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| 1995 - at Laura's wedding |
Hey, Mom! Talking to My Mother #1089 - Three Years Ago - "Actively Dying"
Hi Mom,
So, yesterday during my process of consideration and rumination about this blog and the future of the HEY MOM feature, I promised an investigation of what was happening three years ago while you were in the process of dying, what we call "actively dying," which seems to me the wrong term since you were still fighting up to the end. Though you stopped eating around June 22nd and entered this process of "the end," it took you thirteen days before you gave up, and then only because we may have given you a little push. It seemed more to me about "actively fighting" death rather than doing the dying.
Recently, I attended an author's reading at Powell's in Portland, an author, Sallie Tisdale, whose book I taught for ten years during my time as a women's studies instructor, and who I now learn is a Portland resident. Her new book is about dying, about being with people as they die. She examines what to say and what not to say. Not that this is about me, though actually it is... I was happy to learn that lots of the things that she says NOT to day were things I didn't say. Mostly, I just told you that it was going to be okay and that I was right there with you, that Dad and Lori were right there with you, that we love you, and that it's okay to let go if you need to let go. At least, I might have said that. I am pretty sure I did. But it's been three years, and I don't remember, honestly.
I know I tried to focus more on "it's going to be okay" and "we all love you" and "I love you."
You spent thirteen days from the time you stopped eating until you breathed your last breath. And before that time, we had fifteen years of extra time with you, time we cherished because we had almost lost you, so we knew how precious it was. And yet, still I feel you were cheated. So many people I know have lots loved ones abruptly, without warning. They lost these people without the time to sit at their bedside, without the time to tell them all the things they wanted to say, without the chance to say goodbye properly. I know people who have lost loved ones who were quite young, who had so much more to live for, so it feels terrible to say that I feel you were cheated of life, Mom, when so many others died much younger and with much left to do compared to you. And yet as my family moves on from the loss of you, I think you were cheated. What if you were still alive? What if the meningitis had never happened to you? What then?
You had a great life, and we had a great life with you. When we almost lost you in March of 2000, we all realized how precious and fragile our time together is, was. The next fifteen years were filled with so much love, so much cherishing of our time together, so many hugs, and kisses, and tears. You were not quite 79 when you passed away, Mom, but that's a pretty good and long life. And yet, I am greedy. I want more.
So, here I am at a crossroads, trying to decide if I should stop daily production of the HEY MOM feature on July 6th, as I started the blog feature two days after you died. I am leaning toward yes, toward stopping.
I could post one old HEY MOM a week for the rest of my life and probably not run out since I have generated almost 1100 of them. Granted, they are not all about grief and loss and dying, many are very simple or devoid of much of any content by met at all, and yet they were published, they exist, and I have produced them. I feel this occupation has helped me immensely.
So, today, in thinking of your "active dying" of three years ago, I present two of these former posts. The first one -- #350 -- was published a year after your death around the time you began this "active dying process." Looking back, I did not make sure a post at the same two year mark. The second post -- #25 -- focused on my decision to count the days since your death at the bottom of my post. I started counting because after I lived beyond the month you died, I would need the count to know how long it had been, exactly how long. During that first month, I just subtracted four from the date. It seemed more important in July of 2015 to be counting these days. I have continued counting for three years. Today marks the 1091st day since your death. Counting has helped me keep perspective. It has helped me to chart where I am in the grieving process and how much distance I have from the event. Even if I stop daily transmission, I am going to keep counting, though I may remove the count from the daily posts.
Thank for reading.
I know it seems like I am still very much in the throes of strong grief, but I am not. It's just the time of year to think about your death, Mom, and how I feel about it, to take stock of my inner self and my spiritual connections. I still feel your presence in my life, which is part of why I have continued with this conversation for 1089 days. Though I may stop our daily talks, I will not stop thinking of you every day. But those thoughts do not make me sad. Feeling you with me as I type these words, I am sitting outside a new house, not the one I lived in when you died, I live in a new state, there's mountains, and my puppies are playing in the lawn I mowed for them. It's a good life. And the love I feel is because of the way you taught me to be. I could write HEY MOM for another 1000 days or more and really not pay adequate tribute to the great gifts you have given me.
Thanks, Mom.
PS: The picture at the top is my favorite picture of you. I have shared it before. I considered sharing a post-meningitis picture of you, but I prefer to think of you laughing, just like in that photo.
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Originally -
http://sensedoubt.blogspot.com/2016/06/hey-mom-talking-to-my-mother-350-year.html
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| Thanksgiving 2014 |
Hey, Mom! Talking to My Mother #350 - A year ago, it began
Hi Mom,
A year ago, today, is the day we consider that you started actively dying. Following our pizza party for Dad's 80th birthday and the 2015 Father's Day, the next day, a Monday, you would not eat.
13 days later you were gone.
But that was a long 13 day period.
So, we're closing in on a year since your death, and I am trying to figure out how I feel.
The obvious feelings are all here inside of me. I miss you. I am sad. I am grieving.
