She's Gone

I keep playing that Daryl Hall and John Oates song "She's Gone" in my head.

Allie moved to another state. My little girl moved away.

That morning felt like I was going to a funeral.
I don't mean that in any glib way, I have been to many. Too many.
I didn't think I could get out of the house.

 We drove her car. Drove away from Oklahoma.

I tried for her not to know how devastated I felt. She seemed fine.

I left her there. Looking at her with her pillow under her arm took me right back to that first day of school. She was so mad that I wanted to stop and take a picture.
That was a big day too but dammit she still lived with me.

But now, college...There she went. Swallowed up by all the other kids.
So ready. So excited.
Leaving her on that college campus, I went to the car and bawled. 

I didn't cry until I felt better, I bawled until I felt worse.

I got on the train to come home, head pounding. 
The four and half hour train ride became six hours. Misery. Truly.

This guy got me through that ride.

Away from Allie. Home to my husband.

I felt like I had been beaten the next morning.

But something started to happen...

a shaky effervescence came over me.
My loss, my grief means that Allie gets to start her wonderful life.

Hippie Soul

If you could see the trajectory of my life from childhood to now, it would look tradtional and very conservative. Fourth child of two depression-era parents, hard working, sober, Christians in a ranch style home with a yard. Dad, an ex-WWII POW, hand pulled the weeds in his American lawn, was disarmed for transport to the hospital when he had a heart attack in that same front yard on his last day. Mother, small town girl, raised four kids and managed the house and meals for decades.

Today I am an educated mother of one, mother to three overall, married to my second husband, a hard working, Kansas born, self-made man. I manage our decorated home, do laundry, make dinner, exercise and have painted toenails.

But turn up the volume, step in closer and see three siblings, the suicidal addicted sister, a brother, the former marine, dead by suicide, another brother, severely afflicted with mental retardation. But before all that, a little tow-headed girl adored them all, contemplated Abbey Road, listened to Ike AND Tina on LP, smelled incense, had love beads who remains, at heart, a hippie today.

My soul wears moccasins, smells flowers and responds to most things with

"neat,"

"right on,"

or  "beautiful, man..."

My reality is I use essential oils, listen to humpback whale calls and Born Free tattooed my life. My dream since childhood is to visit Africa. Long walks are my church. I have an animal totem. Or two...

I went on a rehabilitation slash restoration trip recently to Southern Utah. I packed hiking shoes, wool socks, hiking shorts and four Life's Good tees, all brand new, a journal and my camera going to walk and reflect.

I thought I would journal and nap, walk leisurely and

let go of grief on mother's first Deathday....

Yeah...

My first hike on the first day included a near 2000 feet ascent. I nearly died of respiratory distress. Seriously, I showed up, looked around at my hike-mates and thought "oh yeah, I can do this, I can take any of them." Roughly 85 vertical feet later and I was bent over sucking air, unsuccessfully.

After an ugly, puffy, red time, I made it to the peak, wheezed "I kick ass" and walked the remaining four miles in the freaking sand.

I was too terrified to show up for the hike the next day, opting instead for a leisurely walk to look at 7000 year old peteroglyphs with Boma Johnson, an archaeologist, geologist and former Federal government liaison for Native Americans, whom he referred to as Indians. It was a rousing lecture in the 90 degree heat.

The third day I fearfully took another hike in Snow Canyon State Park with a group, sure I would be the last one, heckled with "come on, lets go, hurry up..." I was at the end of the line but mainly because I wanted to stop now and then to look up, not only down at the trail. By the time we climbed into Scout's Canyon, I was kicking ass and taking names. Feeling more confident. Feeling good.

Feeling whooped. No journaling, not even energy to write my gratitudes at night before bed. I did however take a nap in a hammock as bees fed on fragrant bushes, lush, noisy, living the fecund life.

I had no time to think about grief or my dying mother or my dead mother or my good-as-dead sister, both of whom I saw for the last time on the same day one year earlier. Somehow my story, my own little tired story really didn't matter. All that mattered was vermilion vistas and moving my feet, even if it was to find a spot to lie down.

On my last morning the alarm sounded at 6 am, shit, this is a vacation, I am exhausted, I won't go...later that morning I had crawled up this rock, at 3800 feet. I buzzed aorund that red rock saying "I feel great, seriously, I feel high" with my arms outstretched overhead, leaping at times.

