On Loan

One of the many lessons from grief is that every one and every thing we have in this life is ON LOAN...that may sound harsh, but for me, it's an understood and accepted fact.  Our loved ones, our cherished photographs, our homes, our material items, our clothes, all of it, ON LOAN for the time we have with them, however amount of time that is destined to be...all of it, simply, ON LOAN.

At Allison's memorial service and celebration of life, a dear man, Mr. Dickson, stood at the pulpit and read for us the poem, GOD'S LOAN, a poem written by Edgar A. Guest about the "loan" of a child.  Mr. Dickson knew full well the meaning of every word, as his own Jasmine had entered the gates of heaven at ten years old. I had never run across the poem until it was time to find just the right words and tributes to express our lives with Allison.  I could have never truly understood the words had Allison not left us all too soon.  But, once Joe and I read it, we knew it said everything we felt and needed to say.

"I'll lend you for a little time, a child of mine, " God said....it went on to say about the child...He'll/She'll bring his/her charms to gladden you, and shall his/her stay be brief, You'll have his/her lovely memories, as solace for your grief.

I have read the poem more times than I can count in these six years since she's been gone, and every time since, when another "child" leaves his/her mother, father, sister, brother, family, friends.  Whether it's the baby who was here for less than 24 hours to bring faith and hope to her parents, whether it's the son who was killed on the motorcycle, the daughter or son who felt this side of heaven was too much and took matters into her/his own hands, the soldier killed in war, or the son whose short life was taken by cancer.  Every day, whether we know them personally or not, we learn of another "child" who leaves grieving people behind. And each time, for me, I hear the words of this poem ring more true and more real.

I cannot promise he/she will stay, since all from earth return,
But shall the angels call him/her, much sooner than we've planned,
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes,
And surely understand.

This brings me back to our children, our possessions, everything we know in this world being ON LOAN to us.  This has never rang more true than in recent times.  Losing our loved ones in circumstances none of us ever grew up in... Our homes to storms and to financial ruin... Our material items, the "things" we once thought were necessary that we now know we can live without.  Our images, the ones we put on for the world we entered each day and night.  Our youth...our health...our clothing, jewelry, furnishings, livelihoods, everything that surrounds us, all ON LOAN. For in one tiny little instant, life as we knew it can be gone, wiped away, destroyed, and vanished. As we know, ashes to ashes, dust to dust...everything on earth this side of heaven.

For me, the lesson comes in understanding the loans of life.  Recent events in Boston have driven home the point even deeper and more soulfully.  The tragedy.  The pain.  The unbelievable losses of limbs and lives.  Yet, the resilience.  The coming together of mankind and a nation to forget differences and to unite as one.  Tragedy and loss can do this, and in my family, I am so proud to say, through the time God loaned us Allison, we have been able to comprehend the meaning of being ON LOAN, we have understood the definition of words like embrace, savor, persevere, love, live, hope and try.  We truly know the meaning of one day at a time. We have our challenges, grief still brings us to our knees, my heart cries daily, and then more deeply when I hear of one more loss, one more child, one sweet boy who went to watch his father at the Boston Marathon, a young policeman who was basically executed in his patrol car, a beautiful young lady whose grandmother shared the thoughts that no grandmother or mother should bury the young, and the student at a local university who came to the city of Boston for all it has to offer.  For those of us who call Boston "home", this is yet another reminder that the gifts and blessings ON LOAN from above are to be cherished and adored.  The view of the city as I get off the plane and on the boat, I stand there each time and get chills.  The bay, the ocean, the history, the people, all ON LOAN for as long as the terms stay standing.  One day, as the poem says, all of us from earth will return.  In the meantime, from sea to shining sea, whether we leave our hometown or homes or not, the blessings remain and we can find them, we just have to keep looking.

Through My Eyes

I did not realize until I opened my blog this morning that it has been a year to the day that I last posted (I began writing this on 3/15/2013).  I have thought about it, attempted it, only to find that I had no words....thoughts, feelings, emotions, yes, but no words to explain them.  So, I let it go, and in doing so, a part of me maneuvered the journey of life without expression, at least verbally, and without words.  I have come to understand that writing was, and is, a part of my own personal therapy.  It helps me grieve, release, move, grow, express, and in doing so, live.

