The Grieving Room: I didn't fall apart today

Today would have been my mom's 71st birthday, but she died last year seven weeks before she would have turned 70.

I only vaguely remember how I spent her birthday one year ago.  I was stumbling through the days in a trance.  But this birthday is very different, and blessedly so.

I wasn't sure whether I should even volunteer for TGR tonight, since I am feeling relatively peaceful.  I do not want to take anything away from people who need to share that their grief is fresh and their pain is raw.  I know the last thing I wanted to hear in February 2007 was that things would get better and time would heal.

OTOH, perhaps there is a different kind of comfort in hearing first hand testimony from someone who is climbing out of the grief hole a little.  Many of you here have read my other posts and know how devastated I was as recently as Christmas.  So perhaps you will forgive me for sticking my head above ground and looking around to see what the world beyond my grieving might be like.

I only have fleeting partial memories of Mom's birthday last year.  I remember friends and relatives calling me on the phone, but I do not recall any of the conversations.  I think I went to Harvard Square to get the Washington Post; I had a memorial announcement printed in our "hometown newspaper" to help notify friends of hers that had not heard the news.  I probably should not have been driving in the state I was in.

By far my most vivid memory of her birthday last year was the tribute post I wrote about mom on Daily Kos: She taught me how to be a Democrat.  I really wanted to honor her here, since politics was so important to both of us and to our relationship with each other.  It has been consistent in my grieving process that late evening and bedtime was the hardest time, because of the favorite TV shows we used to watch together and the loneliness of cooking for one and the nighttime prayer rituals we had. So I thought that spending those late evening hours writing a diary about her on her birthday would be comforting, and it was.

Now here I am again one year later, offering to write on her birthday again, but finding that the scar tissue over some of my deepest wounds is already beginning to fade.  I had a dream about her recently that made me smile instead of cry, a dream of her standing up and walking, something she was not able to do for the final three years of her life after her amptuation.

It has been very strange to feel mom's presence with me today in a pleasant way.  I went to the grief counselor, and we spent most of the time talking about my hopes for the future: I am beginning to put some energy into self-care and am starting to build a new foundation for my life.  Another way I remembered her today was eating some of the foods that she was not able to enjoy while she was on her kidney failure diet: tomatoes, potatoes, bananas, canteloupe.  When family and friends called and asked how I was, I told them I was fine, and I meant it.  I finally ordered an urn for her ashes today, and that was a victory too--everytime I tried to do it before it was too much for me, but today just seemed like the right day and I was able to do it.  It was a solemn purchase, and yet it was also a triumphant signal of hope--that I am integrating my grief into the rest of what I need to do to keep on keeping on.  No, it's not just another day, but it's not nearly as painful as last year, or my own birthday last year, or countless other special days in the last 13 months where I felt so hopelessly bereft that I could not imagine how the empty space in my life created by her death would ever be anything other than a massive gaping hole in my heart pouring forth with tears and loss and regrets.

Happy birthday, mommy.  I know you were worried about leaving me and thought I would fall apart, and I did, but see now I am beginning to put my pieces back together again, with the help of my wonderful counselor, my closest friends and family, and members of my dKos community.

I send my heart out to everyone who is deeply despondent today and cannot relate at all to my tone.  If anyone, including my grief counselor, had told me a year ago I would be where I am today, I would have laughed.  Or maybe I wouldn't have laughed, since laughter was infrequent from me in those first awful months.  But to sit here today and not be crying, and not to have cried at all today, is a miracle as far as I'm concerned.  Maybe I'll cry next week when the urn is delivered.  Maybe I'll cry tomorrow.  But today I am remembering my mom with love and smiles.  And for the first time in a long time, I really feel like I am going to be all right.

I hope it's OK to say that here!  When I volunteered for this diary I thought I would be a basket case today, but that didn't happen, and now I feel terrible about anyone whose life is freshly torn apart who may have hoped to read something that would touch on their gutwrenching sadness tonight.  But the TGR hosts have tried to create a place where people can share anything, and I hope that means it is OK to share my bits of recovery too.  All I can say is, if you are in deep grief, please please comment here tonight in spite of what I have written.  You may provide the space for commiseration for those who are hurting bad tonight.

A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room.  We meet every Monday evening.  Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you.  Share whatever you need to share.  We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.

To those of you who are suffering, I can only say, "Take the love that is offered, it is not a cure, but it is a balm to ease you through." To those who are further down the road, "Thank you for hanging out to help the suffering." And to all of you, "Thank you for being online, wherever and whoever you are. You are precious."  h/t nancelot

Update:  Once again PapaChach has written a pitch-perfect diary about grief and longing on the same day, and I highly recommend it for anyone who may relate more closely to his struggle to overcome the bottomless emptiness of despair and continue to believe in reasons to hope.  It's too late to rec, but not too late to comment. Please read it.  PapaChach is a treasure and deserves our support.