Who is that girl?  The hippie in the center, at peace via exhilaration.

I found my thing. 

I found my rehab. 

I found my center.

The final act was the Medicine Wheel walk with a Shaman. Later, alone, I walked the labyrinth in a true meditative bliss grateful for the lessons and struggles yet to come...

I think the soundtrack to it involved Led Zeppelin.

I coud smell a little sage.

I offered Holy Water to the Earth.

Now do I tell any of this to you?

Or just go ahead and make a video of my favorite beauty products for April?

Right on...

Rose

The 366 Photo challenge for February was the color rose. On mother's birthday, I happened to have a pink rose in the house, a rare event.

I have been actively grieving for nearly a year now. Initial acute pain turned into a wired elation and joy where I felt very alive. Then darker, more tired. Her birthday was super dark. Dark.

I have been feeling lost without her. She had such a power in my life, like no other. Without her, who am I to seek approval from, Or to disappoint?

In the movie Terms of Endearment, the lousy two-timing husband says about his dying wife, something like, "Who am I if not the man disappointing Emma?"

I am not sure mother was as critical of me as I believed her   obe. That was a strong pole in my life, to be drawn to, to resist.

Without her voice here I have placed a critical voice in the thoughts of my friends and in my own voice, of course. Now I can carry that on to be sure, have been doing it for years, but oddly, I am finding a decreased need for criticism, also for approval. Maybe its temporary, I am quite sure the paranoia about my worth will surge and ebb throughout my life.

No greater force than my mother's voice. But now that is silenced, who am I?
This is my new frontier.

Three Blog Years: Give-Away One

This blog began in February 2009, three years ago. It has been such an essential part of my growth, reaching out and telling my truth to you has been very healing. I thank you. I will do three give-aways ways to express, in small part, my gratefulness for this blog and you. To enter, leave a comment on this post. Give-away for these earrings ends next Monday night, 13 February. The winner and the next give-away will post 14 February, 2012, Valentine's...

You know how you feel it coming on? First, you're tired, then there is that little headache, backache, scratch in the throat. You ignore hoping it goes away. At some point, as symptoms march on, you realize and then admit its a cold and you're getting sick.

Its been like that for the last few weeks. Restless dreams I don't want, then poor sleep. Lacking the energy to leave a supportive comment on a blog. Lack of being able to get it up again for another dinner even though I love feeding these people. Day dreams of time away without the chores, in the sun, just me and the feel of warmth and lack of demands. I admit it, this is not just grief, it's depression. I called it a hibernation last winter. Trying to accept it and let it wash over me and then recede as it always does.

I want to see my mother. I want that simple ability I had for so many years to just get in the car and go see her. That voice, those green eyes, the little sounds of her. I have been doing well, I have been getting on without her, can't I be rewarded with a short little visit today?

Its difficult today.

Magpie Still

It's been a while since I've posted any flea market finds. Since my husband is collecting so much old stuff, I have found that I have been more interested in other things (i.e. make-up) but...

In September 2011 I did find this basket, book, dictionary...

And my husband brought these home to me.

They are enormous ledgers and yes you can covet them and wish me ill.

 Well, please don't, come to think of it. I have to take care of this boy...

This month Sparkle and I went out to our little shop for a date.

I have not known how to announce this but Sparkle's sweet husband died rather quickly just before Christmas. She is left to deal with her own world turned upside down while watching this grief tear through their nine year old daughter's life...She is very brave and wrote a beautiful post about her fresh grief. It would be special if you gave her some love. I feel wrong to slide this information in on this very seemingly happy post, but that is exactly how his death struck.

Here is a sunset for him.

On a lighter note which I have been so eager to seek, here is a video of cosmetic favorites that is long and will be the longest video I make. I learned a lesson.

But that's what we are here for. Some are not so hard. Others, well, other lessons take the support of many for decades on end...

I need to say...

That I want to call my mother and talk about this heat. I want to talk to her about the drought. I want to talk to her about how we are 12 inches below where we should be. That the earth feels scorched. That it rained today.

Why did I not learn to make her potato salad?

Why was she sitting like a statue on my couch last week?

