October thoughts

A post I started in October
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Missing her today. Not just a little bit. Not in a wistful way. But as though I just lost her all over again. When I give myself the time to think about her (when I'm not fully distracted or trying to distract myself), it still takes only seconds for the lump in my throat to move to tears in the eyes. And I feel like that is still the tip of the iceberg. This is life now.

September thoughts

I first wrote this in September and never published it. Just looked at it again and decided to publish it.
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Six months.

I didn't know how grief would unfold. I never imagined myself in this place. 

It is lonely. And it gets lonelier. Not because others haven't been kind, or attentive. But because each day is another day without her. The space created by time makes it more painful. I don't want to be more distant from her; I want to be closer. Each day is a reminder of what I've/we've lost. There is no "better off," or replacement. And there never will be. We simply have to learn how to live without her. 

Our culture doesn't do well talking about grief or showing grief. We have pre-set norms, we're worried about appearing dysfunctional. We don't want to be clingy or needy in a way that makes others uncomfortable. For me, I turn inward with my grief. I allow conversations to happen, or not, with close friends that don't mention my despair. I want to be asked, but I don't bring it up when I'm not. We steer away from what might be painful in the midst of how our normal day-to-day lives are going. I wish I could be more open. 

Suddenly I find myself in an elite group, those of us who have lost our mothers far too young. We didn't get to watch our mothers grow old. They didn't get to watch our children grow up. In fact, in my social group, I feel somewhat alone. You can't imagine losing your mothers, least not in a sudden and premature way; I hope you don't ever have to. I certainly remember when I was on the outside of this group.

Other realizations and contradictions of how I imagined grief prior to experiencing it:

How I can feel so grief-stricken, yet energized and delighted by my children. How my husband can still make me laugh. How my dad gives me hope for Family.

How most nights I cry myself to sleep. It is the one quiet time of the day, which floods me with emotions. 

It is normal for others to not understand. I wouldn't have understood prior to going through this.
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And, since September, I have met others who understand. In Gareth's co-op (a mother lost her father earlier this year, another mother lost her mom 5 years ago), and at the Memorial that the Seattle Cancer Center put on (a woman I had known through a previous work connection was there remembering her mother who died after a 3-month battle with skin cancer). 

Pre-4th-of-July brightness.

Just before the 4th, we went up to San Juan Island for a few days while Aunt Kara was in town and to celebrate Bill's 52nd birthday (who doesn't look a day over 45, if he's had a good nights sleep). As a surprise for Kara and birthday gift for Bill from Dad, the two of them arrived on the island via a Kenmore Air sea plane which took off from south Lake Union just a couple miles from our Seattle house, and landed in Friday Harbor about 30 minutes later! Dad and I drove up with the boys - we had a pretty easy trip, but total travel time for us was more like 5 hours once you add in the wait for the ferry (have to arrive a couple hours early during peak summer time). A few shots from our trip.

Heading down the path to the lighthouse at Lime Kiln Point State Park, San Juan Island.

Kara out on the rocks while Bill and Yuri poke around in the tide pools.

Dad/Papau with Gareth.

Family photo with Vancouver Island in the background.

I just miss her

I just miss her. Everything. One of my nightly rituals, while Gareth is still young, is nursing him and rocking him before his bedtime. It also serves as a time that I can think about Mom without distraction and just be with my emotions.

Often I will go back to how I felt when I was young and in her arms - how she would hold me with my head snugly against her chest so that I could hear her voice as she talked. The sound of her voice echoing through her chest would lull me to sleep on many occasions. She was the absolute most comfortable and safest place to be as a child. I was a very shy child, and sensitive, so it was more than just a comfortable lap - it served as my safe place which eventually gave me the security and confidence to be more independent as I grew older. I never felt abandoned - she was fully invested in my emotional and intellectual well-being. I think about that as I rock Gareth and as Yuri comes to me for more hugs these days.

