It’s hard enough to understand that Bass Girl has lost her mom at 26 years old, but I think the thing that people have felt over and over again is heartbreak for Bass Girl’s youngest sister who is set to graduate from high school at the end of the month. It is just killing me to think that this time that should be so happy and so joyful is now a time of mourning for a mother that shouldn’t have been taken away so suddenly.

And I’m not going to lie. I’m a little angry at God right now. If He had to take her at all, why couldn’t he have waited until after her daughter graduated? Why did it have to be today? Just why?

I’m heartbroken for the whole family, for Bass Girl and her husband, for her three sisters, for her grandmother, for her dad. I am thankful for them that they were all able to be together yesterday, on Mother’s Day. That no one has to feel guilty for not being there. They were all there with her and I imagine it was a happy day of being together. That is a blessing.

And I guess that’s all you can do when someone dies, especially so unexpectedly, is to look for those small blessings. There is so much about this that is sad, so much. And there are many reasons we can be angry when we lose a loved one or we see a friend lose a loved one. And I guess the only way we can get through these times is to look for the blessings. To remember the joy. And to search for the peace. It will take time to find it, but it will come.

And Bass Girl, if you read this, please know that I love you. We all do. And we’re here for you, no matter what. Just call and we will answer. ♥

I think that’s all I’m going to say for now. You probably already know how I feel. So I’ll leave it at that. Except – this month really bites. I’m ready for it to be over and done with. And May has got to be better, right? I’m going with that for now.

Can I tell you something? I’m exhausted. I don’t mean to make this all about me – although it is my blog so I guess it is kind of all about me. I don’t WANT to make this all about me, because I know for every bit of exhaustion I feel, my friends feel far more. Of the people who died, I was only close to one, and so I only grieve for one. For the other four, I feel empathy for their families’ sadness. I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to lose a parent. I know how hard it is – how much it hurts – how much it feels like nothing will ever be the same. And it won’t. But I am not the one who lost my mother or my father or my spouse. So, I want to make it clear that it’s not all about me.

But, still. I’m exhausted. I think that exhaustion stems from several things. First of all, my friend died, and I’m sad. Second, my friends are grieving, and that makes me sad. But lastly – and maybe this is the thing that is affecting me the most – each subsequent death and the two funerals I’ve attended in the last two weeks, brought back all the feelings I felt when I lost my mom and dad. So, it’s hard. And it’s exhausting. Grieving is exhausting. And the thing about it is – it never really ends. It gets easier, but it never ends. Yesterday, I was at the grocery store. As I was walking out, I saw one of those claw machines – you know the ones where you can win stuffed animals. And it made me think of my dad. Every time he saw one of those machines, he would win my mom a stuffed animal. The memory made me smile. But it made me sad, too. I know the day will come that it will only make me smile and not make me miss him, but I’m not there yet. So it made me sad.

I don’t know if there will ever come a day that being at a funeral doesn’t make me think of my mom and dad. I don’t know if it’s possible to separate those things. I do know that this month has been very hard. Hard for me. Hard for too many of my friends. I am hoping that everything that was supposed to happen this year has been compacted into this one month and the rest of the year will be uneventful like the beginning of the year was. That’s what I’m hoping. In the meantime, I’m exhausted. And I know my friends are beyond exhausted. They are hurting and sad and beginning the hard work of grieving.

My daughter constantly tells me that she wishes no one ever had to die. I tell her that if no one died, there wouldn’t be room on the planet for everyone to live. And that our bodies get old and break down. But if they didn’t get old, and they didn’t break down, I think I could live with a more crowded world if it meant that our loved ones could always be with us. It doesn’t work that way. But sometimes, I like to imagine it could.

Today I got the news that my best friend’s mother in law will probably die today. And so I watch more friends begin the work of grief. And work it is, hard work. It always feels like there’s so much left unsaid, no matter how long you have to say goodbye. And even though sometimes it feels like the waiting will never end, it’s still never enough time. How can it be when you are letting go of someone you love? How can you say goodbye forever? For those of us who believe in an afterlife, it isn’t forever, but the loss of our loved one’s physical presence in our lives brings an acute and bitter pain. A pain that never completely heals, but dulls with time. An emptiness that never goes away.

And so, another funeral to attend. Another friend to watch grieve. More feelings of helplessness because I can’t fix it for them. I can, however, be there for them – an understanding ear, a shoulder to cry on. The worst part of it is, that I know it’s only the beginning. I may have no more parents to lose, but many of my friends still do. And sadly, this scenario will be repeated over and over again for many years to come. This is the pain of growing older. We like to complain about our physical aches and pains, but it’s really the emotional aches and pains that take the worst toll. But we do get by, we do move on, we go on living, because we must. My daughter calls it the circle of life, and so it is. With living comes dying, with joy comes sadness, with love comes loss. But the greatest gift that God has given us to deal with these things, is our family and friends who support us, who hold us, who cry with us, who grieve with us. Grief can be a lonely adventure, because it is something that we must all do for ourselves and our own. Each of us approaches it differently. Each must find their own way. But we are never truly alone. God’s hand guides us, as do the hands of our lost loved ones, and our family and friends are always there to catch us when we stumble, to give us strength for our journey.

