red shoes

I feel a weight on my chest today. More than usual. The deep breathing I’ve learned in therapy relieves it but, only momentarily. It is the weight of loss and some days it’s heavier than others.  It has been six months since I first knew this weight. Six months ago today she left us here to figure it out while she’s galavanting in the beyond sharing her magic with the next world. Six months ago today it felt like the world stopped spinning. And part of our world did stop. The moments with her were gone. From that point forward, we would make no more memories with her. What we have is what we've got. I find myself trying to go back, way back. Back before cancer took the wheel. I find myself searching for that version of Mom. The one who had more energy than most her age, whose curiosity about things was endless. The one who relished in adventure and delighted in an ice cream cone. I find her more and more. I hope that means the memories of cancer are being ...

There are 5 kids at my house right now. Only two are mine. Emerson has friends who are triplets and I'm over here striving for some normal for my kids so we are in the 'taking calculated risks' category of quarantine life. I made lunch, got sunscreen on them and sent them out to play. And it hit me. My Mom is dead.  I lived it. Got the call from Dad, 'This is it, you need to come today'. Flew in. Moved her from hospital to hospice. I sat by her hospice bed for 5 days. I talked to her while she slept. I saw her after her spirit left her physical self. I know  my Mom is dead. But, like, do you think she's ever coming back? I mean how is it even possible that she's just gone? It doesn't even make sense. She has been here my whole life and now I'm supposed to do life without her? Hello, Denial. Nice to meet you. I haven't read a lot about Grief or the stages of it but I know Denial is one of them. I'm not sure how much reading about it will help ...

I asked Grief to go out with me again. This time we went on a walk. We walked back through the hardest and worst day of my life. Birthdays were always a big deal when I was growing up. Bounce houses and ponies. Pictures up and down the stairs and streamers. Surprise visits from my Godparents. A HUGE cake in the numbers 1 and 6 delivered to school. In my adult years I sent flowers to my Mom on my birthday. After all, she's the one who did the work (hope my kids take notes when they read this some day). We celebrate big. I don't know any different. I turned 39 on February 26th. On February 26th we moved my Mom into hospice. The place where she would leave this world. I didn't find hospice to be this amazing place everyone speaks of where peace finds you and you leave with angel wings. Hospice looks like a nursing home. It looks like stale coffee and cookies and Shasta soda. Couches are like dorm furniture, uncomfortable and likely in need of a cleaning. No one turns light...

Grief and I haven't gotten acquainted just yet. We haven't had time, not sure we've even been properly introduced actually. My Mom died on March 1st. On March 2nd I flew home and the days that follow are blurry. My in-laws were here for a few days helping with the kids. I know people brought meals. I couldn't tell you what the meals were or what came from whom. I know I played a tennis match (that we won). I know I was in shock. On March 13th my kids came home from school and never went back. That's why Grief and I haven't met yet. I went from blurred shock to survival mode. Three kids at home all the time, with the rugs ripped out from underneath them. All their normal thrown out the window and for how long? And what will normal look like when we do find our footing again? Things I am still searching for answers to. We had to find our new normal where school was on a computer or non existent if you're 4 years old. And where electronics time skyrocketed ...

Today I have been married 15 years. We have been married 15 years, I should say. I'm truly the luckiest. I have one of those loves, one of those marriages that just works. It's happy and easy and filled with laughter. I am so grateful. 15 years ago today, my Mom planned and executed the best night of my life. When we were in Georgia last week I found 'the binder'. It's red, of course. And on the front in sharpie is written "MOB". Mother of the Bride.  It held everything, all the details, magazine clippings, price quotes, even her business card and a 'if lost return to!" note. I have no doubt that the months and weeks and days that led up to our wedding were some of the most stressful of my Mom's life but she didn't ever let me know it. We used to joke about the week before the wedding how she would say 'yes' to anything I wanted. It was fantastic! You want the bridesmaids to wear 'celadon' dresses? Sounds like a great i...

