Do I Lie?

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

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

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

Ask My Mom How She Is-Author Unknown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aftermath

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

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

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

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

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

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

First Steps

As many people gathered around their holiday tables, Easter or Passover, traditions were in place, some in the form of the type of gathering itself, by the people around the table, by the china or the stemware passed on from generation to generation, some in the form of selected, special dishes served, after all, what is a family gathering without the presence of the Easter ham, or the augratin potatoes, or the green bean casserole, or the jello salads, or the desserts that Grandma used to make?! The plans, the grocery shopping, the preparations, all spark tradition, and in doing so, in loss, can also ignite pain. Emotional pain. Or physical pain, caused from the emotional pain. A hole in one's heart that seems it can never be filled. Loss. Yet life. That is how I have to look at it, to keep going, and to take those steps.

The first steps seem so difficult, but for me, the steps get a bit more difficult, weary, sluggish. I asked Joe, yesterday, through the preparations and tears that flowed, when he thought it might get a bit easier. He said it may never, but we will keep going, and trying, and doing, and taking steps. That was my comfort in that moment when the tears wouldn't stop and my body wanted to stop. And I thought back. Back to a time when the grief and loss, my first real significant experience, of my mother, was more than I thought I could bear. But, I did, and still do, and when I think of her when I prepare for special occasions, that pain of ache is not quite the same, and a smile can fill my heart as I make my way. Then of course, another significant loss, my father, who "endured" the holidays and showed us how to take the steps after our mother was gone. Now, my daughter, my child, my balance, my rock, my strength. She is gone, and nothing has ever seemed the same.

I have, and will, always, take the steps. I would almost give anything to turn back the clock and be in the "first step" phase, the steps when you really do not know how to turn, how to persevere, the time when God bears down and gives His unending grace and holds you up. The time when the new reality hasn't quite set in, and the numbness and shock keep you standing. The time when I never fully realized that Allison is not coming back. Now, I do. And those steps must continue to be taken.

Loss and grief over the missing loved ones will always be part of life. It's just the way it is...and loss and grief comes to mind, in gut wrenching ways, as we have seen, almost firsthand, how our community has lost. Lost items, property, entire homes, from this devastating tornado pattern in St. Louis. How to rebuild? How to start taking those steps when people we personally know do not have a shred of paper left, who are filtering through debris many blocks and miles away in hopes of finding a snapshot, a momento, a piece of the way life was, before life as they knew it no longer exists? How to start taking the steps?

The steps are going to be many, long and difficult and challenging. Emotional and relentless. But it's the first steps that will lead to the bigger ones, and on and on, and yes, when reality sets in, and some of the shock wears off, these people will find their blessings, too. They already have begun to realize that no one has perished, and this tornado taught the true meaning of family and neighbors and community. They are in high need of everything. Today and always. It's not what is going to take place today that will matter, it's what, and who, will be there for them when others seem to have forgotten. Even this weekend, most of us went along with our plans for our holiday, because we needed to and should. What was to be gained from changing plans, even when our hearts weren't in it? What could we really do that would make a difference? We each found our way, whether through prayer of thanksgiving that our houses were in tact, more importantly, our lives. We found our way, whether through making donations or physically taking items to the centers. Yes, our lives were touched, deeply, but the Easter egg hunts went on, and the families gathered, and the meals were prepared. We counted our blessings in the face of yet another disaster. And we, each in our own unique situations, took the steps, maybe the "first steps", maybe we are walking a path that is ours for the rest of this lifetime, but whatever our story is, we took the steps. And that is the important thing.

We will take steps with our community, with our loved ones, with our neighbors, through the tornadoes of life. Nothing seems more devastating right now than the intensity of loss, and there but for the grace of God go I...but they, and we, will rebuild, and we will take those first steps, and another, and another, until we find our path.

At Most

I am changing my "at leasts" to "at mosts", partially because it makes sense to me, partially because I am so grateful for the fullness that DOES exist in my life, partially because the "at leasts" indicate a minimum to me, especially as I wrote, and reflected, on my past entry. I do not really know what I will write when I sit down with my thoughts, intuition, soul searching ways. It just pours out and I don't even know if it makes sense. I rarely read the entries. I don't even know why I am writing, except that it is my therapy, my release, my way of taking those steps of healing that I am learning so much about. However, I DID choose to read the "at least" entry, mostly because I hear those words a lot. I ponder them. I count them as gratitudes. But the "at leasts" sound like the exception, the things I will "settle" for because something else is lacking, someone is missing, many people are missing. The whole in my heart stands for my child, but the layers of grief are piling up with each passing day. Layer upon layer, news of the day, filled with pain and sorrow, devastation and destruction, loss and angst. So what to do? For me, turn the "at leasts" into the "at mosts".