My dear friends, please know that though you face a difficult and painful journey it will get better, it will get better. Hang in there.

I was the first to go through a life changing experience – as in I almost died. That was my heart attack. I know that it was eye opening to all my friends, because when you’re in your twenties you feel pretty immortal. Why not? You have your whole life ahead of you. I made them realize their own mortality.

I was also the first to lose a parent. And I think it hit all of them hard – not just because they knew my mom, but because it brought home the fact that they would also one day lose a parent. Most of them still haven’t experienced that. M lost her dad a few years back. P lost his mom several years ago, but up until today, the rest of them have been lucky. K & H’s parents have both undergone health scares, but they’re still with us. Today, J lost her mom unexpectedly. She was still relatively young – her 60s or 70s I believe – and other than needing a knee replacement (the first one had gotten infected and she’d finally been cleared to have another replacement surgery today), she was reasonably healthy. For some reason, an unknown reason to me at this time, she didn’t make it through the surgery. She died on the operating table. J was just here a few weeks ago and spent two weeks with her mom while she was in the care center awaiting clearance for the next surgery. We had a great time catching up since we hadn’t seen each other in 7 years. I think it’s a huge blessing that she was able to spend that time with her mom under the circumstances, but still…how do you reconcile that? How do you accept that? How do you deal with that? Well, you do. You just do. You have no other choice, really, but that doesn’t make it easy. And in fact, it sucks. My heart hurts for her and her brother and her daughter and her brother’s children. And for my daughter who also loved Miss L.

My best friend’s mother-in-law is in stage IV cancer now. And the latest news is that she has about 3-4 weeks. And that sucks, too. At least they have the chance to say goodbye properly – a small blessing in a horrible situation.

I would not wish losing a parent on my worst enemy. It’s one of the most painful things you can ever experience. I wish my friends didn’t have to experience it. I was thinking the other day that, although I know that losing my in-laws will be horrible and sad and it will suck, at least I don’t have to lose my parents again. I miss them terribly and I wish they were still here, but I’m glad I don’t have to go through it again. I’ve lost one with the chance to say a proper goodbye and one without. Both ways suck, but I have to say, given a choice, I’d prefer the proper goodbye, even if it means dealing with the suffering. And maybe that’s selfish, but not being able to say goodbye is heartbreaking. Like I said, it’s a small blessing, but it is a blessing. That doesn’t make the grieving any less, though. No matter how it happens, it’s still so very very hard.

I guess that’s the way it’s supposed to work. We outlive our parents. Our children outlive us. That’s the circle of life, as my daughter likes to say. But, losing the ones that nurtured you, that loved you, that were your whole world – that is incredibly hard. I’ve said before that being an only child, losing my parents is exceptionally hard. I don’t know that it’s harder than losing your parents if you’re not an only child. I can’t tell you that since I’ll never experience it, but I do know that the grief has different layers to it. I think I wrote about it before – the feeling that you are alone in the world – that there’s no one left that shares your memories.

But I think that possibly everyone who loses their parents must have a similar feeling of aloneness – that deep and endless emptiness. I feel like it’s even harder losing your mother because the closeness you have with the person who carried you in their womb is unlike any other feeling you can have other than carrying your own child in your womb. Cutting the umbilical cord does not cut the link you have to your mother. So, the fact that both of the losses my friends are experiencing right now happen to be their mothers is not lost on me.

I want to tell them that it will get easier. It will never go away – that emptiness, but it will get easier to deal with – this new normal we all must get used to when we lose our parents. It takes time, though. And you have to give yourself that time. You have to be kind to yourself. Let yourself grieve. Let yourself feel those emotions. Let yourself cry. A lot. Crying is good. It cleanses the soul. And know there are people there who love you and will always let you cry on their shoulders. And I firmly believe, because of things I’ve experienced since I’ve lost my parents, that they never really leave you. Their spirits are always near you, watching over you and your children. The love of a parent is infinite – it stretches across the boundaries of space and time, beyond life itself – it’s that strong, that enduring, that immeasurable.

The last real communication I had with her that I know of (it’s possible we texted or instant messaged on Facebook) was January 28, 2010. On February 2, 2010, she had a massive stroke. She is still with us, but she is not the same. Though she is able to walk and feed herself and swallow again, she is still not able to communicate or talk very well at all. And there is probably no way that she will ever be able to come out and join us for Christmas. I have not given up all hope, but it occurred to me as I read those old emails that sometimes you have to just do things, regardless of whether it’s the best time or you have the money. Sometimes you have to just do them, because next year or even tomorrow may never come. So, if there’s something you really want to do in your life and you’re offered the opportunity, do your best to find a way to do it. Don’t wait for a tomorrow or a next year or another time that may never come. Plan for tomorrow, but live for today.