I thought after Mom died I would be writing a lot. I thought the words would just flow like they usually do when my emotions run hot. Figured I'd be a best selling author by now. Instead the words just bounce around my head, nothing really coherent coming together. Maybe it's because I'm barely keeping it together. Unsurprisingly losing my Mom followed by a global pandemic hasn't been a walk in the park. The switch from Mom to Mom and Teacher and Chef and cleaning lady and boredom coordinator wasn't one I anticipated and isn't one I would willingly sign up for. Quiet moments are few and far between and if I am blessed with one I find myself staring at a wall just so I can gather my thoughts, figure out the last time I showered and determine what the next right thing is. Not writing. I think about Mom all the time. But not too much. I can't dive in too deep because I'm afraid I won't resurface and thanks to the pandemic, I can't risk it. I cry o...

It took 13 days. Everyone knows that the best place for red blooded women to cry is in the shower. It took 13 days for me to get in the shower and sob. Guttural sobbing. Sobbing out the ache, the empty, the sad.  I kept wondering when it would hit me. Grief counselors say at this point people are generally still in shock. I've had moments where I tear up but I'm busy doing the comforting and the caring for all the people, I'm busy wearing the crown (more on that in a later post). I started to think maybe I better prepared myself than I thought. After all, I have been grieving the loss of my Mom for a few years now. The cancer really stole my Mom's essence and passion and joy and energy and fabulousness before it took her life, way before March 1, 2020. And I am my Mother's daughter, and she was (that's the first time I've used past tense and referred to her) stronger than most. I wondered if maybe because I sat by her hospice bed and cried out all th...

Kim Crawford is a man. Let that sink in.  And he sold his label for a bazillion dollars and retired. Then his wife got tired of him being at home and told him to start making wine again. So he did. It's called Loveblock and it's delicious. And there's a sunflower on the label which also makes me think of you.  Dad's on his way here to hug us and be with us. Hopefully our chaos is the distraction he needs. He's lonely, Mom. It's heart breaking. Almost as painful as  losing  you actually. Going to do my best to  lift him up but not sure he's ready yet. Not sure any of us are. Feels like you've been gone for a month, it's been 5 days. How is that even possible? Here's what I've learned about grief so far. It's weird and not uniform and looks so different on everyone. I can go about my day, because I don't have a choice, and function. I'm sad and it feels like there's a rain cloud above my head but I can be mostly present. T...

I just spent an inordinate amount of time on AT&T's website trying to figure out how many times I talk to Mom in a month. Also attempted to count text messages. Here's what I know, we spoke on the phone almost every day. We exchanged several dozen text messages a day. And now she's gone. Just like that. Gone. Mom is who I share the mundane with. She's the one I text when Costco has some sort of new magical weeknight dinner solution (hello street tacos and pork medallions). She's literally the only person who cares when I find a pair of Vineyard Vines shorts for Cannon at Marshall's. She's also the very first person I ever want to call when something exciting happens. She's the first person I tell when the kids get straight A's or when we get a note from a teacher telling us what a great human we're raising. And now she's gone.  And I need an outlet. My Dad is a great listener, advice giver, encourager but not so much on the talkin...

I sit down to write on this blog and the other one I have pretty often. I rarely hit publish. So that's where I've been. Somewhere between sharing and not sharing, I'm in draft mode. I think I'll hit publish on this one.  My Mom is  NOT  a loser. I came across this article yesterday and immediately sent it to Mom. When someone has cancer everyone wants to talk about their 'fight'. I'm sure I've used the analogy on this very blog. I'm sure I've referred to her as a fighter or a warrior. That was before I knew.  My Mom is  NOT  a loser.  When someone has cancer, and you apply that analogy what happens if they don't 'win their battle'? Because my Mom isn't going to 'win' her 'battle'. Despite multiple surgeries and chemo after chemo after chemo, the cancer is still there. Growing. It's not going to take her today, or tomorrow, but it will take her from us. So does that mean the cancer wins and my Mom...