In just a few "sleeps", you'll officially be a big, six years old. I look at you and flash back to that first day you entered the world. I remember lying on the table, holding back the fear from the "What to Expect" lecture about the c-section I was going to have.. Then I heard you. Crying before they even took you out. Letting me know you were here and you did not like being disturbed.
You and I. We've spent a lot of time together, these past few years. I see your big, beautiful heart and pray you never change. Your soul and your kindness make me so proud and so scared. Sometimes, my love, the world can be a mean place. It can trample sweet little souls and make them try to be tougher and meaner just to keep up. Don't lose your sweetness. Don't let others tell you to toughen up and not be so nice. Keep being that nice boy. Love with an open heart and know that you are a good person. Continue to be a good friend and help others when you see them needing help. Keep singing. Keep being silly. Keep that deep, belly laugh.
Know that I will always be there, behind you, cheering you on and encouraging you. I know you can achieve anything you set your mind to and I know how hard you will work when you want something. Know that I will love you, no matter what, and I will always be there for hugs and cuddles when the world gets to be too much. My favorite parts of my day are when you need a hug or just want to sit next to me and tell me whatever is on your mind. Don't stop talking. Don't stop sharing. Tell me anything and everything and I will listen with a happy, obliging heart.
It's been a big year for all of us. It was scary and exciting to send you off to Kindergarten this fall. To send you to "big boy school" and to hope and pray your long day at school goes well. As always, you surpassed my expectations and took to school with excitement and enthusiasm. It hasn't always been easy. You get frustrated that the kids in your class act up at times and, yet, you still strive to be the good kid with the green light each and every day. You work hard during school and after school with your homework. Even when you are frustrated and have tears in your eyes, you still come back, take a deep breath, and get back to work. Your brain is lightning quick and I am always amazed at how fast you pick things up. You have conquered your 9 weeks worth of "popcorn words" and can now proudly show off your skills. You and Daddy spend a few days a week going over first grade math and you just blaze right through. Your writing has improved and you are taking such an interest in figuring out words. Soon you'll unlock those words and start reading, I just know it!
You even like to buy school lunch and eat most of it every day. I'm so surprised because you can be quite a picky eater, but here you are, Mr. Adventure, heading off to lunch each day and trying new things. Some you like. Some you don't. But you are doing something even I didn't like to do when I was your age.
Turning six is a big deal, Buddy. Six is a fun age and it's going to be a great journey. We are so happy that we are able to celebrate with you, teach you, guide you, love you, and laugh with you. Know that you are loved beyond measure and that you are surrounded by family and friends who will always stop to listen to you and help you when problems arise. Never doubt our love and our desire to help you grow into a great man with a great heart and soul. You are my favorite Phoenix in the whole wide world and I will love you always and forever.
Love with all my heart,
Mommy
Monday, October 14, 2013
Saturday, June 8, 2013
For Reals
This evening, we sat in the pool house and stuck pictures of Mom and us on to poster board. We thought, foolishly, that one board would be enough, but we soon realized we needed more poster boards. More than 2. More than 3... Really, how are you supposed to condense 58 1/2 years of life, living, and loving on to poster boards? So many didn't make it on and yet, once we were done, we couldn't stop staring at it, letting our eyes roam from picture to picture, never really deciding on which one we like the most. Just small glimpses in to her life.. and our life with her.
It made it so real. I stared at her picture and it really hit me... She's not coming back. She's not at the store and she's not going to walk around the corner any second now. She's really gone. For reals gone. No more conversations. No more hugs. No more laughter from her. Just memories. Stories. Pictures.
It made it so real. I stared at her picture and it really hit me... She's not coming back. She's not at the store and she's not going to walk around the corner any second now. She's really gone. For reals gone. No more conversations. No more hugs. No more laughter from her. Just memories. Stories. Pictures.
Friday, June 7, 2013
My Stories
The good thing about my mom is that she loved and touched so many people. I keep hearing people tell me how much they loved her and how she was like a mom for them. And I admit... while it's great to hear and I honor and love that so much, it's tough to hear because a part of me says "Yes, but she was MY mom and now she's gone". The truth is, it's hard to grieve her when so many are grieving for her and telling me what she meant to them and what they lost. I get it. I do. It's just hard to process their grief and my grief at the same time. It's like overload.