I didn’t expect his birthday to hit me so hard. I don’t remember if my mom’s birthday hit me this hard or not after she died – her birthday came a lot longer after her death than my dad’s. Her birthday was the end of the holiday season (December 29), while my dad’s is near the beginning. December seems to always be the hardest month for me in terms of grieving because it’s not just Christmas, but both of their birthdays are there, too.

Last night I had a huge anxiety attack – haven’t had one of those in a long time. I managed to just ignore it and go to sleep, but even this morning when I woke up, my chest felt heavy. When I realized it was not my physical pumping, beating heart, but my metaphysical, grieving heart and nothing more serious than that, I started feeling better, but I’ve been weepy all morning. I could barely get out of bed. In fact, I got my husband to take LG to school today. I just couldn’t get myself going. I got up and got her breakfast ready and made sure her backpack and water bottle were prepared to go to school, but then I went back to bed. Not to sleep, but because I just couldn’t face the day yet.

I’m planning a trip to the cemetery today. I haven’t been there since the funeral, and I think I need it. Maybe I need to see the date carved in the headstone. Maybe I need some finality. Maybe that will make it harder. I don’t know. But I think I need to sit there and cry for awhile. Just me and my memories.

December is usually one of my favorite months. But this year, it’s really not. I wish it were over.

I still owe you a post about the fact that a sweet Little Girl just turned 7. I’ll get there. Just probably not today.

Today you turned seven years old and it was both the hardest and the best of your birthdays so far. It’s hard because even though you really still are a little girl, you’re turning into a big girl. You’ve left most of the baby girl behind. You’re closer to being a teenager than you are to being a baby. Can I just repeat that? You are closer to being a teenager than you are to having been a baby. In six years, I will have a teenager? Whoa. I’m not sure I’m ready to face that fun fact quite yet.

On the other hand, I truly do love this age. I guess every age is my favorite as you reach it, but having taught 2nd grade and worked with 7 and 8 year olds for several years (because I adore 7 and 8 year olds), you are finally at the age when I really really get you. I know about 7 year olds. I know how their minds work. I know how amazingly awesome they are. I know how they are stretching their wings as much as they can, but they still want to hold your hand and throw their arms around you and give you a hug. I know that they love jokes and silliness and their minds are so amazingly sharp and curious and wondering. I know that they like to giggle with the best of them, but they still have tender hearts as well. I know that they have really grasped being able to read and the world is both literally and figuratively an open book to them. I know that they obsess about specific things (for you it’s Rapunzel), but at the same time they want to know about everything. I know that their eyes light up when they understand something, and that their brows furrow when they don’t. I know that they work really hard in school, but that they still love to play and run and have their freedom to imagine and dream and discover. I know seven year olds. And I’m so thrilled that you are finally one of those seven year olds. Because right now, I really and truly “get” you. And it’s awesome.

You are doing so many amazing things: playing the piano, helping with chores, writing stories, getting super grades. We are so proud of you and who you are. We must have done something right along the way because you are everything we could have hoped you would be. And we are so lucky to see your sweet, smiling face every day.

It hasn’t been the easiest year for you. There were some awfully high highs – getting a new puppy, going to Disneyland and meeting Mickey Mouse, Tinker Bell and princesses, riding on a real train up in Colorado – some pretty amazing things happened this year.

But there was a very low point as well and it still affects you. It still brings you to me in tears because you are so sad and you miss your Grandpa B so much. I miss him, too, and it’s hard for both of us, but we are getting through it together and we will get through it together. I’m so sorry that he had to go and leave you so broken hearted. I’m so sorry that he wasn’t around to see you turn into this amazing seven year old. I’m so sorry he didn’t see you lose your first tooth, or play piano in public for the first time or meet your puppy. I’m so very sorry he won’t be here to see you grow up into the beautiful young lady you are becoming. But he is in your heart, as I tell you over and over again. He loved you so much and that love will always be there to lift you up when you need it. In the meantime, you and me? We have to cry. A little. A lot. We have to cry until there are no more tears to cry. That’s grief. I wish you hadn’t had to learn about grief the way you have. But it’s part of living. It’s the circle of life. He is part of me and part of you and so a part of him will always be here on this earth as long as I am here and you are here or your children and your grandchildren are here. And one day, we’ll see him again. I promise.

In the meantime, you just keep growing and learning and being the amazing little girl that you are. He is proud of you. Daddy and I are proud of you. Be proud of yourself, too.

Love,
Mama