And here is a link to the previous entries in The Grieving Room series.

•  if you would like to write TGR in a future week

  please comment here or send an email offline to Dem in the heart of Texas.  The following weeks are available:

  April 14
  April 21
  April 28 - filled by exmearden
  May 5
  May 12
  May 19 - filled by x
  May 26
  June 1

  may peace be with us all.

  by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:33:23 PM PDT

•  I'm really sorry.

  This isn't the same thing at all, but I found out late last week that a 12-year-old I taught in a two-hour writing workshop at his junior high this past January was beaten to death with an extension cord by his father.

  This boy was one of more than 200 students I taught in batches of 25 or so every day for a two-week stint, so I would be lying if I said I clearly remembered him. But when I read about his death, I recalled his name -- and double-checked my class rolls from that workshop to be sure.

  When they finally printed his picture, I did remember him -- and I haven't been far from tears since.

  All of those kids were lippy, rowdy -- pretty much the typical 12-year-olds of today. It breaks my heart that the abuse he clearly was suffering wasn't more obvious, that there wasn't some signal that he was in danger.

  He was beaten to death with a fucking extension cord. It appears his father doubled it into a loop and beat him for a long time from his shoulders to his thighs.

  He stopped breathing late last week, was unresponsive to the EMTs, and when they took him to the hospital, they found loop-shaped lacerations, dried blood, and deep bruises all over his back and upper thighs.

  I wish I didn't know any of this. I wish I had known it before. I wish I could stop thinking about this.

  by Melody Townsel on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:37:48 PM PDT

  •  So very sorry, Melody.

    I learned last week that a former student of mine (from a community college class) had died in a strip-mine accident. He wanted to go on for a four-year degree in history but had married young, had a child, and found a job on a strip mine to support his family. He was 22 yrs old. Not as ugly as a victim of child abuse perhaps but he was still too young, far too young, and I can recall his smile and love for learning.

    by va dare on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:44:34 PM PDT

    •  so sorry, va dare

      that is tragic for this young man and his young family.  

      by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:08:52 PM PDT

    •  My condolences.

      You really got to know that child and, then, man.

      I barely met this kid. I think that's what is bugging me so badly.

      by Melody Townsel on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:47:16 PM PDT

      •  perhaps your very short time together

        was one of the bright spots in his life.  Hold onto that.

        by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:48:37 PM PDT

        •  Just found this news update...

          ...about Jonathan.

          Not much more to say.

          Thank you all.

          by Melody Townsel on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:03:49 PM PDT

      •  at least you saw and encouraged the good in him

        i'm sure that was a gift in his short life.

        by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:19:14 PM PDT

  •  that's awful, Melody

    abused kids are a tender spot for me.  I get filled with rage when I think of the abuse that goes on behind closed doors that no one finds out about until it is too late.  an extension cord.  damn.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:54:50 PM PDT

    •  An extension cord.

      Loops all over his body. I want to vomit every time I think about it.

      by Melody Townsel on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:46:27 PM PDT

  •  oh Melody,

    that is horrible.  I ache for you.  Please accept my condolences.  I'm a teacher too and have lost students.  It's simply devastating.

    by GreenMtnState on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:55:20 PM PDT

    •  Thank you very much.

      I've been teaching these workshops because I've been considering applying for alternative certification.

      This incident is certainly giving me food for thought about this career move.

      by Melody Townsel on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:45:55 PM PDT

      •  I wouldn't presume to counsel you

        but I bet that you're a creative and engaging teacher, and those students really benefit from your skills and care.

        I read the link about Jonathon.  There really are no words for such a tragedy.  I hope that somewhere, he knows that people (even if unknown to him) care for him and grieve his loss.

        by GreenMtnState on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 06:14:04 AM PDT

  •  that is simply unthinkable, Melody

    It's really hard to process a murder of this kind - so cruelly, and at the hands of someone charged with loving a nurturing a young person.   It nauseates me, and rips at my heart.

    I'm so sorry - it must be worse for you.   I wish I knew what to say.

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:08:13 PM PDT

    •  Thanks. Sad to say, there's nothing to say.

      He beat him to death with an extension cord.

      I cannot fathom the fear and pain that boy experienced.

      by Melody Townsel on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:44:54 PM PDT

  •  I'm so sorry

    Only 12 years old.  That's so tragic.

    by sj on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:17:34 PM PDT

    •  It kills me. Not least because...