I ironed a blue pin-striped oxford for my daughter's senior pictures today. I flashed to to an outfit Penny gave her that I ironed for her six-month photo 3 years ago. Six? Ten. Not seventeen years ago.

When listening critically to The Who this weekend, sober, in the daylight and turned to a medium volume, I realized, they suck.

Where has Radiohead been all my life?

I love Jemellia Hilfiger. She is one of the funniest, wittiest, sweetest people I have ever known. I want to draw her close to me like a rag doll. Then slap her away.

I love my body. I am 47 years old. It has looked better but I have never loved it more.

I am almost over my nose.

I do not think it sucks to grow older. Once you have no parents you feel odd, young and vulnerable. I will never say that it sucks getting old.

I want to live and feel joy. Gratitude is the key. Guiltless is the way.

Did I actually fall for a Beck song? When did I start to love Beck?

I say "Yes" to tears and sadness. It somehow brings comforts. It's what lies under agitation and anger.

I will see my Shelley since the first time since mother's funeral. I texted her that I will probably break down when I see her. She said "Good! I won't be the only one!" That is what epic friendship looks like.

On Suffering

The first thing I said her was that I am tired of thinking about my story. I am tired of analyzing. I think it is important but understanding doesn't change my reaction. Understanding makes me do better because I know better but it doesn't make my feel better in an old conflict. I told her "I want to access joy." I thought she would say I was in denial and needed to continue a contemplative look at the past and all it implies. Instead she said, "I agree, you should enjoy your life and have joy. You need tools."

And tools she gave me. Still it takes many seasons of crop rotation to improve the soil. It takes lots of weeding and watering. Lots of practice. Jo always said "practice, practice, practice, it's all practice."

And there I was nearly 17 years later sitting on her couch, that same couch where so many tears and revelations, tools and wisdom came, there I was once again in Jo's office, coming home to mama to help me through the struggle with my mother's chronic illness and my reluctant, guilt-filled, anger-fueled care-giving. It occurred to me that I have always wanted joy and have gotten so much better at having it, really having it. But the vine of guilt grows faster and chokes out beautiful blooms, some buds to appear then never open.

I had been thinking about my disabled brother Kerry. I had not even realized the impact living with him had because it was too deep and too dark to see. I was realizing the guilt I had that he wasn't "okay." I started reading about siblings of autistic, mentally ill, and addicted children (having had all three) and came to recognize the words to describe them in myself, responsible, sensitive and guilty. Not all bad to be sure. I remembered mother would shame me from bad behavior pointing out that my pitiful brother was in the shape he was and how could I "act like that?" She did it the wrong way from the right place of reminding me to be empathetic but because she was so hurt and sorrowful it came out as a guilty dart, stabbing my value, deflating it.

It occurred to me I believe fully that I cannot have joy while there is suffering. How could I enjoy my life while my poor mother was suffering so? And I told Jo. It hit me in a childlike revelation that someone will always be suffering. Mother would die and I would feel bad about living without her, laughing and enjoying my life while her little body lies in a dark box, hot, cold, indifferent to storms. Then there would be Kerry. So simple. I would recognize the behavior in anyone else but couldn't  see my own truth shrouding and informing my choices and feelings. You know what? I am not responsible for mother's illness. I am not responsible for Kerry's severe dysfunction. I am only responsible to celebrate my blessed life because what good does more suffering do? Why do I have to be punished?

Mother died 4 days later. I am grateful for this life-giving realization prior to her death for now I can grieve, I can integrate the enormous loss but I can also live fully.


And then more teachers came to me...

100 Pink Roses

April 15, 2011 was the day mother went. I was happy for her, excited even. Then she drew her last breath and I went into shock. I had a very difficult time letting her little body go.

Grief is so much different than depression. It is a sharp knife. It is dominated by loss. It is fresh and raw. It is disorienting.

I am clear that the degree to which I grieve and suffer her death says nothing about how much I loved her or miss her. I am trying to be alive and find what joy I can.

This is harder than I thought. I thought I would feel relieved. I am processing the fact that out of my family of 6 there is only me and my disabled brother. I am committed to loving and enjoying my family.

It's a new normal.