I have a hard time talking about my relationship with my mom. It was... good, great. She was my mom for 31 1/2 years and became my best friend about ten years ago. She was the one I could turn to when things blew up in my face, when I had the ugly cry going on, when I felt lost or scared or alone, when I had good news and not so good news, when I needed to just vent and throw things out into the void, and when I needed someone to tell me the hard truths. She was that friend who could listen, hand you a tissue, and tell you what you needed to know... not what you wanted to hear.
But she was a mom as well. Her and my dad had a baby boy a few years before I was born. Kacey John Covell. He was born premature and had too many health problems. He died a day or two after he was born. When I was little, I used to write him letters and give them to my mom, fully believing she would be the one to get them to heaven for me. As a mom, I can't imagine the pain her and my dad felt for the rest of their lives. The pain when he died... and the twinges every now and then when the mind would drift to "What If.." thoughts.
She had me a few years after and I was premature as well. Somewhere around two months premature, as the story goes. The hospital she had me in was not equipped to handle a preemie like me.. so they rushed me by ambulance from South Lake Tahoe to Reno, NV. The minute my mom was discharged the next day or so, her and my dad drove down to Reno and began their watch over me. I weighed something like 2 pounds, a few ounces. I was small enough to fit in the palm of my Grandpa Jack's hand. I can't imagine what my parents felt as they repeatedly heard alarms go off as I struggled to remember to breathe. (The going joke was that every time my dad held me, I would get so relaxed, I'd stop breathing.) I was in the hospital for a few months and she was there, by my side, every day, as long as she could be there. I don't remember if she had to leave to work, but she was there, fighting for me and willing me to live each day.
Once out of the hospital, she used every resource available to make sure I received early intervention. To make sure I was on the right track and growing up properly. She helped me overcome so many weird little things. Like how to brush my teeth without throwing up. How to overcome texture issues or smell issues without getting sick. How to stop feeling overwhelmed by a huge task and to focus on one little thing at a time. I was a picky eater and she kept working with me until she could find healthy foods I'd eat... and then she'd have me eat them every day, pretty much. She taught me about God, about faith, and about having a personal relationship with Him that would be mine and mine alone. She taught me how to deal with bullying and cried with me when my feelings got hurt. She helped me learn to breathe each and every time I'd knock the wind out of my lungs after falling on my ass from roller skating. She gave me my first Nancy Drew book in first grade and, from then on, encouraged my voracious appetite for books.
When my parents separated, she understood why I was angry before I even understood that I WAS angry. She taught me how to deal with change while I fought tooth and nail for things to remain the same. Even though I hated the moves, she taught me how to move, how to start life in a new place, make new friends, and move again. She taught me to dream and imagine... and to chase those dreams when the time came. She taught me to plan for the worst case scenario, to go over it in my head and decide if it would still be okay, even if the worst case scenario happened. She taught me to go for it. To put my mind to it and just do it. She taught me it was okay to make mistakes, but to learn from them, forgive yourself, and then move on.
When her and Tony moved to Idaho, I chose to stay in Louisiana. From that day until the day she died, I knew that things could blow up in my face, that my heart could break, my world could fall apart, the worst case scenarios could happen, but I would be okay because I always had a home with her. She never had a lot of money, but there was always a room with my name on the door and a hot meal waiting for me when I needed it. She was my safety net and knowing she could catch me if I fell only allowed me to climb even higher.
When I became a mom, she was there to watch over Phoenix while I was still in surgery... And I knew I had nothing to worry about because my mom was watching over my baby and she would keep him safe. When I couldn't get Phoenix to sleep or to stop crying, she would take him into the kitchen and dance with him like she used to dance with me. She'd sing him the songs she sang to me and she loved him like only a Nana could. She was there to answer any question I had about Phoenix's health or behavior... or to listen to any story I had to tell about what he did, what he said, or how he reminded me of her.
We used to talk about my wedding... About what dresses we liked, what she thought I'd look good in and where she hoped I'd get married. About what food we'd have, the party we'd throw, and the music we'd play. We'd talk about Say Yes to the Dress and roll our eyes over the cost of some of those dresses. She always said she's buy my dress if I could figure out how to use her veil.