      ...I really didn't get a chance to get to know him, that workshop was so short.

      by Melody Townsel on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:44:08 PM PDT

•  I've avoided this diary series

  for weeks b/c just opening it makes me fall apart.  I spend so much time trying not to.  

  I'm glad you we able to keep it together today.  everyone says there is hope.  

  by Hope08 on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:43:58 PM PDT

  •  you named yourself Hope08

    I hope that means you will find hope in 08., not just politically, but personally.

    Sometimes I can't open TGR either.  It all depends on the day.

    Remember that even if you fall apart, we will be here for you!

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:57:16 PM PDT

    •  Thanks for that

      I find myself kind of shocked when people call me that "hope".  I didn't think about it when I signed up.  I can't say I've been too hopeful in my own life.  

      I know my son would want me to be happier.  But I miss him so much.  It's difficult given that spring is here.  I felt more in line with a world that was cold and dreary!  

      by Hope08 on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:18:03 PM PDT

      •  I definitely can relate to the dreary days

        I used to actually get upset on sunny days because the day my mother died was bright and sunny with a cloudless blue sky (although it was cold).

        the darker overcast days seemed more conducive to looking inward.  the big bright expansive days opened me up too much and I felt vulnerable.

        still I am happy that spring is coming.  I hate being cold and warmer weather will make me more physically comfortable at least.

        by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:33:01 PM PDT

  •  It's OK - we'll be here

    whether or not you are able to jump in.   It's very daunting - if you've cried many tears, you don't often want to knowingly call them up again.  

    Here's the thing, though: they WILL be cried - sooner or later, and at whatever cost, those tears WILL come out.   This is as safe a place as any to shed them.  Sometimes the cost of keeping them in is simply too great.

    I am sure there is nothing we can do, Hope08, but perhaps just being here is a help.

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:11:45 PM PDT

•  Dear TrueBlueMajority

  We are both blessed by having had mothers that were oh so special.

  So many times I know that the strenghts I have - come directly from her.

  I have learned too to smile, when special memories pop into my head -

  I call them my special "hello's" from my mother

  by sara seattle on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:44:17 PM PDT

  •  strong moms

    how nice to hear about your "special hellos" sara seattle.

    may our smiles outweigh our tears someday.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:58:13 PM PDT

  •  three cheers for

    three strong, amazing moms who are missed every day.

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:00:32 PM PDT

•  Tough diary series...

  Peace to all in mourning... my mom died four years ago this spring. I especially miss her this time of year as her tulips are about to bloom and her daffodils are opening to the sun.

  {{{hugs to all}}}

  by va dare on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:45:42 PM PDT

  •  Yes, the season of renewal

    is calling up my memories of my loss... 359 days ago and counting.

    {{{HUGS}}} back at you!

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:13:19 PM PDT

    •  I'll say special prayers for you & your mom

      on Sunday.

      by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:20:06 PM PDT

      •  Thank you.

        I'm actually going to be alone for most of the day... DH and the boys are going camping.  I was supposed to go, too, but some work has come up that will keep me home.  

        It's good, actually - I didn't want to miss church on that day of all days.   Alone will do quite nicely, thank you!

        by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:39:53 PM PDT

  •  hugs backatcha va dare

    the spring is a bittersweet time.  new life, flowers blooming.

    {{{{{{{{{va dare}}}}}}}}}

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:15:21 PM PDT

•  Happy birthday to your Mom, TBM.

  . . .for this day will always be her birthday, and it will always be a day to celebrate.  

  I also celebrate the growth you feel today, and know firsthand how hard-won that growth is.

  When my mom died 8 years ago (awful, aggressive, metastatic cancer, and she was 55), I often felt as though I could drown in a pool of grief.  Those waters were so dark, so incredibly deep.  When I looked into the pool of grief, I didn't see any way out; I only imagined that the waters would swallow me up.

  Some people, as you and I both know, are so afraid of these waters that they stay far, far away from the pool.  So far that they can't even see the pool.  So far that they won't talk to you about the pool, or will deny the existence of the pool altogether.

  That wasn't my strategy.  It couldn't be.  As frightening as those deep waters of grief were, I plunged in.  I sank, I swam, I floated and caught my breath.  And each and every time, I eventually clambered back out onto the banks and gathered my strength.  Then I'd plunge in again.

  Grief is not a linear process; whoever believes that the stages of grief are linear (stage 1, then 2, then 3, then 4, then 5, then you're healed!) just hasn't grieved as far as I can tell.  I experienced the stages of grief as cyclical, and occasionally (after 8 years) find myself falling back into the pure unadulterated pain of my mother's absence.  And then I clamber back onto the banks again.

  Someone wise once told me that grief is sort of like a prism.  We don't heal suddenly all at once; rather, our view of grief, and death, changes gradually day by day.  Each day we see it through a different prism, and each prism illuminates a new aspect of ourselves, our lives, our loved one.