I am so often drawn to the juxtaposition of extremes. In the room with mother in her casket I was moved by the beauty of her casket piece. I was so proud of it. I couldn't wait to call her and see what she thought. 100 pink roses. So comforting to have selected beautiful things for her burial. These rare the last things I can do for her. And there her little body was surrounded by flowers. The beauty and the horror. A place I am suspended trying to integrate the loss into my life.

First They Are Sour...

I really do not want to seem too needy regarding this care-giving-for-my-mother job. But I am needy and this is my journal and I will cry if I want to. I have been realizing some very definite stages occurring and it isn't all bad. {Images from Scottsdale, 2003}

Mother was discharged from the hospital on December 24, 2009 and my husband and I brought her here. I really had no time to prepare for her to stay. I didn't realize she would even survive her hospitaliztion. We did, however, anticipate that one of our mothers may need to live with us when we built this house 3 years ago. We have a guest bedroom with widened doorways. The bathroom walls are reinforced for the possible addition of grab bars and such. I am a Physican Associate and worked in a rehabilitation facility for 10 years, so I did see assistive equipment as a possiblity. In fact, working in rehab I saw all kinds of family situations that were inspiring and horrifying. Both of those words describe my own family situation.

So we are on the highway in a blizzard with my very frail 83 year old mother. No one knows what tomorrow holds but that was a moment bloated with the unknown. This whole thing has been a confrontation with the unknown. Oh and Miss Planner has issues with the unknown. I mean I have a plan for everything, even prision.

Seriously. I have a plan for prison. Another post...

I wanted to bring mother home and care for her. I was happy to do it and I still am. But while doing so I was and am overwhelmed with emotions. My first real phase was resistance and resentment. I meet most challenges with resistance and usually resentment. I am a planner (see above) and not at all spontaneous. These are character flaws and trust me I actively work on them. But that doesn't make them just go away. Like arm flab. You do all you can but there it is.

I resisted the full time care-giving because it interupted my life. I have a child living with me still. Said child had just turned 16 and all that implies. It was already a whole thing dealing with that.  Also, I was going to start teaching again, a class I had not taught for 5 years so I had to completely start my prep from scratch. I mean no Power Point used last time. Its a lot.

Also, it is lots of work to care give. And I hadn't slept much in the emotionally and physcially exhausting week of mother's hospitalization. So resistance...

Also resentment. A pity party by put-upon poor Robin. I mean why did mother not move out of her house and into assisted living already? I had been discussing it with her for a longtime. Her house was sitting over there. I know she would not return to it. I knew it would be my job to empty it and also take care of her and my family and my job. What about me? Who would help me? My husband is phenomenol and wants to help me, no, not even help me, but shoulder this with me. He thinks of mother as OUR mother and WE take care of OUR mother. The thing is, I do have a sibiling who lives nearby. We don't see her much. I cannot count on her. In fact she brings far more drama than help. And I resent it.

Some abandonment issues stirred. Deep, dark and yucky. But that really is all fine. I need to process these feelings. And that never happens when you feel good and have time, right? You are confronted with the demons when it is dark.

After a pricky month, mother stabilized and so did I. Mostly. She is very ill but not getting rapidly worse and she is ambulatory which is HUGE.

Fortunately I found myself starting to emerge. Acceptance was nigh. How much more pleasant for everyone I live with.

That lasted a couple of weeks. Then I got sick. What a big set back. When your reserve is low it takes so long to bounce back. Then my cousin, mother's nephew, died. That was very emotional. Also there was drama surrounding my sibling, still, again, of course. Energy sucking again. Two steps forward and one step back.

Now, oh wonderful now, I am a bit beyond acceptance and in some sort of loving place. I look at mother and think she is so darling. She is so cute to me. Not pathetic. Not sad to me. I just feel very loving toward her. Sitting next to her and watching a tv show is so simple. I see how lovely it is.

I am seeing the beauty in the ugly right now. March is here. The weather is warming. Tender shoots are emerging. And so am I. I am depressed but that shell is cracking. Fresh air is blowing in. Oh thank you, God, for it. I need the strength love brings and that depression takes. I need that strength to deal with the next phase.

Thank you for reading this. I really am receiving so much love. There is still more gnashing of teeth than pink fluffy clouds. But they do float by...