Just random things, but all of these are still only a glimpse of what she meant to me. Do I know what the world lost the day she died?? Yes. God. Yes. I will feel it every day of my life. I will hear it when I hear Phoenix singing to himself. I will see it every time the sun is out and shining. I will catch my breath every time I catch myself thinking "I have to tell Mom about that..". I'll figure out a way to live without her. We all have to, in the end. She wouldn't want it any other way, but yes.. I will miss her until my very last day. She was my super hero, my mom, my son's Nana, and my special person.
I have a hard time talking about my relationship with my mom. It was... good, great. She was my mom for 31 1/2 years and became my best friend about ten years ago. She was the one I could turn to when things blew up in my face, when I had the ugly cry going on, when I felt lost or scared or alone, when I had good news and not so good news, when I needed to just vent and throw things out into the void, and when I needed someone to tell me the hard truths. She was that friend who could listen, hand you a tissue, and tell you what you needed to know... not what you wanted to hear.
But she was a mom as well. Her and my dad had a baby boy a few years before I was born. Kacey John Covell. He was born premature and had too many health problems. He died a day or two after he was born. When I was little, I used to write him letters and give them to my mom, fully believing she would be the one to get them to heaven for me. As a mom, I can't imagine the pain her and my dad felt for the rest of their lives. The pain when he died... and the twinges every now and then when the mind would drift to "What If.." thoughts.
She had me a few years after and I was premature as well. Somewhere around two months premature, as the story goes. The hospital she had me in was not equipped to handle a preemie like me.. so they rushed me by ambulance from South Lake Tahoe to Reno, NV. The minute my mom was discharged the next day or so, her and my dad drove down to Reno and began their watch over me. I weighed something like 2 pounds, a few ounces. I was small enough to fit in the palm of my Grandpa Jack's hand. I can't imagine what my parents felt as they repeatedly heard alarms go off as I struggled to remember to breathe. (The going joke was that every time my dad held me, I would get so relaxed, I'd stop breathing.) I was in the hospital for a few months and she was there, by my side, every day, as long as she could be there. I don't remember if she had to leave to work, but she was there, fighting for me and willing me to live each day.
Once out of the hospital, she used every resource available to make sure I received early intervention. To make sure I was on the right track and growing up properly. She helped me overcome so many weird little things. Like how to brush my teeth without throwing up. How to overcome texture issues or smell issues without getting sick. How to stop feeling overwhelmed by a huge task and to focus on one little thing at a time. I was a picky eater and she kept working with me until she could find healthy foods I'd eat... and then she'd have me eat them every day, pretty much. She taught me about God, about faith, and about having a personal relationship with Him that would be mine and mine alone. She taught me how to deal with bullying and cried with me when my feelings got hurt. She helped me learn to breathe each and every time I'd knock the wind out of my lungs after falling on my ass from roller skating. She gave me my first Nancy Drew book in first grade and, from then on, encouraged my voracious appetite for books.
When my parents separated, she understood why I was angry before I even understood that I WAS angry. She taught me how to deal with change while I fought tooth and nail for things to remain the same. Even though I hated the moves, she taught me how to move, how to start life in a new place, make new friends, and move again. She taught me to dream and imagine... and to chase those dreams when the time came. She taught me to plan for the worst case scenario, to go over it in my head and decide if it would still be okay, even if the worst case scenario happened. She taught me to go for it. To put my mind to it and just do it. She taught me it was okay to make mistakes, but to learn from them, forgive yourself, and then move on.
When her and Tony moved to Idaho, I chose to stay in Louisiana. From that day until the day she died, I knew that things could blow up in my face, that my heart could break, my world could fall apart, the worst case scenarios could happen, but I would be okay because I always had a home with her. She never had a lot of money, but there was always a room with my name on the door and a hot meal waiting for me when I needed it. She was my safety net and knowing she could catch me if I fell only allowed me to climb even higher.
When I became a mom, she was there to watch over Phoenix while I was still in surgery... And I knew I had nothing to worry about because my mom was watching over my baby and she would keep him safe. When I couldn't get Phoenix to sleep or to stop crying, she would take him into the kitchen and dance with him like she used to dance with me. She'd sing him the songs she sang to me and she loved him like only a Nana could. She was there to answer any question I had about Phoenix's health or behavior... or to listen to any story I had to tell about what he did, what he said, or how he reminded me of her.