One of the greatest losses for Yuri will be his grandmother's intuitive and tender way of dealing with him. Although his personality is polar opposite of what mine was at that age, Mom was a safe place for him. She understood him in a way that I sometimes struggled to as he worked through the developmental struggles that come with being a pre-schooler. Without her, he clings to me much more. Maybe it is a phase he would have gone through anyway, but he has some fear that I might abandon him, as it must have felt when his grandma was suddenly not around for him when he needed her. Tonight when I left the house for a meeting at his bedtime he made me promise several times that I would come back. He followed me down the hall, and with a scold-like tone that any parent might have with their teenage daughter about to leave the house, said "You be sure to come back, Mommy. You come RIGHT BACK after your meeting." It took several rounds of me promising and reassuring as I made my way to the front door.

And the greatest loss to me is that I no longer have the person who understood me the best to guide me as a parent - something I desperately needed from her. The past three years she continued to provide me  with that safe place where I could turn during my times of feeling unsure about how I was doing as a parent, in a way that only she could because she knew me so well.

Life was that good

6/6/13
I should have written last night when I couldn't go to sleep, but instead I just lay there thinking about Mom, trying to hear her voice speaking to me and trying to bring her into my dreams. I think it was because I had just gotten back from a meeting for Gareth's upcoming co-op toddler class which will start in the fall. She would have loved to hear about it, as she did with Yuri's preschool and her close following of Teacher Tom's blog. Early childhood education was so important to her, so much a part of who she was - and it was a treat to her to get to be a part of her grandsons' development that way.

I miss calling her at the end of a busy day to re-cap with her and catch up before going to bed. We would do this a lot this past year, even though we lived so close. For some reason our closeness in proximity made it even more important for us to not go to bed without wrapping up the day with a text or a call, especially if we hadn't seen each other that day. I now feel the same way with Dad - it feels odd if a full day goes by without talking to him, though that is fortunately rare.

One of the things I replayed in my head last night was Mom expressing what it meant to her to be living in Seattle and being an active part of my family. Before her diagnosis, when we thought it was pneumonia, I had come over to their place briefly with Gareth. She didn't want to get too close to him at that time since she didn't know if she was contagious, but she still got close enough to interact a bit and get him to respond in his delighted way. As I was leaving, she and Dad walked us to the door and she paused and almost exclaimed how she could just hardly believe that this was her reality - that she got to be living here and watching her grandsons grow before her very eyes. I think she said something to the effect that she could just pinch herself. Life was that good to her. And it was also her way of telling me (as she did many times) just how much she appreciated that we wanted them out here and "allowed" them to be such a big part of our lives. The feeling was mutual; their move to Seattle was what allowed us, really, to have the family we always wanted.

Mother's Day

A year ago tomorrow Mom and I went out to brunch at Portage Bay cafe to celebrate Mother's Day. I was about to burst (with a Gareth still in my belly) and we enjoyed our most-wonderful french toast and trip to the toppings bar. It was something I imagined we would make a tradition for years to come. I remember how we laughed at the couple sitting next to us who didn't talk to each other the entire time (an older couple - he was reading, I believe). They didn't talk until their food arrived at which point the woman noticed how cold her husband's (?) oatmeal was. She insisted he send it back for a new bowl. He could have cared less -  (in fact, I think he continued reading), but she summoned the waitress to get it returned for a hotter bowl of oatmeal. Mom and I then had fun watching the servers expedite the food from under the warming lights and we realized how inefficient they were and hoped our food wouldn't arrive cold as well. But, we still loved that place. It had become our family's go-to.  Dad and Mom would go together, we'd all go, we went when friends/family were in town, we went for special occasions. Just one of many things we did. Just one of the many things that now seems impossible to do again without Mom.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. Although I am a mother, my boys aren't at the age where days like this really mean much, and I don't expect them to. I've been trying to avoid the incessant attempts by retailers and advertisers to remind me to 'find the perfect gift for Mom so that she knows how much you love her'. In the past they might have piqued my interest - in particular, if it meant arranging a mother-daughter spa day, but now those messages feel like a punch in the gut. Instead, when my inbox started to be inundated with those ads, I used the opportunity to clean-house and unsubscribe from a slew of e-mail lists (as though I subscribed in the first place).

