Half a year down, the rest of my life to go.

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 replaced with the better memories. 

There are days where I feel her. It feels warm when she is around. It’s as though my limbs are being lifted on their own. That sounds crazy, I know. Sometimes when I’m driving alone I can feel her hand in mine. Her delicate fingers holding mine. I can almost feel her pat me on the arm and say ‘you’re doing a great job, Tootie’. Almost. But there are also days where I could kick myself for not pleading with her at her hospital bedside to stay with us. Why didn't I beg and scream and cry for her to continue to fight just so we could have a little more time? Of course I know why I didn't. It was time for her to shed that beat up body. It was what she wanted. We wanted the cancer to be gone too, just didn't want it to take Mom with it. 

After she died I was going to blog all the time about what I wanted to tell her. Only I realized that it would basically be a running dialogue of my life because I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her about my new stools and about therapy. I want to tell her about a new recipe I made and about the chapel at Cannon's new school. I literally want to tell her all the things. But somehow I think she knows. Or I hope she knows. Sometimes I hope she's up there or out there or wherever she is like a puppet master pulling strings to make everything work out the way it's supposed to eventually. She did love being in control (much like me, another thing I'm learning about in therapy). 

I have learned a lot about loss since she left. I know now that the worst loss is always your own. That my pain will be, for me, greater than someone else’s pain. It's not rational but clearly I loved my Mom more than you love your _______ and therefore my loss is greater (like I said, not rational). I also know I can't skip the emotions. I have to endure them. I have to feel it all. And that eventually it will feel happy to remember her smile and her voice and her smell more than it feels sad and awful and gut wrenching and torturous. Today I am feeling the loss in a big way. I didn't expect it to hit me like this and I am just crushed. So today I learned that when I least expect it, I won't be able to shut off my tears. 

I've now lived half a year of my life without my Mom. I'm sure eventually these milestones fade. What I know won't fade is the longing. I know now that I won't ever stop missing her. But maybe eventually that weight on my chest won't be a weight. Maybe eventually that becomes an uplifting source of energy. One that carries me when I need to be carried, one that warms me when I need warmth, one that does the things only Moms can do. Or maybe there is a balance between the weight of loss and the uplifting strength she spent her life instilling in me. Maybe that's already in me and maybe when I don't have to feel the loss so deeply, it will be there. Carrying me through.  

I miss my Mom.