  Blessings on you, TrueBlue, and continued healing, one day or hour or minute at a time, for as long as it takes.  And she is smiling along with you.

  by GreenMtnState on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:51:33 PM PDT

  •  everything you've written,

    I have thought and felt.  It's as if you've condensed all my TGR diaries into one amazingly insightful and concise comment!

    Indeed, the stages are not linear.

    Indeed, when we try to avoid the pool, we're more likely to drown unwittingly.   Making yourself jump in and tread water is the only way to go.

    Thank you for being part of our little group tonight.

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:03:20 PM PDT

    •  I am honored

      by your comment.  Thank you. This is the first time I've visited and I will definitely return.  What an amazing space of sharing for those of us who grieve.

      by GreenMtnState on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:09:01 PM PDT

      •  if you've got the interest,

        you may want to skim back over the past year's worth of diaries (well, almost a year).  It's been an amazing journey.

        The "gold" is always in the comments.

        by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:14:27 PM PDT

    •  ditto

      trying to avoid the pool makes it even scarier when you inevitably fall in!  GMS seems to have captured so much of what you have said here in her/his post.  what a valuable addition to our gathering.

      by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:59:27 PM PDT

  •  beautifully said..thank you !!

    by cfk on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:05:43 PM PDT

  •  what evocative analysis, GreenMtnState

    i'm sorry your mom died so young and in such an awful way.  what courage you had (and have) to face grief head on in spite of imagining the waters would swallow you up.

    i am well acquainted with drowning in the pool of grief, climbing out, falling back in, barely keeping my head above water for days and weeks at a time.  i also agree that grief is cyclical.  like most natural processes, it is not strictly linear.  i'm on the upswing now, but anything could happen tomorrow.

    I still fall in, but I don't sink as deep, or feel as helpless for as long, and I climb back onto the bank a little faster these days.

    right before Easter I was crying uncontrollably because a medical supply store opened up across the street from where my mom and I used to live.  I flashed back on all the logistical nightmares of driving to medical supply stores in neighboring towns, and getting there before they closed, and finding out things weren't in stock, and getting back before mom came home from dialysis, and paying ridiculous prices for overnight delivery of her diabetic supplement drink so she wouldn't run out... and now that I don't need it anymore there is a medical supply store less than half a block from where we lived.

    and they deliver.

    I cried for two days over that.

    until I was able to see that the other elderly people in the area (there's a senior citizen center a block away) and their caretakers would benefit greatly from this new business, and gratitude for how it would help others was more important than my resentment that it wasn't there when I desperately needed it.

    so although the general trend of the last year has been positive, I was blindsided by the medical supply store thing and couldn't begin to explain why it overwhelmed me.

    but I didn't stay there long.  I was going to write about that experience tonight but I my mood improved.

    anyway, thanks for your post.  i especially like the part about the prism.  I am looking at things differently now, most of the time, or trying to.  Today it's not too bad. Tomorrow, who knows.  Whatever happens, I'm glad to have this community to share it with.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:57:57 PM PDT

    •  medical supply store

      I was blindsided by the medical supply store thing and couldn't begin to explain why it overwhelmed me.

      TrueBlue, it totally makes sense that you were blindsided.  You explained the circumstances beautifully (if painfully) -- the "logistical nightmare" you had to endure to fulfill your mom's needs in the store's absence, and now -- the store sits across the street, almost taunting you with its convenience.  I feel your pain.

      Among other things, grief seems to be about being blindsided by "small" items whose import no one else can understand.  That's why, two weeks after my mom died, my eyes flooded with tears in the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond.  I wasn't actively processing my grief at that moment, but I was in a store that my mom loved, in which we'd had fun shopping, and it suddenly seemed unbearable.  How could I be shopping at BB&B without my mother?  How could BB&B exist without my mother?  How could life go on without my mother?

      When you think about it, the "inexplicable" things that blindside us aren't really inexplicable after all.  It's all about loss, even of the simple moments of life that were once taken for granted.

      by GreenMtnState on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 05:14:31 AM PDT

      •  thanks for understanding

        I told that story to several people who looked at me blankly.  Thanks for getting it.

        I still have lots of little things I cannot do.  I can't watch Monk (used to be mom's favorite show).  I cannot watch Game Show network (we used to play the games together to keep her mind sharp).  I drive a different way to avoid the hospital where she had dialysis.