We used to talk about my wedding... About what dresses we liked, what she thought I'd look good in and where she hoped I'd get married. About what food we'd have, the party we'd throw, and the music we'd play. We'd talk about Say Yes to the Dress and roll our eyes over the cost of some of those dresses. She always said she's buy my dress if I could figure out how to use her veil.
Just random things, but all of these are still only a glimpse of what she meant to me. Do I know what the world lost the day she died?? Yes. God. Yes. I will feel it every day of my life. I will hear it when I hear Phoenix singing to himself. I will see it every time the sun is out and shining. I will catch my breath every time I catch myself thinking "I have to tell Mom about that..". I'll figure out a way to live without her. We all have to, in the end. She wouldn't want it any other way, but yes.. I will miss her until my very last day. She was my super hero, my mom, my son's Nana, and my special person.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
How Do I Begin?
I've written and deleted a hundred paragraphs since the day my mother passed away. Words just cannot do justice to the emotions that I'm feeling and the place of quiet I'm in. To say my mom meant a lot to me is like saying chocolate tastes good. Duh. It's a given. I can't explain what my mom meant to me because I haven't enough words. And I know that today, it's not just me who is missing her and expecting her to walk around the corner any second.
I want to say thank you to everyone who has expressed their condolences. Those who have checked up on me and reached out to me during these past few days. I see your messages. I've heard your voice mails. I'm not quite ready to talk, but understand that I know you all are there and will listen if I need to babble on and cry. I know I'm not alone and that there are so many who want to help. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
The past week has been tough, but there have been some beautiful moments as well. I am so lucky that I had the chance to spend time with my mom even if she couldn't really talk to me or comfort me like she always has. I still know she heard me and she tried her best to communicate with me when she could. Like the time my night shift was up and I leaned in to kiss her. I whispered if she remembered "Eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses" and she made a sound like "Uh huh". I took my glasses off and gently brushed my nose against hers. Then I leaned over, holding my hair out of her face, and softly brushed my eyelashes against her cheek. I whispered "I Love You" in her ear and she made a sound like "I Love You" right back.
I was able to give both of us reassurance that I was going to be okay. That she had done her job well enough that I would survive in the world without her to push me and pull me along. She taught me to strike out on my own, to create a family of my own, and a support network of people to help me when I fall. I reminded her of those that are dear to me... the ones who will give me a shoulder to cry on and an ear to whisper in. It was a hard conversation... to admit that I will find a way to live without her, but it's one we both needed to hear. I felt like she had spent her whole life fighting for me, protecting me... that it was important for her to know that I'll make it through this tough time and honor her in everything I do.
My mom was more than a mother. She was a wife, a daughter, a sister, and a great friend. She would truly listen when you came to her with something and give you honest advice... even when it was something you didn't really want to hear. She wasn't perfect, but in her imperfection she taught me how to acknowledge failure and move on... To let go of heartache and disappointment and find the happy in any situation. She taught me how to find the beauty in simplicity, how to dig in and survive the hard times and enjoy the good times, and how to find something to be thankful for every day. She gave the best hugs, had a beautiful laugh, and would hum quietly as she went about her day. She meant a great many things to a lot of people.. To me... she meant everything.
I want to say thank you to everyone who has expressed their condolences. Those who have checked up on me and reached out to me during these past few days. I see your messages. I've heard your voice mails. I'm not quite ready to talk, but understand that I know you all are there and will listen if I need to babble on and cry. I know I'm not alone and that there are so many who want to help. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
The past week has been tough, but there have been some beautiful moments as well. I am so lucky that I had the chance to spend time with my mom even if she couldn't really talk to me or comfort me like she always has. I still know she heard me and she tried her best to communicate with me when she could. Like the time my night shift was up and I leaned in to kiss her. I whispered if she remembered "Eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses" and she made a sound like "Uh huh". I took my glasses off and gently brushed my nose against hers. Then I leaned over, holding my hair out of her face, and softly brushed my eyelashes against her cheek. I whispered "I Love You" in her ear and she made a sound like "I Love You" right back.
