bye to more. I couldn't stop the tears from flowing, I was in awe that there I was, little ole me, standing at the Grand Canyon. I don't know how that happened! How did I happen to be available when a friend offered me the opportunity, how did I just up and pack yet again, for an unexpected journey, how did I dare say yes, when all I wanted to do was stay home, in the confines of my own home, and do what I do best. How did I say good-bye once again to a very understanding and loving husband? How did I dare say hello to a new horizon? I did it for them, for her, for me, and because God laid the opportunity right at my feet. I said good-bye to her again, from the Grand Canyon, standing in wonderment, feeling her presence in ways I have never felt before, I said good-bye as I did that morning in January, as I have on every shore and land my feet have touched since she passed, in places I had already travelled, but now visit with a new set of eyes, a new heart, a new purpose, I am still saying good-bye, and as I said good-bye, again, still, I certainly said hello.

Birthday In Heaven

Allison, you had yet another birthday in heaven and that must be too beautiful for words. I must say that is how I got through this one, knowing you are being taken care of in the glorious kingdom, in heavenly peace, reunited with all the souls who dearly love you, and you, them. This birthday that has the number 26 associated with it, at least for those of us who measure in those ways. A birthday that, if you were here on earth, I may or may not have actually seen you, but a birthday when I would know you are here. Who would you be now? Where would you be? How would we have celebrated? What would we have done? Through your beautiful smile, I wonder what your eyes would tell me? Would you be happy? Would you be graduated from college and getting started on your life's plans? Would you be the same sweet, "old" soul, with the feisty attitude? I cannot help but wonder, as the song goes, who you would be now.

I have very little to say today, but I felt remiss if I didn't write for a minute, just to tell you that your family is honoring our promise. We are keeping on, and trying. Your sister is amazing, but you already know that. She has her own twists and turns in life, that have been forever altered and changed since you are gone, but she is guided by your love, and in her heart, your own heart beats. Dad and I didn't want to do it, but we honored your birthday in a way that took us out of ourselves, out of the house, into a world that we are still not often ready for, and we felt your pride, knowing we had a date and shared a concert together. We didn't speak much of you, but when we toasted, and words didn't come, only tears springing to our eyes, we both knew why we were out and about. For you. For your sister. For ourselves.

I am so often sorry that the pain overshadows joy. I don't want it to be this way. More importantly, I know that you do not. But, sometimes it cannot be helped. Yet, through the pain, we are finding our way, on your birthday and every day. We stand in awe that you have been "gone" for five birthdays already, and do our best to focus and count the blessings of you being her for 21 of them. We concentrate, now, NOT on the number, but on the moments, and after all, that is what's important anyway. I cannot remember how old you were when the snowstorm hit and changed the Easter Egg Hunt planned, or the year we went to Chuckie Cheese, or to your favorite restaurants. I cannot remember how old you were when you received the magical gifts and special remembrances, all that doesn't even matter anymore. It's the moments, the life, the love, and the heart of birthdays that linger in our minds, traditions, and in our memories. We still celebrate you, honor and remember, do what we can, when we can, and your birthday goes on and on.

A mother's love and relationship with their child never dies, and ours did not, will not, either. I whispered so much, these last days, when tears fell freely, when memories surged, when we found our way through honoring you...I whispered to a loving God who now has you in the palm of His hand, thanks be to God for you, and for His grace and His mercy, and I whispered to you, happy, happy birthday, my sweet and beautiful angel, who now soars higher than THIS world would have ever allowed. I miss you with every fiber of my being, but as people across the country honored you, celebrated your life, even found ways to include you in their day, with the setting sun and the rising moon, a once in a lifetime event, I felt honored and blessed to be your mother, and I remembered your birth date, when our hearts knew what our soul already had, and I remembered your passing date, when our hearts entwined, never to let go.

BUZZ WORDS

In education, my chosen career path, there were so many "buzz words" that kept cropping up. Those of us in the "business" would use them and know just what we were referring to, and too often, we would use those words in front of parents or "non educators", leaving them with a dazed or confused look. It's not that we meant to, we just did it, and then, upon realizing what we were doing, would step back and attempt to explain or define the terms. Buzz words became part of our universal vocabulary. I'm certain that occurred in other areas of work, also, it's just that education is my only point of reference. Plus, I was in the field and schools long enough that I began to see and hear the terms resurface, return, as if they were something new to grasp. Indeed, it must have been time to let that part of my life go, thank you God and Allison for the gift of retirement. I no longer know the buzz words and that is fine by me!

