10 Years Later

It's not possible that ten years have passed since my mom took her last breath. As my dear friend April wrote in a note nestled in flowers that arrived this afternoon, her "joyous, generous spirit" is one of the many things for which Deb is loved and remembered. And yet, as I sit here on my porch tonight, surrounded by humid air and fresh grief, those adjectives seem just out of reach, like many things about her. I am trying desperately to live up to the legacy she built but find myself lately feeling disoriented and disappointed. I gave up long ago on the notion that I could find the purpose in this overwhelming loss.

Ten years later, life without my mom is, in some ways, as difficult as it was after ten minutes, ten days, ten weeks, and ten months without her. She's missed too many moments: Claire's first birthday, which we celebrated weeks after she died, and Miles' 13th birthday, which we just celebrated yesterday; the birth of Hazel, Jack, Emily, and-just a year ago-Eliana; trips to Florida and the beach and the cottage; my job changes and Grant's self-taught home remodel; Christmas mornings and piano recitals and t-ball games; impassioned conversation about the state of the world; toasts and tears; the mundane and the majestic.

The six smiling faces pictured below bring me hope on nights like this, as do each one of you--her people, our people, the ones who faithfully prayed and showed up and continue to do so year after year after year.

Cheryl Strayed writes so accurately about grief when she says "It is impossible for you to go on as you were before, so you must go on as you never have." That's what I have been trying to do for the 5,256,000 minutes I've existed without her, and it's the only way forward.

Legacy

I write blog posts almost constantly in my mind.

The conversation that I have with you, Mom, is continuous, but you know this.

It's Mother's Day today. I should have spent it with you. You should have been at the park with us this morning, watching Emily gleefully taking her first ride on the swing, her pink dress flapping in the wind and her bow just the slightest bit crooked in her soft hair. You would have laughed as you watched Jack running all over the place, a spinning top. You've watched everything that's been happening in our family over the last couple of years, I'm certain, and I know that you must smile often. There have been many beautiful things that have taken place: Emily's birth, her baptism and dedication, the first time she sat on her own, even the first time she tasted peas and spit them out all over me and all over her hair; Jack running through the backyard, his high-pitched laugh pealing like the bells in the Catholic church on the other side of the hill--his love of books, his love of food! And Miles and Claire and Hazel...their little lives are so exuberant and rich already and they have only been here for a few years so far.

If you were here we would spend so much time laughing.

We moved Pap close by...he has an apartment at an assisted living facility. It was a long road and a tough one, but I drew strength from thinking of exactly how you would handle every step of the process. I hope you would be proud of me. I think you would like his place, and you would be happy because he is happy and safe and cared for.

It's hard to believe that Dad is married again. Victoria is sweet and caring and talented, but most importantly she cares about Dad and makes his happiness a priority. They take care of each other. She loves the kids, too, and makes an effort with them, which I know would be vitally important to you. I know that you want Dad to be happy and not to be alone. I love you for that.

You would love getting to know Alyson and Abby better. They are so adventurous and confident and independent. Alyson just got her Master's in Occupational Therapy, and Abby is in Asia now traveling around with her friends. I wonder how many places on your bucket list you got to visit. You and Dad always did a great job of exposing Grant and me to various experiences and gave us the opportunity to travel. That's not something I take lightly, and I continue to appreciate it.

John opened up the cottage as well as his property last week, trying to get it all ready for Memorial Day weekend visits. The tree Deborah and Grant planted in your memory is standing tall. I know your presence there, and I can't wait to spend time at the cottage and tell Emily all of the stories of our time there. She hasn't been to the cottage yet, but we will make up for lost time.

I could write all night, but there are things that I only want to say to you, and it is possible that there are people who still read this blog. We have many faithful friends, Mom, which is a testament to the way you and Dad loved the people around you and invested in them and really connected.

My heart is full when I think of you. I know that I am a better Mom because you were mine and a better person because of your example. There will never be anyone who will challenge your place in my life. I love you so very much...right up to the moon and back.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I am celebrating you, as always.

Thank you for loving me so well and shaping me into the woman that I am today.

I am so proud to be your daughter.

Three Years

This picture of Mom and me is hanging in the nursery overlooking Jack as he sleeps. It will still hang there, a moment frozen in time, when his sister is born this fall.

I spent some time today reading back over the entries I've shared over the past three years, and at the same time I read the comments and reflections from so many of you. I am touched and humbled by the fact that some of you, even those who have never revealed their exact identities, continue to write and follow the events in the life of our family. You provide encouragement and strength to me during the times I need it most, and I want you to know how grateful I am.

Mother's Day 2013

"I miss thee, my Mother! Thy image is still The deepest impressed on my heart." -Eliza Cook

The thing about mothers, I am learning since becoming one, is that they appreciate the mundane things in your life. Not everyone would want to know that Jack learned to say "gross" today (repeating after me when I reacted to him wiping snot on the back of his hand). Few people would appreciate a detailed story about daffodil picking or go back-and-forth on the phone with me for ten minutes while I decided if traditional taco sauce or green enchilada sauce would better complement the Mexican creation I was whipping up in the kitchen. The majority of people, even many readers of this blog, would rejoice with me over the fact that Jack is going to be a big brother this coming October. However, even my closest friends could do without the weekly reports of the size of the baby and news about its developing reflexes and the fact that it has fingerprints. Moms don't get bored as easily. When they do get bored, they are really good at masking it. Just one more reason to miss you, Mom. Jack can also say "purple" and "turtle" now, and those two words are much more charming than "gross."

Christmas Eve, 2012

Well, it's not much of a white Christmas here in Pittsburgh--more like a wet Christmas. Still, the rain tapping on the roof and the crackle of the fire in the fireplace is calming. Jack is 'nestled all snug in his bed' after a visit from Santa (a nearly 50-year-old neighborhood tradition), and John and I are lounging in flannel pants and oversized sweatshirts. My mom's santa collection peers out from every corner of the living room and family room. Her miniature Christmas trees host tiny glass and pewter ornaments, sparkling symbols of the season that give Jack hours of entertainment as he bats at them. The memory of her is strong and close-by. My Christmas wishes are so different now then they were five years ago. I wish for Jack to be safe and healthy and kind and confident and full of faith. I wish for him to never know the loss that I know. I wish for time to spend with the people I love, for meaningful conversations and nothing to regret. I wish for everyone around me to be spared pain and grief and loneliness. I have on-going conversations with my mom in my mind. We talk about trivial things like our nails and the Golden Globe nominations and where we want to vacation next; we talk about important things like gun control and the educational system in this country and raising Jack. At Christmastime, among other profound revelations, I marvel at the truth that a tiny baby, even smaller and more helpless than Jack is right now, is the key to everything. And if God could sacrifice his only Son because he loved ME, he cares enough to walk next to me through this Christmas and every other one that I will celebrate without Mom. Mom sent out more Christmas cards than anyone I know. How did she do it all? These days, with Jack trying to scribble his own messages on my envelopes, I haven't even sent all of mine out yet. This simple wish will have to suffice. Merry Christmas, friends and loved-ones. May peace and joy reign in your hearts.