Fix You - Coldplay
I've been wanting to write more about my mom. Wanting to say more about her. And then yesterday I found the Christmas cards I never got around to sending this year. And there was a card for my mom. Signed, addressed and sealed without a stamp, in the bottom of my briefcase with all of the others. And it kills me. I wish I had done better. I tried, in fits and starts. There were times where I sent her things weekly, postcards and notes and flowers. And there were months where she didn't hear from me at all. It's hard participating in a relationship where the other end is silent. But I feel like I let her down by not having faith in her "being there", even if she didn't respond, and didn't recognize me when I visited. It's hard to maintain a relationship when it feels like you're shouting into a void. And also I know that part of it is that it was easier to run away and to be busy and forget all about my sick mom because it was sad and I was tired of being sad. And then there is the irony that my mom was a very busy person, who always gave to others. I inherited that quality (both through genetics and example), and so I tend to be someone who is generous with my time, and therefore tends to be busy...which made it harder to remember to send her things.
The funeral and everything was such a blur. I keep wanting to write about it, but really it's just a stew of things. I felt strung out most of the time. My sister called in the monring, and I was too tired to really process. She asked if I wanted to talk to dad and I said no. Felt kind of bad afterwards, but I really didn't have any words. After some time, I called back and talked to Missy and Dad. Once I figured out that Ben wasn't coming with, I said I was going to fly, and not ten minutes later I got an email that my brother in law had bought a plane ticket for that night. So glad Missy has him. He's a good guy, and seems like someone she can rely on. I know she's strong, but it's good for her to have someone to take care of her. I wound up going to breakfast with Dee and Ben, because I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to operate a butter knife at that point (ps, home fries at soundbites are super good! and they gave us free fruit cups). I got stuck at Logan for a few hours because my flight was delayed, and I was too stressed and strung out to read. Fortunately there was a very cute and entertaining little girl in the gate waiting for the flight ahead of mine that kept me occupied. I bought a book, but I kept reading sentences over and over again. Got home and dad picked me up and brought me to my sister's house.
The next day we got together and found out what we needed to get done. On New Years Eve day we ran some errands. Picked out what mom was going to wear (Button up pinkish-purple sweater with beading and embroidery that I think she would have liked, with matching pants), picked out pictures for the slide show and got the bulletin boards from the funeral home. Watched Stardust new years eve at missy's house with her hubby and friends. I honestly don't remember new years day much at all, except that family came in. We kept giving errands for Jeff (uncle who has been a jerk in the past and who was VERY emotional) and Grandma to do. Then I think we all had dinner at Shannon Pub (we practically lived there). Food and drink and spending time with the family. And when you let go of the anger, it was like old times. I know there are still crazy arguments, but it seems like the pitch has gone down, at least a bit. We even have a family website that we are interacting on. And some of my cousins are on facebook. I've even been able to write a couple of small notes to my cousin's wife who I've never met.
Visiting hours were Saturday, and the second hardest thing I think I've ever had to do was walk into the parlor of the funeral home where my mom was laid out. I stopped maybe 5-10 feet in and just couldn't go any further. It seemed...surreal? And most of the rest of my family was there. I would get these intermittent fits of anger where I wanted to ask them, "Didn't you see how hard this was for us? Why didn't you HELP US?" But I didn't say any of it. It's too late now, and I think I already have the answer. Funerals are kind of like the worst pop quiz ever, in that there are TONS of people that know you from when you were teeny-tiny and that you haven't seen in forever, and they come up to you and say Hi and you want to remember who they are, but frankly you're lucky if you can remember your own name. At one point I know I was inappropriately excited to see a family from church that I remembered, just because I was so excited to remember someone without having to think to hard about it. My friends from high school came, Rik and Kristi and John and Jenni. So glad to have people there that you didn't have to "perform" for, with the resume update and everything. People who were there for YOU.