It's the more complicated feelings that I am trying to pin down. Or perhaps, I am trying to pin down the more elusive feelings. Not complicated, just difficult to define.
I have spent all day, today, thinking about this issue, these feelings, you, your death, this date a year ago. I have few answers. But I am about to quit and finish this in the morning. I need to sleep on it. So this will be another post that will be posted late.
I remember last year when Dad called to tell me you were not eating. We had not yet defined at the time that you were actively dying. We did not say those words yet. But we knew it was not a good sign that you would not eat.
There's an emptiness that I cannot define. And I guess, it's this emptiness that is also complex. The emptiness is caused by many things or exists for many reasons. I plumb this depth often, trying to find its shape, its meaning, its origin.
I have learned in this year to examine closely the rational-emotional split inside me. Rationally, intellectually, consciously, I knew you would not live forever, Mom. I knew we were on borrowed time since 2000 when you got the meningitis. I felt that I was prepared. We had so many close calls. So many bedside vigils. But emotionally, I was not ready; I was not prepared. And there's a place in me that has all this emotion for you, Mom, that is empty because it is never refilled with experience with you, at least not physically in person in corporeal form.
It's the adjustment of my emotions that is still in progress and maybe it always will be. Judging by the experiences of others who have lost a parent, or a mother, I can see that the grief goes on and on and on. I know from your own experience of losing your mother that you grappled with that grief for the rest of your life. I expect to do the same.
And so I mark these dates. I reflect. I connect. I strive. I have moved on. I am not trying to hold on to you, Mom. I am celebrating my life as lived now, in the moment, and I cherish the love we had and the loves I have now. And though my life is wonderful, there is something missing, and something I do not want to be missing, you.
Today is a day that I would really like to talk with you, Mom, and I have as best we can now. I hear you, and though it's not the same as it was, it will have to be good enough.
Reflect and connect.
Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you.
I miss you so very much, Mom.
Talk to you tomorrow, Mom.
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- Days ago = 352 days ago
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1606.21 - 10:10
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Originally presented in -
http://sensedoubt.blogspot.com/2015/07/hey-mom-talking-to-my-mother-25.html
Hey, Mom! Talking to My Mother #25 - Counting Days
Hi Mom,
Dad (the Big Guy or BG) sent me this photo the other day, and I just started weeping.
This photo tells me so much about you, just like the other one from the other day (
Post #22).
I had forgotten about the flower petal clock in the corner of the counter at the Hazelwood house. See it there in the picture?
I didn't mention the dishes during the Memorial Service. When we were older, dishes were something you would let Lori and I wash, though often just one of us, and you would do either the washing or the drying.
And yet, here you are working alone. This photo tells me many things, such as the apron and the latex gloves. I often use latex gloves when I wash dishes. The hot water hurts my hands. Liesel teases me about this thing. There's that dish rack. Our first dish rack, Liesel's and mine, was your old one. All those pots. No dish washer in those days. The ceramic mug my dad used to drink root beer is waiting to get washed right by the sink where he set it for you.
Mom, what did you use that alarm clock for? Obviously, you're timing something. Or maybe it's just sitting there in front of the flower clock for when you do time things but you were not timing something when the picture was taken.
I did not ask you enough of these questions before you left us. I did not look at all these pictures with you and talk about our lives nearly enough. I was too focused on my life. I would call or visit, and I would talk about my life. Yes, I know, you were interested. But I am very interested in your life, and I feel like I do not know enough about it.
So, I started counting days. Not that this idea is related to the previous, but this is my next topic.
I started this blog two days after you died, so if I remember that fact, I could use the blog to count each day for the first year. But then, I decided to make it easier, and I started counting the days as "days ago" (IE. days since you died) at the bottom of the blog. I needed a counter because soon I will not be able to just subtract from the date. Soon we will leave July behind, and then days since you died is not as it is today, which is simply 30-4 = 26. Then, I will need the count. And so I will count. And some day, though the days often seem to crawl by, eventually, the count will reach 365, and I will acknowledge it on this blog. Then, (well, okay, two days later), I will have reached my goal to write one of these posts every day for a year.
And then what?
You will still be gone.
Writing this blog will not bring you back.
What will I do then?
I have 340 days to think about that.
But for now I am working and watching soaps and missing you.
I miss you a lot more today than I did yesterday.
Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you.
Talk to you tomorrow, Mom.
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- Days ago = 26 days ago
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1507.30 - 19:01
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Reflect and connect.
Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you, Mom.
I miss you so very much, Mom.
Talk to you tomorrow, Mom.
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- Days ago = 1091 days ago
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1806.29 - 10:10
NEW (written 1708.27) NOTE on time: I am now in the same time zone as Google! So, when I post at 10:10 a.m. PDT to coincide with the time of your death, Mom, I am now actually posting late, so it's really 1:10 p.m. EDT. But I will continue to use the time stamp of 10:10 a.m. to remember the time of your death, Mom. I know this only matters to me, and to you, Mom.