        I can't go to the Old Country Buffet.  We went there for brunch after church every Sunday for more than a year.  It brings back memories of when she could still eat what she wanted before all the dietary restrictions set in.  It brings back memories that she could eat at all because at the end of her life she refused to eat anything (the night before she died she allowed me to feed her a small amount of mashed potatoes--one of her favorites).  But most of all it reminds me of lifting her wheelchair out of the trunk of the car and helping her into it and pushing her to the restaurant and waiting there with her.  One time when we were going out like this she "complained" saying "this is too much trouble for my baby" and I said "you're worth it" (my standard reply).  Then it flooded inside my own mind that a day would come when she would no longer be around for me to push her in the chair and that I should enjoy those labors of love because after she was gone I would miss it terribly.  And I do.

        So I can relate completely to your BB&B meltdown.  How can it still exist without your mother?  How can we still exist without our mothers, who have been there defining our whole lives?

        How indeed.

        by TrueBlueMajority on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 05:28:42 AM PDT

        •  I honor your grief in whatever ways

          it manifests itself . . . whether that includes the shows/networks you can't watch, the routes your drive, or the places you eat.  I am saddened because these, too, are losses (however small in comparison), but losses nonetheless.

          Doesn't it seem sometimes that grief is like a death by a thousand cuts (metaphorically, of course)?  Everything is a reminder of what once was, and what can no longer be.  The future we envisioned for ourselves is irreparably changed.  And the past -- it hurts to miss what we had, but also to acknowledge the things we never said, the questions we wanted to ask.  If only . . .

          There may come a day when you will watch Monk again, or drive that route, or eat at Old Country Buffet. If so, you will be ready and know it.  If not, you will know it too. You come across in your wonderful posts as someone who knows your own heart.  

          by GreenMtnState on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 06:02:56 AM PDT

          •  bless you, and thanks! n/t

            by TrueBlueMajority on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 06:25:47 AM PDT

        •  One of the hardest things

          My youngest son and his "significant other" Danni moved out shortly after I lost my mom to cancer. I realized then the comfort I would miss by not having anyone (a female especially it seems) to do nice things for. Danni is one of those people who are "always cold". I used to bring her heating pads and shoulder throws after work. Having her there to take care of in place of mom helped.
          Then, she was gone too. That's the worst part....all that love and nowhere to put it.

          by NewDirectionsMom on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 10:04:29 AM PDT

          •  all that love and nowhere to put it

            yeah, I understand that too.

            by TrueBlueMajority on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 03:30:51 PM PDT

          •  My brother, the artist

            (and carpenter) was a HUGE help in improving my home.  He would come for a few weeks and we'd get some projects done.  It worked out for us because he'd have a bit of an income, and a free place to live and I'd have high quality work done on my home -- a little slower than if I'd hired out, but really excellent work.  But it made me feel better knowing that he had a place to do his art and a full pantry.

            My mom was on a fixed income and I took care of a number of her expenses.  After the accident I remember crying "who will I take care of, now?"  It was a while before I realized that a valid question was:  "who was actually taking care of who?"

            Not having them to take care of and worry about left me seriously off-balance.

            All that love and nowhere to put it.  

            That's it exactly.

            by sj on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 05:38:42 PM PDT

•  I feel as if I am in some kind of

  odd, surreal place.  Just a couple of weeks ago, we found out that my son and his girlfriend are expecting a baby.  Now, this was a surprise...they're both only 20, still in college.  They aren't unhappy, but boy, as parents, we know how hard the path ahead of them is going to be.  Right now, all we can do is offer our love and support.

  I gained perspective, though, by thinking of my daughter and her significant other...a young man who is my son-in-law for all intents and purposes.  He's very ill.  He's been a diabetic since he was about three years old.  By this point in his life, this disease has taken an immeasurable toll.  He's on dialysis, having rejected the kidney my daughter gave him.  He has a whole host of medical complications.  He's in the hospital more than he is home.  In my heart, I know the time is nearing when my daughter is going to face a kind of grief that I can't quite begin to understand.  My heart aches.  And there is really nothing that I can do.

  So, in comparison, the challenges facing my son and his girlfriend don't seem so bad.  We can deal with this..we can help.  This can be a very good thing.

  I go back and forth between these emotions.  I'm not an emotional person.  I rarely cry, however, the other day, I found myself just wanting to do nothing more than weep...and I couldn't quite figure out which child I was weeping for, whether my tears were of joy or sadness, or whether of both at the same time.  The joining of these two emotions is profound.  And oddly, I haven't felt this alive in a long, long time.

  by tjb22 on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:51:49 PM PDT

  •  congratulations!

    I bet you're sort of bewildered by the whole idea of grandparenthood - I know I would be (and yes, I'm old enough - but only if I'd started early myself).   My mom became a grandmother when she was only a year or two older than me.   May your son's girlfriend have a happy and healthy remainder of her pregnancy.  Mazel tov!