So, why today?  I would imagine it has so much to do with Allison's upcoming "birthday", and as I read part of last year's entry, I know the birthday serves as a type of trigger we grieving parents and siblings and relatives know all too well.  She would be 28 years old, yet through my eyes, she is that baby born on March 19th, she is the dawning of spring and sunshine and flowers, she is that "forever 21" young woman on the threshold of all of life, she was imperfect in this world, as are we all, but now, she is perfect.  She is pure and whole and well.  She is beauty in it's most natural state.  She is my constant companion, my delight, my joy and my compass.  She is, and always will be, my baby.

Still, through my eyes, I wonder.  I experience such pain when I wonder who she'd be today.  What would 28 years old mean to her, and to us?  She'd be an aunt to Isaac, she'd be making decisions about a career, a life, maybe a spouse, maybe her own children.  The pain often comes from seeing all of her friends make career decisions, hold baby or wedding showers, housewarmings, and such.  Painful?  Indeed! With the social networking available to us, I still seek her face in the pictures posted on Facebook, at the weddings, when all her friends are gathered as bridesmaids OR as the bride, at the baby showers, when everyone is congregated around the pregnant mom, OR last year, when her sister was waiting for Isaac to be born and being adorned with all sorts of festivities.  I look for her face in yesterday's St. Patrick's Day celebration photos because I know she would be right there, but she is not.  She is no longer there.  But, through my eyes, she is, she is there.  I see her when perhaps no one else does, maybe in a shadow, maybe in the eyes of others, maybe as her face would look to me now, growing and aging as her sister and friends are doing, appropriately so, and beautifully so.

Through my eyes...I look in the mirror and I see her reflection in my own eyes.  I see that she continues to be in all of us.  I see her in EVERY season, for she truly embraced them all.  They each held excitement and wonder for her, and now, with every bloom, snowflake, ice storm, humid and hot day, there she is, through my eyes, I see her, and through my spirit, I feel her, and in my soul, I know her.

Through my eyes, I truly cannot help but see things differently.  I live with one part of my being in the present, and the other, in the future, and the future being eternity.  Sure, I look back, the memories DO sustain me, they aren't as painful now, they bring a smile to my soul, and an image to my mind.  But, in doing so, it is still the future I look to, and not the one necessarily HERE, on this side of heaven.  I suppose one cannot lose a child or a loved one without looking through the eyes of eternity.  I know that I cannot!  I also know that one cannot reach the physical age of nearly 60 without understanding that we are in our twilight years.  I sometimes wonder if that seems morbid, but to me, through my eyes, it does not.  I want the sweet assurance that Allison had that eternity would be beautiful.  She knew it in her beliefs, but she also knew it as I rocked her to eternal sleep, in my arms like a baby, not a full grown woman, uttering words that came to me from someplace deeper than my self.  Through my eyes, I envision that moment, often, thanking God for the wherewithal to utter the sweet words in her ear, help to calm her fears, and help her go to the place we will all someday be, forever and ever, for all of our eternal days.  So, it is truly no wonder I see life after this one, through my eyes.  I can't say I always give thanks for this knowledge, for I know how I attained it.  Others learn it earlier than I did, and live all of their days with the eye on the life hereafter.  That is what I strive to do, to learn, to read, to say NO when I must, and say YES when I can.  I yearn to assure my own place in eternal glory, knowing that what we have here is temporal.  I have known it since the day Allison was diagnosed and later, passed in our arms.  All things can be replaced, but not time, bodies, or often, health.

Appropriately, years ago, I titled this blog, "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it"...I do falter, I do stop, I do not know how to go on some days, I do miss so much about our Allison that I would give anything to see her again.  Anything.  But I don't have the option.  I have choices that only I can make.  I have never stopped looking for that daily miracle, the reason to keep going, getting up and making movement, growing in spirit and love.  Even in my darkest hour, I came to accept that bringing Allison back, having her here to welcome Isaac into the world, celebrate her birthday, travel, join her on holidays was not going to happen, again, ever again...there are no more options.  So, through my eyes, I find her, I often don't even need to seek, she is there, she is in Isaac's incessant laughter, in Jennifer's beauty as a new mother, in her friends' celebrations and life's milestones, in her father's sensitive heart, in the beauty of spring, in upcoming family weddings and future babies, and on this 28th birthday, through my eyes, I see her even more clearly, she is reflected in all of us, and as we were told most recently, "you all wear her well", I hope we do, Allison, I sure hope we do.