But, now, I have my own set of buzz words. I am in a league of my own, in a way, yet, in a field of many. I try not to say that "grief" defines me now, but in many ways, it does. It does, because when my world was shifted, I had to relearn just about everything. To the ones who don't know what I mean, I am glad for you. To those who do, well, no explanation is needed. I most likely couldn't describe it if I tried. But the "buzz words" exist, IN and OUT of my circle, my pain, my field of view. From the outside, and from the inside, the "buzz words" get thrown out there, and as I live through the losses of life, and I do mean LIVE (or attempt to:), I hear them used more and more. I read about them. I try to identify whether any of them describe me. I try to comprehend the definition and ask myself where I fit on the spectrum. Sometimes I cannot help myself from being the teacher I once was, and I try to look at this from a logical perspective. Yet, my heart screams out, there is nothing logical about this at all.

Maybe the "buzz words" of grief are meant to help us as we alter the balance and shift to adjust to this way of life that has been ours to bear. Maybe they are meant to give us hope. Maybe, we pray, there is a timeline and one day I will reach the "healing" that is described in all the books, manuals, and discussed in all the therapies. Just maybe some of these words, the words I term "buzz words" of grief...shock, denial, acceptance, healing...just maybe they are there to give us hope. Maybe the definition of each one is meant to give us guidance and something to cling to when we don't know who we are, let alone, where we are going. Maybe the words are simply there to be used when no one else knows what to say. Maybe they sound intelligent and sophisticated, and provide us a means of conversation. But, maybe, they leave us dazed and confused, like the parents who listened to us educators as we threw out the "buzz words" like they were something we should all understand.

I have been asked by friends or loved ones...Have you found the acceptance? Are you healing? Is the shock still with you? Did you go through denial? Were you angry? Are you angry now? In many cases, they want the reassurance that I just don't know how to give them, and in other cases, they are grieving, too, and look for answers that may provide them with a timeframe, a path of hope and relief, or a deeper understanding that they will not have to feel like this forever. There are no answers, other than we all find ourselves at different places at different times. As today dawned, and I felt the presence of my "birthday girl" so profoundly, I knew I would be "okay" today. I feel that the tears of this week have passed. At least for now. And maybe through her 26th birthday tomorrow. But, ask me later today, when I should be wrapping her gifts, or making her cake, and there might be a different answer. There also might not! I just don't know. That's why I live in the moment I have, because I just do not know. What I do know is that I have my coping ways, skills, strategies, and yes, even my own "buzz words" to get me through. I have but one choice, and that is to keep going, my way, the path that works best for me, just as each individual grieving person does...and that is something no book has taught me, no person has taught me, nothing has shown me how to do this, only my heart, connected to hers, and connected to my living family, and from the grace of God, who keeps the lessons strong. I am learning...with or without buzz words!

Something To Live For

Grief changes perspective, attitude, way of life, the view, the pain, every breath...and in the early days, even without us knowing it, it gives us something to live for. We really don't know that in the beginning stages. Those are shock waves rippling through your body. That is the numbest feeling you have ever felt. That is most likely God's way of layering us with a protective coating to maneuver and "get through" the "firsts", the initial steps to a new normal. As the shock of it all begins to subside, tiny bit, by tiny bit, I found myself wondering how it could be that these many weeks, months, now years, could pass by and I would "feel" a new way, again, bit by bit, step by step.

As my mind looks back to the images of the last four years, I am in awe that I have survived. And I know it is only God's grace that has brought me to this point. I know that suffering in this way strengthens and heals. I would not have chosen it. I do not want to know this. I do not want to own it. Yet, it is mine. And I am not alone. Even when I feel utterly so, even when I am surrounded by the love and prayers that hold me up, I don't know how I got here. All I know is, that I have always had something to live for. It's always been about my family, my daughter, Jennifer, my husband, my siblings, my friends, my former dog, Barkley, and now, Rex, and even my neighbors. They have given me purpose and reasons to keep living. And how wonderful it is to be needed. And how wonderful to have something to live for.

But life is becoming much richer now. I feel myself, literally turning some type of corner, if you will. I am living for me. The last years I have studied, read, journaled, grieved, embraced anything I could to learn how to do this. You see, there's no manual. And I am a fighter within. I know God did not create me to take this, accept it, without changing. I can resist it. I can fight the urges. But He sends a spirit through me that is not to be ignored. And He gives me every tool to make a difference for myself. I feel it in the new waves that surge through my body, soul and mind. I'm not comfortable with it. But I'm not comfortable with much, as I learn to live life without my child.