    I'm sorry, also about the impending loss of your daughter's beloved.  Have they thought about solemnizing their bond by marrying?  It's symbolic (and may be too retro for them), but there is an amazing thing that happens - the world just takes the relationship more seriously.  When he passes, she may have more sympathy and support as his widow than she would as his girlfriend (even the kind who would donate a kidney, which I find extraordinary).  Just thinking... you can tell me to shut up and MYOB...

    Anyway, I understand why your emotions are on your sleeve - it would be strange if they weren't.  I'll keep you in my thoughts and prayers.

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:20:53 PM PDT

    •  Thank you.

      I've thought about just that.  Right now, they cannot afford to legally marry.  It has to do with insurance, disability benefits, etc.  My daughter is in college as well...she also works full time.  I've had wild thoughts about finding a friendly clergy person who would allow them to say vows and have a small ceremony without it being legal or binding.  They refer to each other as "husband" and "wife".  

      As I said...my heart is full...I'm just not always quite sure what its full of.  It feels so contradictory, yet at the same time, it feels so real, you know?  

      We are looking forward to being grandparents.  I think my son and his girlfriend are going to be just fine.  They've been together a long time.  They're devoted to each other, and honestly, they aren't unhappy about this baby.  Sure, it will be difficult, but you know, we were young once, too...and as I recall, it wasn't always a piece of cake for us, either...and yet we made it, didn't we?

      by tjb22 on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:26:00 PM PDT

      •  babies rarely come

        when it's convenient.  I always say that if we'd waited till we had "enough" (time, money, energy), we'd still be waiting.

        That baby will be a huge blessing to all of you.

        by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:42:01 PM PDT

        •  I think so.

          And you know, its due the first of November...just about the time we can all look forward to a new sense of hope, huh?

          by tjb22 on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:43:03 PM PDT

          •  both of mine were holiday babies

            that came early (one due on Thanksgiving came on 11/12, and one due on 12/26 came on 12/16).  My husband was born on Thanksgiving day, actually.  I like to joke that we were only fertile at one time of the year!   It's a wonderful time to have a baby - all snuggled in warm for the winter.

            And you're right - early THIS November, we all expect a new bundle of joy (hope, change), don't we?  :D

            by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:46:34 PM PDT

          •  for a second I had to think about that

            what new sense of hope is coming in early November?

            oh!  NOW i remember!  :-D

            by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:24:35 PM PDT

            •  Hopefully,

              our eight year nightmare is about to end...

              by tjb22 on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:25:48 PM PDT

  •  the emotions dont seem contradictory to me, tjb22

    they are tears about the indescribable preciousness of life and love.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:23:10 PM PDT

    •  They are so wound

      up together, aren't they?  Its really rather profound, you know?  

      by tjb22 on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:26:35 PM PDT

•  "Keep holy the broken edges"

  Though that thought is from an archaeologist (and it is the creed of scientists) I just now realized its truth about grieving, too. We need to keep the broken edges as they are and allow ourselves the time to find all the pieces we need. Piece by piece they will fall into place, giving us slowly and over time the wholeness we need. I am still finding pieces I need to realize and then let go of my mother, who died in 20002. Blessings tonight to all who suffer and all who mourn.  

  by Wee Mama on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:53:12 PM PDT

  •  Thank you for this.

    I found it very helpful. Bless you, Wee Mama.

    -Scott

    by slksfca on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:16:21 PM PDT

    •  So glad it speaks to you!

      by Wee Mama on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:19:53 PM PDT

  •  this is extremely wise

    thank you for sharing this wonderful perspective.

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:21:37 PM PDT

    •  It is one of those sentences that instantly

      resonates - I first read in my twenties and it keeps on unfolding and applying in new ways.

      by Wee Mama on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:52:08 PM PDT

  •  ooo that is beautiful, Wee Mama

    "keep holy the broken edges."  I will hold on to that.

    when a piece comes that fits, there are new broken edges even as one place is mended.

    that is a deep metaphor I will reflect upon for quite a while.

    may light perpetual shine upon your mom.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:26:28 PM PDT

•  Your diary is a blessing ...

  It's so awful when you've just suffered a loss and the grief is so huge. I am glad to hear that you had a good day!

  You offer hope to a lot of people -- that by doing the hard work of working through your feelings, you can come through and feel better. And also honor the life of the person you lost.

  It's clear that your mom was an amazing person. Hearing about your relationship with her makes me resolve to be a better parent to my daughters.

  Thanks.

  by Carnacki on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 07:58:24 PM PDT

  •  hey, Carnacki -

    thanks for stopping by.   I appreciate it!