But, for this moment, this dawning of Easter weekend, and the significance, the beauty, the story, the promise, the onset of something bigger and better in one's life, I have chosen to focus on the "at mosts" in my life. I am turning the minimum into the maximum. That doesn't come easily, at times. It has taken me many twists and turns to remove the "at leasts", which for years, have sustained me, and turn them into "at mosts".

Some "At Mosts" that I am thankful for at this moment in time....a vibrant, loving daughter, a husband who has a routine and commitment to family that nothing, not even the devastation over losing his youngest child, can shake, a sister who I can express myself to without fear of judgment, daily walks with my beloved Rex, the pink corner of my deck, complete with incredible blooming plant and angel wind chime, the strength to make my way to the grocery store to purchase food for Easter dinner, the ability to even host Easter dinner, an intuitive spirit that just knows what needs to be done, the gift of time and retirement, the ability to never complain about any situation, resources to give to charity, a cozy couch that welcomes the afternoon sun, a rainy day to clean a closet or read a book, seeing eyes to read that book, hands that can shape, mold, hold and create, ability to move on my own, memories of Allison's 21 years that sustain me through moments when I cannot breathe, smiles of the heart over what Michael would say to me, or how he would make a comment about everything, answers to prayers, and the trust that goes with waiting for answers to be revealed, memories of two little girls growing up in our own Easter traditions, filling a house with a palette that is pleasing, and filling that house with light and love, endless messages from Allison as she helps me appreciate the day, and scriptures from God that help me know that where I am, at any given time, is only temporal.

I wonder how long I could type and feel such overwhelming gratitude of the heart. I know I could choose to focus on the pain, the loss, and some days I do just that. I cry. I pound. I beg God to help me. I ask Him to show me how to do this. I ask Him when the numbness will go away so that I can feel again? Feel, as in the physical sense. I do all the things that grief causes me to do. But I know, "at least" for the moment, some moments, anyway, I can focus on the "at mosts" and be just okay.

At Least....

How many times a day, or a lifetime, do I find myself saying..."at least"...or have heard it from my children, my family, my friends, and even my neighbors. At Least. It holds so much in those two little words. More, now. More, forever. And what do those words really say? Do they say, this is a blessing in comparison to what could have been, this is a favor, this is the so called up side?! Do they tell me I am left with a better choice, a stronger outcome, a more pleasing palette? Hmmmm....why contemplate it, why even think about it? I don't know, I think about a lot of things that I never would have before. I don't dwell, it just comes to me, in conversations, in writings, in reading, in reflection, in remembering.

Again, a conversation with my sweet sister, prompted us talking about our circumstances. I love how we can be honest. I can ask her if she has ever thought of something, and she will respond, or she can ask me, and I can be honest, and while we might tread lightly for a minute because we are both so fragile and don't want to even begin to assume we know what the other one is walking through, we ultimately get to the core. Like last night. We talked about our losses, a bit, and the way our immediate families have been redefined, the ones that were families of four, now shifting to three. Yes, shifting. We are not used to it. I don't know if we ever will be...We talked about the joy of those who we DO have life to share with, now. And I think we were both envisioning one another's life, her going home to the emptiness tears at my heart strings every single day. And Joe and I, knowing that one daughter will never join the family celebration rips apart her already grieving heart. But here come the "at least" moments...and they are not meant to be a substitute, but through this pain, "at least" I have Joe, Jennifer, and she has Matt and Joe and beautiful Sarah. At Least. To me that sounds minimizing. I don't even know if I should use the term, but sometimes I do. And so do others. When they do, I don't like the sound of the words, but I am beginning to understand that it is what we think, at times, some of us, in certain situations. "At least you have another child", they will say. "At least you can remarry if you choose," they will tell my sister. As if the "at least" makes those so called realities any better. The "at leasts" of life really do exist. I prefer to call them the blessings, not the at leasts!