It's THAT Time Again

It's THAT time again, it's always THAT time. There is no break from it, this thing called time. And I don't need a calendar to tell me it's THAT time again, her birthday, and dreams have been circulating of what she would be like at age 27. I'll never know, and it's TIME to spend this sixth birthday without her. I never saw her 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, and now, 27th birthdays. Allison is forever 21 in my mind, at least tangibly. And why oh why we humans must put things in the "physical" form, I'm not sure, but we do, I DO, and it takes all the work and energy and emotional stamina I have to focus on the spiritual, especially at THIS time, her birthday. But I do, and I will, because it is knowing her spiritually now that brings me the closeness of the heart, the connection, and the comfort. I shall never hear her voice, touch her hand, kiss her cheek, rub her back, nor will she do the same for me. It is THAT time again, and the middle of the night tears tell me so.

It's always THAT time, indeed. No, not just her birthday, but everything under heaven. THAT time can hold so much meaning, and the heart just knows. It's ALWAYS THAT TIME! Seasons change, and there it is, the relentless grief that pours when the trees bud, the snow falls, the children play outside. Holidays occur, and there is not a need for a plate to be set for her, an Easter basket sits empty, and Christmas gifts are purchased for those less fortunate, in her name. Mother's Day, and her sister does everything she can to make the day special, knowing there is now one child, and not two, physically present. Father's Day and what was special and meaningful now is tiptoed around, yet celebrated. An ordinary day that holds no real significance at all, yet holds the world in its hands, a day to be honored like any other, living, loving, laughing, but through it all, pain that is relentless and deep and eternal. Family news to be shared, and she is not here to call, yet, she is within reach, thus, making the pain more bearable, yet unbearable. It is THAT time again, with every passing day, it is always THAT time again. It's THAT time again, to select this year's recipient of the Allison Haake Memorial Scholarships, reminding us of the beautiful legacy, but also, that she is gone. It's THAT time when I hear a song that she sang relentlessly, or when I hear a new one I want to share with her. It's THAT time again, THAT time when I would curl up in a ball and let the world pass me by if I could. If only I could. But I cannot, for in doing so, I would miss the moments, the treasured minutes with my living family, and the beauty of the life around me. Even in the devastation, I cannot, I will not allow it, it's THAT time again, and I must embrace what I can.

TIME holds so much meaning. Time passes, stands still, regresses, and through it all, I must cling to the fact that I am here, and she is not. It's TIMES such as these, the birthday celebrations, the milestones, the anniversaries, the special, and not-so-special remembrances of life that bring me to my knees. I do my best to honor all of TIME and all those who fill my life. I fall short. I know I do, but I keep trying. That's the best I can do. I try with everything I am given, and can resurrect, to live, breathe, honor and embrace. I would not have ever wanted to know she would leave me so soon. I would not have ever even believed this would be my life, and the life of so many I love and have come to know. But it is, and I must do what I can to make meaning of the TIME I have right now. Easy? Not at all. But I have come to know that "easy" is no longer in my vocabulary. "Easy" was before, I just didn't know it.

It's THAT time again, a time to live, love, laugh when I can, wipe the tears when I must. It's THAT time again, when something so deep tells me what is happening before I wake up, before I turn the calendar, before I look at a clock. TIME to keep going, know her spirit, feel her presence, and make life in a new way. TIME to show my love for her and all those around me, it's THAT time again. It's always that TIME.

Sacred Silence

I must say I was most likely one of those people who often felt the need to fill the silence. Fill it with words, activity, noise, whatever was needed. Silence used to seem rather awkward. When I was teaching, I learned that we must give "think time" to students when asking a question. At least three seconds, was the rule! Give a student "think time", what a concept!! Sometimes, when I would call on a student, those three seconds would seem to drag on and on, especially when others who knew the answer were waving hands and trying to be called upon to give the appropriate response. Still, I tried to teach them to honor the silence and let the called upon student THINK!