Life is richer in the sense that I have something to live for...and yes, it will continue to be those people I mentioned. I know God is bringing me through something unimaginable to be there for others. But I also know God expects me to live life in ways that only I can. I don't know what He will bring today, what life will bring tomorrow, but I do know, that He is giving me tools. Tools of existence. Tools that must be sharpened and used.

I have so much to live for...this week, as Allison would turn 26 years old, I cry every day. I am not always positive and upbeat, but what I am is consistent. I pace. I know what I need and I listen to God's whisper. I open the Bible and I find what works for me, this day, this moment. The scriptures. The reminders. I read, or say aloud, the affirmations to help me move in the direction that is pleasing to him. I surround myself with the people I choose, I love, who are important to me, and not the ones who drain me, who say things that rip apart an already fragile existence. I get to make those choices. And I give where, and when, I can. I will find ways to honor Allison's birthday and it will be good. It will be pleasing to her to know that instead of being able to buy her the gifts, others will be recipients of something, the dog shelter, the food pantry, the Ronald McDonald house, or the cupcakes that I will make for the neighbors. I will focus on what I have to live for, and even when my heart is breaking, and I remember, or wonder, who she'd be today, I will know, there is always something to live for.

The Heavy Coat

No matter where I go, the heavy coat accompanies me. Even to the far away shores of St. Thomas Island! What a beautiful, dream come true type of trip! Time spent in the lush and plush portion of the Virgin Islands, the crisp, clear, green and turquoise waters twinkled and sparkled, as if calling me to simply stare for days. I did not read a page. Instead, I was in a trance. A good state of being. Time spent with my daughter and my sister, a respite, a REAL vacation as we kept saying. It had been so very long since a real vacation ensued. Sure, lots of travel for all of us. But travel and vacation don't necessarily go hand in hand. Travel can mean many things. Oh, don't get me wrong. I would never take back any of the last year or two, or three, or four. Every moment has provided a memory, a time to grieve, a time to heal, a time to laugh and a time to cry.

To the natural observer, no doubt, the three of us had not a care in the world. And in some ways, we didn't! We were able to shed some of our realities, escape the eyes that are upon us, and the demands of life. Yes, even retired people have demands. They are just different, that is all. But there we were, in our glory of surrounding beauty. Amazed and enthralled with the ambiance and the view. The view from our eyes, the indescribable beauty of an island paradise that I would never have believed would be mine to capture, let alone, spend in treasured time with my daughter and my sister.

We each carried our own burdens, along with our literal baggage. Suitcases filled with summer items, a treat, and a novelty to be shedding the heavy winter clothes for the bathing suit, white, flowing skirts, short sleeves and flip flops or sandals. It was pure joy and therapeutic! But the heavy coat always travels, the heavy coat of grief, that is. It may look like it is shed, temporarily, but it is there. Maybe no one can see it. Maybe we don't really acknowledge it, but it is worn. And it never truly disappears. Grief. It never leaves me, my sister, or my daughter. But in spite of it, we managed to find a place, a center of our soul, a time to just BE, and what better place than paradise. And surely, we found our loved ones in various places, in the waters, in the clouds, in the music, Michael's favorite reggae song, and oh, yes, in the incredible rainbow. There it was, that rainbow, that has seemed to follow us wherever we go on our journeys since Allison left us. Well, maybe the rainbow was always with us, maybe she has taught us to see and appreciate more clearly, more dearly.

The heavy coat represents much. We try not to dwell on just how heavy it really is, rather, we try to live, for ourselves, each other, for them, our beloveds. We try not to let it define us for if we do, it will sag our shoulders, it will smother us, and it will suffocate the life out of us, so much so, we won't capture, and enjoy, the beauty. We learn to maneuver and thrive under its weight. We know it is ours to hold onto, yet, to release at the same time. No one can see it, but we know it is there.

For those days in paradise, we carried our heavy coat differently. But, it was still there. It matched, and reflected, the hole and sadness in our hearts. No one would recognize it in the image of three women enjoying every part of paradise. No one would feel it like we do, each in our own way, each facing our own loss, yet sharing a common bond of the lessons learned. We wear the pain like a heavy coat, and we are learning how to do just that. It does not go away. I wonder if it ever will. But in the meantime, we are learning how to adjust the heaviness, the burden, the weight, not just on an island of paradise, but in the beauty of each day.

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.