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:42:46 PM PDT

  •  fathers be good to your daughters

    that was the song that made me decide that John Mayer was actually a gifted songwriter and not just a teen idol flash in the pan:

    thanks so much for your kind words, carnacki.  i would like to be a voice of hope.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:35:16 PM PDT

•  Two months now for me,

  ...since my own remarkable mother passed away. I keep thinking I'm coping so very well, amidst my own illnesses, but I'm finding that just under the surface the tears are constantly lurking, and the oddest inconsequential things seem to trigger the waterworks.

  I'm trying to accept, and even honor, my grief, but--as any of you will probably already know--some days are easier than others. Today, not so easy.

  Thanks for letting me share, and peace to all who grieve.

  -Scott

  by slksfca on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:04:12 PM PDT

  •  Scott - it's like

    being in the ocean and letting the waves come over you - you can prepare for them and ride over or dive under... but if you deny them, they'll hit you full in the face, and perhaps even drag you under.

    I had a weird experience in January - it almost cost me a freelance job.  I was functioning extremely poorly, and couldn't figure out why my brain was in a fog.  I cried away most of one night in frustration, before I realized the truth: I was missing my mom.  This was fully nine months after her death, and I thought the worst was long over.  Nope.  BUT - that's all I needed to do - accept that I was missing her and that too much of my brain was being used up to keep that information from my consciousness.  Once I accepted it, my brain worked fine once again - the fog cleared.

    It will get better - I promise.

    Sorry about your mom.  I'll go read about her.

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:25:51 PM PDT

    •  Thank you so much

      I greatly appreciate your responses, both to me and to other commenters. Your kindness has brought me to tears--in a good way. :-)

      I'll keep your counsel in mind. Again, thanks!

      -Scott

      by slksfca on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:30:32 PM PDT

      •  I remember that picture

        but I don't remember reading the stories of your mom's antics - she sounds like she was a real pistol!  

        Did she get a chance to read your homage?  I sure hope so.  I imagine she was as proud of you as any mom could be (I hope my sons grow up to be this kind and loving someday).

        I'm really sorry for your loss.  Two months is early - we did even have my mom's memorial until about three months after her death.   You'll always miss her - but it will be less painful with time.

        {{{HUGS}}} to you, my friend.

        by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:35:18 PM PDT

        •  Yes, she did get to read it.

          She told me it was the finest Mother's Day present she'd ever received. And then she sent the link to everyone she could think of. :-)

          The last time I spoke with her, just before she died, she mentioned again how much she loved reading my essay, and the many kind comments folks wrote about her. Needless to say, I am so glad--and I feel so lucky--that I was prompted, for whatever reason, to write about her on what would turn out to be her last Mother's Day.

          Thank you for reading about her. And big {{{HUGS}}} right back!

          -Scott

          by slksfca on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:50:29 PM PDT

  •  I missed your diary last May, slksfca

    but I could strongly relate to the memory of mom singing to me.  i loved her voice even though she thought she could not sing.  it was the most precious sound in the world to me.

    two months is such a short time.  nothing is inconsequential when grief is so fresh--triggers are everywhere.  please share whatever you need to share here, if it helps.

    and may peace be with us both as we treasure the memory of our mothers singing.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:18:12 PM PDT

    •  Thank you, TBM

      I read your tribute to your mom earlier tonight and it touched me deeply. I wish I had seen that diary a year ago so I could have expressed my appreciation to you at that time. I'm glad I got to read it tonight.

      Now, reading this comment of yours, I'm struck by how we both explored different facets of our mothers, who seem to have had much in common: your mom loved music too, and mine loved politics.

      We are both blessed to have had such mothers. Thanks again for your kind reply!

      -Scott

      by slksfca on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 10:12:20 PM PDT

  •  Scott -- our moms had some strong commonalities.

    This line in your diary made me laugh with recognition:

    'dusting & sweeping music.'

    My mom did exactly the same thing to motivate us to clean the house.  One of her favorite 'cleaning' records was the soundtrack to "Tom Sawyer" (the movie -- the one with young Jodie Foster!)

    I'm very, very sorry for your loss, which is so fresh now.  One thing that was so important for me at that time: sharing memories of my mom with anyone who would listen.  Simply saying her name was therapeutic to me, because it meant that she was still real.  And of course, moms who've died are still real, and they'll always be our moms.  We just don't get to see or talk to them when we want. (Damn, damn, damn!)

    The problem is that our culture thwarts us in this normal grieving process; people (coworkers, even friends) get uncomfortable talking about death, and somehow resent "indulging" it.  Just know your truth and let those tears flow when they need to flow.  Please don't edit them or try to accommodate thoughtless others.  Find people who understand and appreciate your needs.  We're out here!

    by GreenMtnState on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 04:56:03 AM PDT

    •  Wow.