The hardest thing I've ever had to do is leave the funeral home...and leave her behind. All I could think, over and over, was that we didn't get enough time. And I know not everything was perfect about the time we had together. I'm a daddy's' girl, and got along better with him than mom. Sometimes because I was more like him that mom and we "got" each other, and sometimes because I was like mom, and we could butt heads. But I see the way my relationship with my dad changed as I got older and became an adult, and I want that SO MUCH with my mom. She saw me at my awkward, stupid, know-it-all teens, and then she kind of disappeared into her illness, and she missed getting to know THIS me, who is (at least somewhat) less of a pain in the ass, and more thoughtful and reasonable. I say it over and over, but I really think I have started to become the woman she was raising her to be, and its not fair to either of us that she isn't here to appreciate it. So it was me and Missy and Dad at the casket. That was the other thing that killed me. Seeing dad. He loved her, they loved each other. He stayed with her to the end, and it was another kind of heartbreak to see him having to say goodbye one last time after all the small goodbyes. I honestly don't remember much after that. Just standing there with Missy on one side of dad, and me on the other. The three of us together, and separate, kind of the way it always was.
The next day was the funeral. I spoke about how mom was creative, and generous, and about how we always knew we were loved, and that what was expected was that you tried your best, and that your parents would always love you. My sister wrote something that she had pastor read. That's another thing that has affected me, is while it's been hard on me, mom getting sick was harder on her. And I left. As much as I get angry at my family for not caring, I left them behind when I went to school, and I left them behind when I moved to Boston. At some point I want to talk to my sister about it. I justify it by saying that I shouldn't have had to give everything up for her, that there should have been more people helping, ADULTS helping, and then I wouldn't have things to feel guilty about. I don't know. After the funeral was the lunch in the church fellowship hall in the basement. Angelfood cake with whipped topping. Lots of casseroles with meat I couldn't eat. Back to missy's, and I think back to Shannon Pub where we got drunk and talked, Me, Missy, Alex, Taylor, Dani, Dad, and my uncles.
Sunday was flight back to Boston after lunch with Dad, Missy and Alex at Red Robbin.
A) sitting around moping was NOT going to help. Yes, it's hard hearing clients talk about how depressed they are after their mother died (sometimes I get aggravated because they talk about how their mother dying ten years ago makes them so depressed that they want to kill themselves, and I am torn between being empathetic and wanting to either tell them to get over it, or wanting to ask them if they think that their mother raised them so they would kill themselves when she died, or if she would want them to keep living. I go with empathetic because I'm a pro and that's what pro's do) Honestly, the people who I meet who are on disability for mental illness and don't have a job or some sort of day structure just wind up sitting around thinking about how depressed they are and feel bad about themselves for not being able to get out and do things, which becomes this terrible feedback loop. It was important to me to get "back in the saddle" as soon as I was able to keep me from ruminating and wallowing in self pity
B) It's not as bad as you'd think, in some ways. OK, the first week back it was obvious that I was depressed. But after that first week I started to pick up some energy. Even now I still have moments where I am a little run down, or a little (or, like today, a lot) sad, but they're mostly fleeting (although I'm not entirely suprised that the first time I've had problems with asthma and bronchitis are now, since I think there is still some emotional energy being expended on keeping me going, which is sapping my energy and making me more vulnerable. The fact that I had to have my first ER breathing treatment since I was living at home with my mom didn't happen until recently after she died seems more than just a coincidence, but I'm managing). I'm allowing myself to "wallow" a little bit here in order to write about it and process some. and
C) with the economy the way it is, I'm going to make sure I have this job as long as it is available to me!
Anyhow, I figured I'd post some pics of my mom...
My mom and dad with baby newborn Kelly (I am assuming that's my dad, although without the mustache I can't be certain :P)
This is how I like to remember my mom, before she got so sick. She was adventurous and fun-loving. That's one of the hardest things about grieving losing her, I have to reach so far back to remember what she was like before she got sick. So far back to remember who she really was and to find the connection to who she was and who I am today. So many things that are a combination of myth and retold stories and dusty memories from that too brief time "before". It might seem dumb, but it means a lot to me to be able to think of myself carrying what she believed forward, since her ability to live out her beliefs was cut so short. It's like an imaginary relationship with her that I'm making I think, that I can keep having, even though she's gone.
One year old Me and my Mom