But I wonder what we would have done together tomorrow. Even when we learned that Mom had cancer, my mind raced ahead 2 - 3- 4 months and I thought about those special days and what we could do to celebrate, even if it would be the last time. Dad's birthday - Yuri's birthday - Mother's Day - Gareth's birthday - Mom's birthday. But, it all ended with Dad's birthday. I remember when one of the doctors had nearly guaranteed Mom that she'd be back out in her garden to get it looking good for the summer - and how mom just looked so relieved to know she'd have that chance again. Digging in the soil was therapy for her; it would have felt so healing for her to sink her hands in the dirt and get lost in the mechanics of digging and transplanting and weeding and imagining...

So tomorrow Dad and I will do our part to honor Mom by filling her planters with annuals - something both of us have been wanting to do, but neither of us strong enough to do alone. Today I picked up red geraniums - a staple of my parent's summer landscape for as long as I can remember.

I could write so much more. It's not for lack of thoughts or emotions about Mom that I haven't been writing more frequently, but quite the opposite. It has been hard to organize my thoughts and emotions these last weeks. Riding the wave, I guess.

All the firsts

This has been a hard couple of weeks. In some ways, it feels like we're adjusting - making progress towards this new "different" - but, in other ways we are just constantly reminded of what we're missing as another season unfolds before us.

I missed Mom when I saw my daffodil patch come into full bloom shortly after her death. I missed her even more when the last one wilted and slowly faded away this week.

I missed Mom when planning for Yuri's 3rd birthday. She was at the center of it last year. I did it, boat-cake and all, but felt "off" that day.

He was a happy birthday boy! 

I missed Mom when I pulled out the winter vegetables she had planted in our garden to make room for our summer garden. She would be out there nearly every day in this beautiful weather, hands and knees, covered in dirt and digging for worms with Yuri.

I miss Mom when I look out to the pond and see the apple tree with beautiful blossoms. I remember last year how full my heart was at this time of year -- anticipating Gareth's arrival, watching Mom and Yuri gardening in the tiered beds Bill had just completed.

I took this picture last Spring. That is Yuri and Mom, working together in the garden.

I missed Mom today when I couldn't find the planter with the hosta she had planted when we moved in to this house. Then, I found the planter -- sitting empty next to the deck. Bill may be the guilty party, or perhaps Yuri. But, I was sad that it got thrown out when I was looking forward to seeing the hosta again this year. Especially this year. If Mom were here, she would have laughed as I complained about Bill not caring about my "flowering" plants, and we would have found something else to put in the planter.

I missed Mom when Yuri had a 105.7 fever last night. If she knew he was sick before going to bed, she'd for sure be checking her phone for texts that night and I likely would have gotten a reassuring text from her.

I miss Mom when I just want her to say, come here Bethy, sit next to me and tell me why you look so sad.

Weekend brightness.

Gareth relaxing on Grandpa's lap after a Friday nap.

After returning home from a stroller ride, Gareth wanted to linger in his stroller, playing with the straps. Then he started doing his happy snorting thing...

And, a nice laugh to follow.

Yuri has been paying me compliments lately on my fashion choices. When I wear a vest that Aunt Kara purchased for me, he says "Mommy, you look style-y!" And, "You look like Aunt Kaya!" In this picture he is commenting on his own style, saying he looks like a movie star. 

Our favorite boutique + hail storm.

Yesterday afternoon Gareth and I almost got stuck in an epic torrential hail storm which unleashed on Seattle in late afternoon. We had gone down to Fremont, and as I was pondering heading up the hill to go back home, I looked up at the dark sky, saw a bright flash followed by a loud crack of thunder.