I have come to know, honor, and embrace the silence. I no longer feel the need to fill it like I once did. I understand that it is necessary in life, through the joys, the sadness, the living, the healing, the dying. There is a time to speak, and there is a time to remain silent, and I am learning a lot about both.

Coming from a person who enjoys talking, listening, socializing, teaching, well, silence can be daunting. Could be, at least, until Allison died. Then silence became the shadow, the constant companion, the pain, the brokenness that no words, activity, social activity, or sound could fix or change. Silence. I came to know it all too well. It came in the form of friends and family NOT knowing what to say and me assuring them that saying nothing at all was just fine. There were no words, anyway, that could be said. Nothing could fill the empty chamber, and if truth be known, still cannot. Yes, I do find myself in social situations, now, and even early on, but mostly ones orchestrated by myself, or ones I can tip toe in and out of easily, in case...in case the emotion becomes too strong. In case I break down. In case there is a trigger that brings me to my knees, or a flashback, or a memory. God knows how painful it is to do some of the things we/I have done, to fill the silence, when it would be so much "easier" to just stay in the hollowness of no sounds.

Even early on, there was nothing that could fill the gaps. I rode in the car for months without music, without noticing the sounds around me, the cars, the noises, the bus stopping outside my house. I knew the phone was ringing but I couldn't really hear it. I heard the conversations but I couldn't differentiate the words, sounds, meaning, vocabulary. It all sounded the same. I didn't want to go near it. I didn't want to hear anything, I simply didn't know how to exist. Over time, however, I could turn the music on, and participate in conversations, go to a movie, attend a gathering, or turn on the television.

I now find that what I term sacred silence is part of my day. I must shut off the sounds. I know there are moments, or hours, when time is best served in silence. The silence is my familiar companion, now, and for whatever life hands me, the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, I must learn to embrace it in silence.

Silence is golden, so I have heard. I understand that, now. I no longer feel the need to fill it. I honor it, I embrace it, I choose it over noise any time! It's in the silence that I can learn more about who I am, pray to the divine one and let go of all that burdens me, reflect, write, capture, and dream. The silence has taught me so much. It is sacred and pure. It is often my first choice. It was brought about by tragedy, I have no need to fill it up. I can accept it and just BE. In it, I am closer to God, to Allison, and hopefully, closer to healing the broken heart that beats within. Silence has taught me to live life, to make choices, to follow the spirit within, and to honor myself. The silence of this day, and these times, is sacred. I will honor it at all costs, and not try to change it. I will treasure it as I do any gift I am given, and I will be thankful for it.

Concept Of Loss

Loss has been the predominate theme to maneuver through the last weeks and days. Most likely because of the events leading up to a new year when all was shattered and torn, lost, and never to be the same again, yet, we didn't know it at the time. Our daughter, sister, loved one, GONE, deceased, celebrated and buried in her resting place, five years ago this very day. Our Allison, precious and beautiful, humble and positive, the face of hope and love, strength and courage. Gone before her time from a dreadful cancer that raged and moved so quickly that she did not have time to really comprehend its path, its daunting course, and what was to be left in its wake for those of us left behind...LOSS.

LOSS is all around us, and is unavoidable. We know this in theory, in reality, in life's lessons. We all lose. To live, is to lose. Yet, the concept still mystifies me, at times. I can make sense of it all with my right brained self, but the left side just cannot comprehend. More importantly, and again, prevalent, my heart cannot understand. On this day, and every day, I know I buried a part of my heart with her, under the ice and snow on a true New England day, right here in the heartland. No other time had we seen such weather, and practically everyone knows where they were during the ice storm of 2007, January 12 and 13th, the two days chosen to honor Allison's life. Yet, there they were, hundreds of people, braving the elements to be with us, to hug us, to cry, to laugh, to say nothing, or to try to find the right words, to celebrate, to take a step in finding that peace that passes all understanding...the LOSS, the pain, the sorrow, yet, the LIFE, the living, breathing, strength, and love that binds one family, that now ripples out to so many others, all the while, trying to comprehend the concept of loss.