I was able to give both of us reassurance that I was going to be okay. That she had done her job well enough that I would survive in the world without her to push me and pull me along. She taught me to strike out on my own, to create a family of my own, and a support network of people to help me when I fall. I reminded her of those that are dear to me... the ones who will give me a shoulder to cry on and an ear to whisper in. It was a hard conversation... to admit that I will find a way to live without her, but it's one we both needed to hear. I felt like she had spent her whole life fighting for me, protecting me... that it was important for her to know that I'll make it through this tough time and honor her in everything I do.
My mom was more than a mother. She was a wife, a daughter, a sister, and a great friend. She would truly listen when you came to her with something and give you honest advice... even when it was something you didn't really want to hear. She wasn't perfect, but in her imperfection she taught me how to acknowledge failure and move on... To let go of heartache and disappointment and find the happy in any situation. She taught me how to find the beauty in simplicity, how to dig in and survive the hard times and enjoy the good times, and how to find something to be thankful for every day. She gave the best hugs, had a beautiful laugh, and would hum quietly as she went about her day. She meant a great many things to a lot of people.. To me... she meant everything.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
"Life in Review"
We believe it will be just a few more days before we say goodbye to Mom. She's more "out of it" than with it and, today, has spent more time sleeping than waking. Even "awake" means she's nodding off every minute or so... or drifting in and out of a sentence.
One of the hospice booklets that I read about mentioned how they will sleep most of the time as they draw nearer to the end. How it's their body's way of "shutting down", but the interesting thing was that it's also their brain's way of doing a "Life in Review"... Life flashing before their eyes. I watch Mom sleep and see her smile and smile as well because I hope she is seeing all the great times that I will always carry with me in my heart.
Tony, Trish, and I finally sat down and had "The Talk" about what we would do once she really leaves us. I've never had that conversation before and I had put it off until today because I didn't want to face it. It really wasn't until yesterday that it even hit me that she'll be gone sooner rather than later. We'll send her off in a style that she would be happy with. And I'll stay up here to help Tony and Tena for a while. To start to make sense of something that... never makes sense.
I haven't cried much. I'm surprised really. I thought for sure the minute I was alone in my bedroom, I'd break down, but it really wasn't until I sat next to Mom, put my head on her shoulder and told her how wonderful she is, how much I love her, and how proud I am... that the tears became to much to hide. I still hid them from her and they didn't last long... I jumped up and washed my face before she could see me cry.
Truth is, I don't know if that's the last time I'll have her attention, but I do know it's not the last time I'll talk to her. I take the first night shift... (Usually 8pm to 1-3 AM) and will use that time to whisper in her ear as she sleeps. I don't think we'll have a real conversation, but I can give her my love, my memories, and reassure both her and myself that I will be okay. That WE, the ones who will be left behind, will be okay. We'll survive. We'll hold on tight to each other and we'll survive.
One of the hospice booklets that I read about mentioned how they will sleep most of the time as they draw nearer to the end. How it's their body's way of "shutting down", but the interesting thing was that it's also their brain's way of doing a "Life in Review"... Life flashing before their eyes. I watch Mom sleep and see her smile and smile as well because I hope she is seeing all the great times that I will always carry with me in my heart.
Tony, Trish, and I finally sat down and had "The Talk" about what we would do once she really leaves us. I've never had that conversation before and I had put it off until today because I didn't want to face it. It really wasn't until yesterday that it even hit me that she'll be gone sooner rather than later. We'll send her off in a style that she would be happy with. And I'll stay up here to help Tony and Tena for a while. To start to make sense of something that... never makes sense.
I haven't cried much. I'm surprised really. I thought for sure the minute I was alone in my bedroom, I'd break down, but it really wasn't until I sat next to Mom, put my head on her shoulder and told her how wonderful she is, how much I love her, and how proud I am... that the tears became to much to hide. I still hid them from her and they didn't last long... I jumped up and washed my face before she could see me cry.
Truth is, I don't know if that's the last time I'll have her attention, but I do know it's not the last time I'll talk to her. I take the first night shift... (Usually 8pm to 1-3 AM) and will use that time to whisper in her ear as she sleeps. I don't think we'll have a real conversation, but I can give her my love, my memories, and reassure both her and myself that I will be okay. That WE, the ones who will be left behind, will be okay. We'll survive. We'll hold on tight to each other and we'll survive.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Finding My Place
Let's not talk about the trouble I had to go through to get to Idaho. Delayed flights, missed connections, unplanned stay in a hotel, grumpy employees who didn't care WHY I was traveling and upset... It was not fun. Not fun at all.