The hail came fierce and fast.

So, I quickly headed into a favorite boutique. While at the boutique, I looked at lockets, since Kara and I have been talking about and looking for lockets that would allow us to remember Mom while carrying a bit of her hair with us. This is the same boutique where Bill and I purchased my wedding band at almost four years ago; the same boutique that Mom purchased Yuri's first winter hat (that Gareth still wears); the same boutique that Mom purchased Gareth's blankie and stuffed animal tiger. In some ways I think I might like to purchase one from this boutique since Mom seemed to enjoy finding quality items here (usually only if it was a great deal, of course). But, it is filled with sadness for me, too, when I think that instead of her looking at earrings here with me for Mother's Day, that I am now looking at a locket to house a small piece of what remains of her physical self.

As most people scurried to find cover during the hail storm, Yuri insisted on standing out in it, scantily  clad. This is how I found him when I returned home, sweeping the snow/ice of the deck.

Playing boat.

This morning Yuri and I were playing in the living room. Playing some version of "boat," which evolved from "tent" which evolved from "blanket" which far as I can tell originates back to December 2011 when Grandma and Grandpa were staying with us before they had a place to live. I believe Mom is to be blamed for teaching him this game; it kept him occupied while he wanted to be with them in their room (aka: kept him from messing with things he shouldn't mess with). He has forever been a lover of blankets since that time. Not the worst thing, just means we have blankets strewn about the house, picking up cat hair and detritus.

As we were playing, a picture I had recently leaned up against our wedding picture caught his eye.
"I see somebody!" he said.
"Who do you see?" I asked.
He paused, clicking his tongue as he does when he isn't sure he wants to say anything.
Then, he said, "Kay!" Then, "I sang a song about Grandma in my bed last night."
I asked, "How did the song go?"
He replied, "I can only sing the song in my bed, and I'm not it my bed."
Then he said, "You know what you do when you are sad?"
"What do you do?"
"You go like this-" [opened his mouth, looked down and did a little throaty noise]
"Are you sad? Why are you sad?"
Whispering, "Grandma Kay is reaallly sick."

[Of course, with Yuri, the conversation didn't happen as fast as it goes when you read it. There was plenty of shuffling his things under and behind and over the blankets...]

I let the conversation end there - partly because I was crying, but I also wanted him to lead the conversation how he needed to. It felt good to hear Yuri talk about his feelings. It seemed like he was happy, almost happier, after having seen her picture there (it was a picture he was in). He played so well the rest of the morning. Grandpa came over soon after and we had quite the enjoyable musical (mostly vocal) concert as Yuri "composed" several songs for us, directing us with a baton or free-hand (like the Russian conductors), sometimes asking us to sing along and sometimes performing solo.

Act-ly, I do remember that.

I tend to think that most people will look at the ages of my children and think, "Oh, that's really too bad that they won't ever know their Grandma." I can understand that thought, as it has crossed my mind in a panic on more than one occasion. But, I also think it isn't totally true. Actually (as Yuri would say - "Act-ly"), I know that Yuri has very real and vivid memories of his Grandma Kay that I bet he will carry as he goes through life.

They truly had a special bond. A "Grandma hug" could always make the world right again.

He's proved to us time and again that although toddlers have only "episodic" or "short term" memory, that this toddler can stretch those boundaries. Where are those scissors I put 6 months ago? "Don't worry, I'll find them Mommy." Or, more recently, heading back up to San Juan Island after not having been there for five months, Yuri knew exactly what bath toys he had last time he bathed there (and wouldn't have a thing to do with the bath until we found that boat!). Incidentally, Grandma was with us the last time we were on San Juan. Yuri remembered that. They way I knew was when we sat down for dinner and there was an empty chair and he asked "Who is that chair for?" He wanted us to say "Grandma, silly!" but, we were too realistic and said, "Oh, it is just an extra chair since you are sitting on the stool."