For many, Allison's service was the first dot to be connected in their own journey of loss. For others, the celebration left them changed in a spiritual sense, forever. For others, her journey precipitated theirs, although unknown to them, or any of us, at the time. I sense that God knew, though, and through His plan, helped us to plan and orchestrate something so meaningful that when it came their time, there was strength to draw from...yes, I speak of my brother-in-law, Michael, but I speak for others as well, for Barb and her family, for Debbie and her family, for future losses in the lives touched. We knew nothing about how to go about planning a "funeral" for a child, we are no miracle workers, we simply asked for divine assistance and there it was, all lined up, as the stars are when alignment and beauty prevail. We followed the spirit and in our last earthly act on earth for our daughter and sister, we managed, somehow, through God's grace only, to provide a beautiful ending, that turned into a beginning.

As I adjust, still, to the concept of loss, I embrace the bigger opportunity, the concept of life. I know now that nothing is a given, that the hole in my heart may never mend, but that there has to be room for more. I have asked God for the energy, stamina, fortitude, strength to face the day, looking for the pleasures and the blessings, understand the Beatitudes and through affirmation to find the hope and positive factors to keep living, instead of dying. The "easy" part would be to give in to the pain, immerse myself in the LOSS, and shrivel up...but looking at what I'd miss, the true joy of my living daughter, husband, family, I would not do Allison's life justice to ignore the blessings. The concept of loss is frightening, immobilizing, and filled with fear. I know not where I tread. I have not concept of time, yet, this five year anniversary is clearly "different". I don't know why. I don't have to. I have learned to accept where I am, take this day, this moment, seize it, find the beauty, yet know, that with it, does come loss. We cannot escape it. I sincerely hope that no other parent should know this type of loss, but I know that if they do, it will be God's grace and love that will be the glue that binds.

Loss is not a popular topic, yet, there is not one family, one person, who is not defined by it. While it is something we all hope to avoid, we know we cannot, and perhaps it makes us stronger, more in tuned, brings clarity and openness. I doubt that I will ever fully understand the concept of loss, and I pray that I will not have to face much more. Yet, I know, that to live is to face loss, and God has brought me to the highest mountain. I will be okay. Allison will be smiling. And I will choose life, over loss, any day.

Time Stood Still

January 9, 2007, 7:00 a.m., time stood still. Never did I look at a moment in time thinking that it would, and never would I have imagined the journey that was about to unfold. I thought the journey was over, but no, it had only just begun.

That moment, all time stood still as our daughter and sister, niece, granddaughter, cousin and friend stopped all breathing, our own breaths held in wonder, asking the questions, Is she gone?, Is she free from this pain?, Is it over?...slowly, we knew, heavenly peace was hers, Allison left us, at least physically. We would come to know that she would never leave us, spiritually. She was ours forever, but gone from our grasp, our world, our lives. She left us then, and thus, time stood still.

Sure, we moved through all the plans and motions of life, from planning a life celebration to honoring her birthdays, the "anniversaries" of sorts, never flambouyant, rather simple...after all, we didn't, and still do not, have a template to follow in living through any day, but especially THOSE days. Making no plans, we found our way by simply honoring what each other "felt" like doing, day by day, establishing no new traditions or ways to manuever occasions such as these, creating our own guidepost on the journey of loss. Through it all, time seemed to stand still.

In spite of this, we have found our way to a fifth year mark, and wonder how we got here. There are some moments so strong in our memories, yet others have faded, or don't seem to exist at all. We took trips, spent time with family and friends, gathered in small group settings, still finding large groups to be overwhelming and intimidating. The numbness set in long before Allison passed from us, and may subside at times, but still lingers. At times, it seems as if we are living someone else's life, watching from the outside, not yet realizing this is OUR life, OUR child is gone, never to come home again. We long to remember her voice, yet find it too painful to watch her on a video. We desire to be in the company of her friends, but can be brought to our knees, wondering...wondering who she would be now, where her beauty would have taken her, what she would do to fill her days with passion, would she have babies, who would she become? We have prayed for wisdom, strength, faith, blessings in a new day, perseverance, to heal through the tears. And in all this time, it is clear that we have not been alone. God has surely held us up, together, provided a path whether we can remember or not, brought light through the darkness, and shown us that this is not our home. Allison is home. I didn't need time to show me that. She showed me. God showed me.