I am brought back to many times when I have heard "at least" from my daughters. One time in particular was when Allison asked to go with a group of friends to Mexico for spring break, with the answer of course, being a very firm NO. But we had a plan, for our 25th wedding anniversary, we were going to take the girls to Hawaii, and as a "substitute" for the friend trip, we shared our plans. She really did not argue much with our emphatic NO to begin with, but when learning of Hawaii, she announced, "well, at least I get to go someplace". SOMEPLACE?? This was Hawaii we were talking about!!!! So at the very least, she had a trip of a lifetime, even her sister and her would agree!

At Least. It came back to us in more serious fashion with a cancer diagnosis. At least it's a treatable cancer. At least it's not spreading. At least it's not going to take her life. Until, of course, it was all of those. Then it became, at least I can still swallow and eat. At least it's not tongue cancer. At least it's not causing me to be incapacitated. At least I can still walk. At least I can still talk. At Least. There was always an at least. There was always a blessing, a reason to be hopeful and positive. There is always that "up side" where we know that for the grace of God go I...and the "at leasts" seem more like gifts in the making.

As our circumstances change, so go the "at leasts". They must. Allison left us that legacy, too. There was always an "at least". And there always will be. I am choosing not to look at them any longer as the diminishing and sometimes even ONLY option, but, rather, to think of her, and Michael, and all of us, and hear the words, and know they aren't degrading, they are hopeful. They don't really mean "at least" at all, they mean so much more.

Resources

Another deep conversation with my beloved sister prompted me to verbalize what is inside my heart about how to walk, ride, travel this journey we both seem to be encompassed by, that is, the journey of grief. Loss is a part of life. We know this. All of us do. We cannot help but look around and know it, and then when it is ours to bear, it becomes all too real and personal. But in that loss, we learn more about life than we ever imagined. I am thankful to have her to talk with, and say things out loud with, and be together in this stage of our being. I am NOT thankful that she has to go through this, that I do, that Jennifer or Joe does, that my nephews do, that anyone else does...but, as the saying goes, that is life. That sounds flippant, even in my reality. And I don't mean it to be, I hope not to be flippant, but I do believe I am a realist. Especially now that I am understanding and "realizing" this is my life, for better or worse, it is mine to own and mine to bear and mine to live. And I don't say that easily. I say that with the scars of the battle, the pit in my stomach that has not eased, the pain in my heart that feels like it cries in unending fashion, and in wonderment of how to keep my mind and soul in sync.

It has become apparent to me that it is the resources that I choose to use that keeps me upright, keep me keeping on as I like to say, keep me grounded and soulful. I was determined to live when Allison passed away in my arms, but I didn't know how to do that. I still don't, I am the perpetual learner. But I use my resources and listen to my spirit. In the process of doing so, it seems I have offended some. I don't willingly accept invitations. I do not commit to many things far in advance. I can not spend time with people who drain my already depleted energy supply. I can not listen to complaints or griping, even if I may have been one of those people, before. (I hope I wasn't, but truth be known, I am sure I vented about life.) I can not socialize in big groups or in the homes of some, the pain is too great. I can not listen to endless chatter about things that are seemingly surface talk, and I can not surround myself with those "all about me" people any longer. So many things I just can NOT do. And in the process of taking care of ME and the emotional toll it takes to face another day, month, year, holiday, birthday, some folks just don't understand. And I am learning, that is okay. I still love them, they love me, but the energy has shifted, my world has, even if there's has not, and I remind myself that perhaps we were brought together for a reason, and not a season. As Jen and I talked yesterday, everyone we meet has a purpose under heaven, and it might be for a day, a short relationship, a long time, years, or one chance meeting. It has become liberating for us to know, and accept that.

But back to my resources...yes, people are one of them. So many people who I could turn to, or call, or spend time with, and that has been a blessing. Other resources? Other ways to navigate this new way of living? There are many, and for each of us, they are different. I see that in the "phase" my sister is in, her boys, my daughter, my husband, my sister-in-law, friends, everyone. But my number one obligation is to myself and how to continue. And, continue, I must. Not just because I promised Allie, God, but because I am still a mother, wife, sister, aunt, friend, but most of all, I am ME. And my way has become MY WAY.