Yuri likes to process things and he does this by retelling a story over and over again or asking the same questions over and over again. Considering he can still tell the story of his trip to Gasworks Park in great detail - Grandma and Grandpa took him there in January - he is certainly still replaying the trips to the hospital to see Grandma, us talking to him about how grandma was very very sick, and dying - just four weeks ago.

Yuri can still go on in great detail about the old Gasworks, and how daddy needs to go there to fix it.

His mind is working in overdrive trying to come up with a story or a reason why Grandma is not around any more. I doubt it is in the same way we think of her or about her, but when he is confronted with those times and spaces that Grandma once occupied I can see him trying to process it. He's still a two-year-old with tantrums and behaviors that can be explained away as typical developmental growing pains, but that aside, we see things that show how affected he has been by the loss of this person so special to him. He misses her and remembers her just as much as we do at this moment. I hope we can help him to continue to keep Grandma's memory alive so that he can draw from that love as he goes through life, just as we will continue to draw from our memories of Mom as we go through the remainder of ours.

when?

We were devastated by the diagnosis. But we thought we'd have months - maybe a year if we were lucky. Even the doctors thought she'd have a bit of a rebound. Besides, they kept saying how strong and healthy she appeared for having such a severe illness. She looked too good to be actively dying. Instead, it was weeks. Weeks that flew by filled by moments that made the days bleed into one another. We have since played that timeline over and over again in our head.

Feb 17. She felt like she was coming down with something for about a week - maybe the flushot hadn't worked this year - so she went to the doctor and they thought maybe it was pneumonia. But her leg also had started to hurt and she didn't think she had done anything to injure it. Two days later she was in the hospital when an ultrasound showed a severe blood clot. That night it was likely cancer. A few days later we learned it was an aggressive adenocarcinoma of the lung that had metastasized to her liver. A few days after that we were sitting hopeful in one of the best cancer centers in the country as the doctor talked about Tarceva, a miracle drug of sorts for certain people who have a particular gene mutation (please, let Mom have that mutation). The next day we were again devastated after her blood work showed that her liver was not strong enough for treatment. (Mom was actually relieved, she was already so tired and weak). Two days after that she was no longer able to speak, though she did continue to acknowledge us through hand squeezes and some slight movements for a few more days. A week and a half later she died. Mar 17.

The doctors who worked with Mom for several days while she was at University of Washington Medical Center - who were amazing, by the way - told us not to spend time trying to figure out the "when's" of the cancer. That made sense then, when Mom was still around and living her life and hopeful to be around for us as long as she could. But, now that she is gone, it is hard not to. 

Was the cancer there when they moved out to Seattle last year?

Had it spread by the time Gareth was born?

Was she already dying when she took me to the doctor at the end of January because I was so so sick and needed my mama's lap to lay on in the waiting area? 

five weeks.

It has been five weeks since I last heard Mom's voice. That's not yet quite a record. When I was in Mali in college for a semester it was longer. But at least then I got letters (though several weeks removed from when they were written). And at least then I knew that Mom was thinking about me constantly and that she would be there to give me a giant hug when I returned. And vice versa. At least then she was alive.

I've had this photo of Mom on my desk since college. I think she is in her early 20's here.  I  always  wished I could be as beautiful as my mama with those amazing movie-star dimples that she had. Genuine, punctuated happiness.

I don't remember the last words she spoke to me. If I would have known they were to be the last, believe me I would have remembered. I'm sure they weren't anything profound, as that wasn't how we communicated. But what I do remember are those last hugs and smiles and hand squeezes. I remember how she interacted with Yuri and Gareth up until she was no longer able to. The doctors had told her to save her energy for things that were important to her; she saved her energy for family - especially those boys. That is the brightness that remains in my mind when I think about her and her life. And it is those memories and that brightness that will somehow propel me forward.

During the three days she was able to be at home after her diagnosis, she fully embraced having Yuri and Gareth near her, playing and delighting in each other.