Yet, time has seemed to stand still. A fog prevails. Sure, life has seemed normal. We have found our way, new routines, the 6:00 evening phone call stopped long ago, the sweet voice of "momma" will never be heard, she will not grab my hand as we walk through the streets or the mall, and she will not need a ride from the train or the airport. Those have been replaced for new images, new messages, new sweet nothings in my ear. She has been my pathfinder, my guide, surrounded by a host of angels, holding me up, GETTING me up, bringing new life to my soul, new purpose, new love. I have learned to release her, slowly, ever so slowly, knowing she will always come back to me, that she may need to take care of someone else for a time, but as she grew in my womb, there she is in my heart. I share her willingly, now. I don't hold too tight. I heed the messages. I listen. I feel. I ache and I cry, but I know, the peace that came in the sunburst of her hospital room five years ago, prevails, and is all of ours for the asking.

What does it matter if time seemed to stand still? What does it matter if I can remember certain things or not? What does it matter that the trips and vacations and family gatherings seem to blend into one? What does it matter if that moment in time defines me, her father, her sister? What does it matter? What is time anyway? Where she is, there is no time, no remembering, no constraints, no calendars, no worries and no designs on her time. She is free. And in being so, God has used her to teach us more about time. Time matters not at all. Five years, five days, five minutes, it's all relative and it's all the same. Allison knows no time, only peace and tranquility. She was created in love, and left in love. All she desired was to go home, in her mind, we knew what she meant. God had bigger plans. So, as her sister whispered in her ear, over and over again, "Allison, you ARE going home"...and she did. Allison is home and one day, when it is our time, there she'll be, to guide us, assist us, love us, and time will stand still.

Fresh Tears

It seems I have had buckets of fresh tears for over a month now...anticipating the holidays, the final weeks of the year, re-living the drama and trauma of what December has come to mean, CANCER, dying, living, crying. Just when I felt as though there could be no more, there they came, and still do. I even awakened to streaming tears from a gut wrenched body, proving, once again, that though we remain focused, poised and strong, the heart knows what it knows. Simply put, I/we cannot escape what is within.

Fresh tears pour and with them comes release. Clarity. New images. Objectivity. Reflection. They are good for the soul, so it is said. I am finding that to be true. However, I do suppress them at times. I am not sure why. Perhaps it's because they don't always come at the "right" time, or someone else is present, and I don't want to cause them more pain. Perhaps they come in a moment when everyone is opening their Christmas gift and there is laughter. Of course, I wouldn't, couldn't, change the tone with my fresh tears. So, I suppress, I push them down. I wait. I finally cry the fresh tears, not because I am weak, but because I have been strong for too long.

What do I see beyond the tears? What do I feel? Yes, the pain, the ache, the longing, the indescribable sorrow of having lost my daughter far too soon. I see the images, although I try not to, of her final weeks, days, hours, that we now walk through in this new year. I have worked too hard for FIVE years to let this life pass me by, or to not use the tears to my advantage, so I look through the clear liquids of my soul, I focus, and I see her, her sister, laughing, laying in bed every Christmas morning of her 21 years, of her image, through cancer, yet eating and laughing, and making sure she went out for that "last" dinner out, toasting the new year with her friends in her hospital room, smiling at her aunt as she had to leave that one last time, feeling so honored to have her family and friends lay hands on her in prayer, and I even see snippets of a little girl, a ten pound baby, one who slept and ate from the minute she was born, and who had a zest for life like no other I have ever seen. I can see clearly now, through fresh tears.

The tears are healing. I may never get to the point where I let them fall freely in front of certain people or in delicate situations. I will probably save them for when I can find healing messages from them, not out in public, but in the safe arms of those I love, or in the presence of others who will not be swayed or disturbed by them. I will allow them to fall when I can, knowing that I can only escape them so long. They will find me, my soul will open up and they will come, regardless of what I say or do. They are mine, and they take me to the next place of healing. I cry for her sister, for her father, relatives, friends, and for myself. But, I try not to cry for her. Her pain is over, she is free, she is soaring, and she resides in all of our hearts. She sends the messages when we need them, and she lives in heavenly peace. Through the tears of the season, any season, and through any reason, I find that the tears still come, serve a purpose, and give me strength to look beyond them, and see what is there to see, hold what is to be held, visit the place of light and darkness, and carry on, for her, for my loved ones, for myself.

For this moment, through the fresh tears, I can see clearly, now.

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.