But I made it. I made it to Idaho yesterday and have been here for one full day. I can't say it's what I expected because I had no idea what to expect... It's definitely more real now and "in my face" every minute of the day. What I had a hard time articulating until today is that I'm here until my mom passes away. I hated to say it. I hate to write it, but there it is. Black and white. I'm here to help send her off the best way possible.
I'm so glad my Grandpa Ted and his Carol are here for a few days. I feel like I can ease into my place and find my role without neglecting my duties. The truth is, I know nothing (to quote Game of Thrones) when it comes to the terminally ill, dying, death, and after death. I know abstract ideas and TV/movie ideas, but I don't know the day-to-day, the minute by minute play out of actual decline and death. I read all the information the hospice people left. I learned more about what to expect, why these things happen, and how to help deal with "milestones" of the dying...
It's still hard though. I had to fight back tears as I helped my mom get dressed twice today. On one hand, I was thanking God that I'm a mom and learned how to detach myself during "times of crisis" so I could deal with what needs to be done, but on the other I just kept thinking how terrible this must be for her... How independent she has been her whole life and how, now, she has to ask for help with getting dressed, sitting/standing, walking, lying down. I want to apologize to her as I'm helping her. "I'm so sorry I have to help you. Please don't feel bad. I love you with my heart and soul and will do anything and everything for you. I'm so sorry it has to go down like this. I wish I could change it, I do."
I would escape to my room for an hour or two and just distract myself from the reality in the living room. I cleaned out the bathroom in the pool house so I could use it and leave her access to the main bathroom all the time. I did her laundry, folded it, and put it where she can get to it easily. I walked the dog, played with the dog, and cuddled the cat. I helped with dinner and helped her fix her plate, pour her milk. I tried to stay busy and out of the way, quiet and not demanding. I sat in the stifling hot living room this evening and just watched the TV on silent (Mom likes it that way, now.) for a few hours while Mom dosed off and on. I wanted to be somewhere else, but I also wanted to be right here, looking at how cancer has changed her and still being able to see the mom I see in my head. Trying so hard not to put any burdens on her, now, by staying calm and strong for both of us. Always saying yes when someone asks if I can do something... Getting out of the way when I feel Mom wants privacy...
It's going to be awhile before I adjust to this "normal" and find my place. Before Tony and I find a rhythm that will enable us to work together for Mom's comfort. I know I'll do what needs to be done. I might hate parts of it and wish someone else would do it, but if it's asked of me... and even if it's not.. I'll step up and get the job done.. It's the best way I can honor the woman who taught me the meaning of stepping up and getting the job done since day one.
But I made it. I made it to Idaho yesterday and have been here for one full day. I can't say it's what I expected because I had no idea what to expect... It's definitely more real now and "in my face" every minute of the day. What I had a hard time articulating until today is that I'm here until my mom passes away. I hated to say it. I hate to write it, but there it is. Black and white. I'm here to help send her off the best way possible.
I'm so glad my Grandpa Ted and his Carol are here for a few days. I feel like I can ease into my place and find my role without neglecting my duties. The truth is, I know nothing (to quote Game of Thrones) when it comes to the terminally ill, dying, death, and after death. I know abstract ideas and TV/movie ideas, but I don't know the day-to-day, the minute by minute play out of actual decline and death. I read all the information the hospice people left. I learned more about what to expect, why these things happen, and how to help deal with "milestones" of the dying...
It's still hard though. I had to fight back tears as I helped my mom get dressed twice today. On one hand, I was thanking God that I'm a mom and learned how to detach myself during "times of crisis" so I could deal with what needs to be done, but on the other I just kept thinking how terrible this must be for her... How independent she has been her whole life and how, now, she has to ask for help with getting dressed, sitting/standing, walking, lying down. I want to apologize to her as I'm helping her. "I'm so sorry I have to help you. Please don't feel bad. I love you with my heart and soul and will do anything and everything for you. I'm so sorry it has to go down like this. I wish I could change it, I do."