      Thanks for replying, you've made me smile at 7AM (no small feat, I can assure you!)

      I think you must be right about the need to share memories--without actually thinking of it, I guess that's why I included the link to my diary about Mom. I'm grateful and touched that you read it, and even more so to know that your own mom liked to clean house to music as well.

      Thank you again, GMT; your kind words have been a blessing to me.

      -Scott

      by slksfca on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 07:14:38 AM PDT

      •  Double Wow.

        Apologies for the weird text--my keyboard is dying, I think!

        by slksfca on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 07:16:21 AM PDT

      •  I'm so glad we "met" in cyberspace.

        This forum is a blessing, and maybe -- just maybe --our moms (all the moms we miss) are somewhere singing together.

        At least I'd like to think so.

        by GreenMtnState on Tue Apr 01, 2008 at 12:28:47 PM PDT

•  I couldn't be happier for you, TBM!

  I knew that (most weeks, anyway) you were having a harder time with your grief than I was.  I'm so glad to see that you've had a bit of a respite of late.  I hope that you continue to have more ups than downs.

  To any newcomers tonight - read this diary and know that however awful you feel now, you may someday be in a similar frame of mind.  It make take less or more time, but healing does happen, to some small degree.

  HUGS, TBM!   And thank you for doing such an amazing job tonight.  :D

  by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:06:26 PM PDT

  •  HUGZ{{{{{{{{{DithoT}}}}}}}}}HUGZ

    You have seen me at my most despairing so I know that you do share in my relief at having a respite from the worst of it.

    I surround you with cyberhugz!  xxoxx :-D

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:08:22 PM PDT

•  Thank you for a great diary!

  Blessings on all who posted and to all who lurk.  

  It is a great thing to be able to come here and just sit and rest a bit.

  The one thing people said to me that I didn't want to hear was that my mom was safe, now.  I was glad there was no more pain or fear, of course, and I hung on to the idea that she had been able to die at home and had been kept pain free.  I understood that they meant to be kind.  But it made me back away.

  Now, ten years later for my mom and four for my sister and dad, I understand what they meant and I can believe that statement more.  They are also safe in my heart and the hearts of my children.

  {{{{{{HUGS}}}}}}

  by cfk on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:14:57 PM PDT

  •  thanks for remembering the lurkers -

    I suspect there are more than we would guess - this is a hard series to comment in before you're ready.

    Thanks for being a faithful contributer, cfk!

    I tell my boys much the same thing - grammy lives on in our hearts, and we talk about her and laugh about her as much as we can, to keep those memories alive and fresh.

    by Dem in the heart of Texas on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:37:23 PM PDT

  •  thanks for being here, cfk

    it is hard to know what to say sometimes.  people made well-meaning comments about your mom being safe and it wasn't what you needed at the time.

    i can hardly imagine what I will feel like after ten years, but I do hope I will feel that mom is safe in my heart.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:03:50 PM PDT

•  You are not alone

  Many of us know exactly what you're feeling.  And I deeply understand the catharsis of being able to write it.  Sharing with all of us sends empathy into the world.  We hope it brings you comfort and peace.  

  I did not know about the Grieving Room.  My husband and I have no children, but we have dogs.  We thought we were going to lose one of them last Saturday, so we're savoring every minute we still have with him.  It's a comfort to know I have a place to come to.  

  Accept my love and deepest condolences for your loss.  

  by 57andFemale on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 08:52:33 PM PDT

  •  welcome, 57andFemale

    pet grieving is definitely welcome here.

    please join us every Monday with whatever you need to share.

    love to you as well and thanks for your kind words.

    by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 09:05:54 PM PDT

•  well, it looks like TGF is winding down 4 tonight

  I'm sure some other regulars will find this in the wee smalls or later in the morning.

  I've got an 8am meeting so I'm way past my bedtime.

  on nights like this I remember with an odd fondness my old momcare bedtime routine: her pills and her shots and dry sheets in the summer and soft warm blankets in the winter and a white sock so her remaining foot would not get cold and her diabetic snack and making sure she could reach everything by her bed and ending with our nighttime prayer followed by a few hours on the blog after she fell asleep.

  now I can get on the blog as soon as I come home and as soon as I wake up... sigh.

  and I still haven't come up with a consistent bedtime prayer routine for just myself.

  so I'll take my own pills now and put water in my cpap machine and do the rest of my nightly preparation for tomorrow and watch the rebroadcast of KO.

  but March 31 was a good day all things considered.  i'll definitely say a prayer of thanks for that.

  good night every one.

  by TrueBlueMajority on Mon Mar 31, 2008 at 11:08:57 PM PDT