I choose my resources as I need them. First and foremost, and always, for ME, God is my ultimate resource. The Lord above who is the Creator of all things good, not bad, not cancer, not death, not accidents, not despair. For who knew more about pain and loss than He possibly could, watching and knowing His own beloved Son would be crucified and die on the cross. So, I turn to Him, continually, and pray that my heart is right, that I do not just give lip service to Him, the Almighty, but that I come to know Him in the ways He would desire. When I falter, I ask forgiveness, when I need to know Him better, I ask Him into my heart and soul, and I read His word, and try to comprehend it, or take into the context of my own life. I ask Him for answers, and when they don't seem to come, I learn about faith and how to cling to His coatails and hold on until they surface. God is my resource above all others. And He provides others. I find resources in the quiet solitude of my house, my deck, in the sounds of the birds, or the chimes, or on my walk out to touch the memorial tree, or in the early morning walks with Rex, in the sound of my daughter's voice, in the precious moments shared with her, in the companionship of my husband, even when neither of us can speak, or touch. I find those resources in the music I choose to listen to, in the melodies, in the sounds, in the lyrics. I find resources in the affirmations I repeat until I believe the words, and in the healing sessions I find myself needing. I find resources in travel, or in being still. I find resources in tropical paradise, or creating my own paradise right at home. I find resources in scrapbooking or lighting candles, and I find them in the strategically placed reminders of those I love, the pinks, the greens, the turquoise and the oranges. I find resources in making things nice for people who visit, keeping a favorite wine or tea available, and I find them in the pleasures of positive people. I find them in creating, something new for me, whether in the kitchen or in the craft area! I find them everywhere! I find the ones that work for me. And my prayer this day is that my sister will find hers, that other grieving people will find theirs, and that, in spite of our pain, we will find a way to cope, heal, breathe, and live. Our loved ones would want it that way!

The Next Step

TAKING the next step is hard enough, TRUSTING in it and holding onto faith is quite another story. I remember, with vivid detail, the moment our daughter heard the word CANCER. I remember our tears. I remember our fears. I remember our hope. I remember the faith we had, that she would be the one to BEAT this, live through it all, cope, finish her teaching degree, marry, have children. Sweet Allison even had the wherewithal to ask for her eggs to be frozen for the day this was all behind her and she would marry and want babies. Dear God, there were so many steps taken. With haste, and no time to waste, she called the shots, so to speak, turning to us, to her sister, to her doctors, for answers. But most of all, she turned to her God. And that brought us all comfort. God was not going to let us down, let her down. She took His medicine just as she did her prescribed pills, chemotherapy, and she kept taking the next step. Step by step, day by day, even hour by hour, years of a future cancer journey packed into eleven weeks, one week short of three months, and it was over. In once sense. But, as we know now, it will never be over.

Allison taught us how to take the next step. God used her to show us. Little did we know that we were never to complain again, never to really feel sorry for ourselves (except for those rare times when YES, I DO feel sorry for myself), step out on faith, never knowing what lies ahead, just doing it with the greatest of attitudes and the ambiance of grace. That's what we know to do. That's what we aspire to be, like her, through her life, mostly, but especially once the word CANCER became part of her being.

So, we take the next step. I take it. I don't know where it goes. I don't know where it will lead. It can be as scary as anything I've ever done in my life, as I walk the tightrope of unforeseen circumstances. It can be unsettling and fray my nerves, to keep going, muddle through and TRUST that I am doing what I am supposed to do. It can be as exhausting as any flu, illness, or series of sleepless nights that I have ever encountered. The next step. The step that leads to something that is designed just for me.

It's not as if Allison believed this cancer was designed especially for her. But she knew, in order to "beat" it, there were certain things that just had to be done...blood work, chemotherapy, sleepless nights, pain, fatigue, tears, and more pain. She never gave up. She never would. She took every step necessary, emotionally, physically, spiritually, psychologically that she could. And when it didn't turn out the way she believed, the way we believed and prayed and pleaded and begged, there she was, willing to take yet another step. Step out on faith and love and hope and belief. Faith and love and hope and belief that there is a God and He will provide, and faith and love and hope and belief in her family. There she was, with God and her family, at the end, as she took the next step, and that was all she needed.

I continue to take the next step. Maybe some day mine will mirror hers. I don't know. Like any of us, our future is unseen. It's up to us to take the next step, whether a baby step, or a giant step, one that sets us back, or one that spurs us on. I, too, have learned to take the next step, with faith and love and hope and belief...at least I'm trying.