I would escape to my room for an hour or two and just distract myself from the reality in the living room. I cleaned out the bathroom in the pool house so I could use it and leave her access to the main bathroom all the time. I did her laundry, folded it, and put it where she can get to it easily. I walked the dog, played with the dog, and cuddled the cat. I helped with dinner and helped her fix her plate, pour her milk. I tried to stay busy and out of the way, quiet and not demanding. I sat in the stifling hot living room this evening and just watched the TV on silent (Mom likes it that way, now.) for a few hours while Mom dosed off and on. I wanted to be somewhere else, but I also wanted to be right here, looking at how cancer has changed her and still being able to see the mom I see in my head. Trying so hard not to put any burdens on her, now, by staying calm and strong for both of us. Always saying yes when someone asks if I can do something... Getting out of the way when I feel Mom wants privacy...
It's going to be awhile before I adjust to this "normal" and find my place. Before Tony and I find a rhythm that will enable us to work together for Mom's comfort. I know I'll do what needs to be done. I might hate parts of it and wish someone else would do it, but if it's asked of me... and even if it's not.. I'll step up and get the job done.. It's the best way I can honor the woman who taught me the meaning of stepping up and getting the job done since day one.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Lessons on Letting Go
I've seen a theme pop up for the past few years. A theme that always ends up with me having to take a deep breath and just let go... Trust that things will work out and that I do not have to control everything. From letting other people pitch in and help plan one of Phoenix's birthdays to today.. where I have to take a deep breath and believe that life will go on without me in Louisiana. That Juan will handle day-to-day duties, that Phoenix will adjust to a new normal without me by his side, and that my son will be loved and cared for by our family.
I'm nervous and anxious about tomorrow. I have so much I need to do today and keep putting it off because I don't want to face my reality just yet. Poor Phoenix is still running fevers and feeling punky. I was up all night, watching over him, feeling his forehead, waking him up for more medicine, and just listening to him cough and breathe. I found myself worrying that Juan wouldn't do that tomorrow night, but I know he will. He will step up to the plate and handle everything that comes his way... because he always has. And he's good at it.
In a way, it's hard to admit that life can go on without me.. I know Phoenix will miss me, but I also know that his family here will do what they can for him and help him each and every day. I know that we'll talk on the phone every single day and that he knows he can have Daddy or Grandma call me any time he wants a chat. He'll be fine, I know. It's just hard to let go of all the things I do for him and trust someone else will pick up my slack.
Leaving tomorrow also means that my reality with my Mom is real. That I'm going to have an even harder, more advanced lesson on learning to let go in these next few weeks. I have a huge knot in my stomach today as I try to ignore thoughts about what I'm going up to Idaho for. I keep telling everyone "It'll be fine. We'll get through it," because I know we will. I know we'll survive but I also know this is going to suck. It's going to hurt and it's going to be a dark time. I just hope for a few glimpses of light along the way.
I know things will be fine. Life will go on both in Louisiana and Idaho. We will all adjust to new normals and then adjust again when that normal changes. We'll make it through minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day.
I'm nervous and anxious about tomorrow. I have so much I need to do today and keep putting it off because I don't want to face my reality just yet. Poor Phoenix is still running fevers and feeling punky. I was up all night, watching over him, feeling his forehead, waking him up for more medicine, and just listening to him cough and breathe. I found myself worrying that Juan wouldn't do that tomorrow night, but I know he will. He will step up to the plate and handle everything that comes his way... because he always has. And he's good at it.
In a way, it's hard to admit that life can go on without me.. I know Phoenix will miss me, but I also know that his family here will do what they can for him and help him each and every day. I know that we'll talk on the phone every single day and that he knows he can have Daddy or Grandma call me any time he wants a chat. He'll be fine, I know. It's just hard to let go of all the things I do for him and trust someone else will pick up my slack.
Leaving tomorrow also means that my reality with my Mom is real. That I'm going to have an even harder, more advanced lesson on learning to let go in these next few weeks. I have a huge knot in my stomach today as I try to ignore thoughts about what I'm going up to Idaho for. I keep telling everyone "It'll be fine. We'll get through it," because I know we will. I know we'll survive but I also know this is going to suck. It's going to hurt and it's going to be a dark time. I just hope for a few glimpses of light along the way.
I know things will be fine. Life will go on both in Louisiana and Idaho. We will all adjust to new normals and then adjust again when that normal changes. We'll make it through minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day.
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