Tag Archives: Mom

It’s Time


It’s been nine long months since I last posted.

My mind and heart have been spinning in a whirlwind of emotions ever since.

However, it’s time…

It’s time to release ALL the words. It’s time to get my emotions out in the open. It’s time for me to share what’s been on my mind and heart.

I’m going to try my best to not have a filter, which is very hard for me. I always think of who may read my blog and hold back accordingly. I will be as honest as I can be, which means it will inevitably bother some people, but these are my words, from my heart, from my mind, going onto my page. I can’t, and won’t, apologize for what’s inside me.

So, here I go…

This past year has been very hard for me. Most everyone knows I lost my mom last April, which turned my world upside down.

Trying to get to South Carolina in time… the excruciating pain of not being able to say “I love you” one last time… not being able to hold her hand and say goodbye before she passed away–  it’s all burned in my heart, mind, and soul.

It happened way too fast. (If you want to read the post I wrote about it, go here.)

I don’t think my heart has ever hurt so badly in my life. No… I know so. I swear it felt like my heart was glass and had shattered into tiny pieces everywhere.

My mom was the one person in my life who knew me inside and out. She always understood me. She loved me unconditionally. She never made me feel like I should be or act like anyone but myself. She had a way of knowing what I was thinking and feeling, even though I was hundreds of miles away. She would check in on me like a mom, but listened like a friend. I always knew I could call and talk to her until I couldn’t talk anymore, and everytime before hanging up, she would say, “I always love our talks and I love you.”

I would give anything to hear those words again.

Weeks after her death, I felt an emotion creep inside me. I wasn’t all that surprised, but when mixed with grief, it’s all encompassing and taxing.


I was so angry.

If only she would have gone to the doctor sooner. If only the large bruises, nosebleeds, fatigue, and horrible headaches would have SCREAMED, “GET TO THE DOCTOR, NOW!” If only she had gotten a second opinion after the first time she went to the doctor. If only she hadn’t gone on a trip and stayed home and listened to what her body was trying to tell her.

If only… I may not have lost my mom.

Yes, beating cancer would have been a long road, and it wouldn’t have been easy, but she would have fought so hard. She wasn’t ready to go. She wasn’t.


One thing that pisses me off about grief is how people try to quantify it. You can’t do that. You can’t say your grief is bigger and deeper than anyone else’s. By doing that, you belittle the grief of those around you. You should respect how others are feeling. Respect their breaking hearts. Respect the depth of how much they’re hurting. You can’t do that while saying you’re grieving more.


There are other things that have truly gotten to the core of me during this grieving process… things I wasn’t ready for, and still aren’t ready for, but… to use my husband’s words… it is what it is.


It’s hard to overcome, but I’m working on it as much as I possibly can. I’ve learned I need to rid myself of the anger to allow as much room as possible in my heart for Mom’s loving memory. That’s what matters the most.

Now, onto to the next feeling, that when mixed with grief, and anger, it’s even more encompassing and taxing.


What do I feel guilty about? Let me list the ways….

Over the last year:

I’ve been a horrible friend.

I’ve been a horrible daughter, sister, sister-in-law, granddaughter, aunt…

I don’t call enough.

I don’t message enough.

I’ve been a bit of a hermit.

I go from happy to sad in a millisecond.

I clam up.

I don’t know how to express myself like I used to.

I know… I know… “Amy, don’t feel guilty over these things. They’re normal during the grieving process.”

I get that. I really do. However, I can’t deny I feel guilty ALL THE TIME.


I apologize to everyone close to me for how distant I’ve been. Staying in my little bubble has been a protective shelter and I know I need to pop the bubble at some point.

I hold onto guilt more than I do anger, so I need to work hard on letting it go. It’s a process, just as everything else has been, and that’s okay.

The next phase of grief is coming toward me. I feel it inching its way in. I’m sure it’ll be snail-like in its progress, but I will welcome it…


I know the loss of my mom will always be a part of me. I will never get over her not being physically in my life, nor would I want to.

I love her so very much. We had a special relationship and I miss her to the deepest part of my heart.

I’m so blessed to have had such an amazing woman as a mom and friend.


She comes to me in my dreams often. I can feel her during my simple days and my hard days. I feel her when she’s proud of me. I feel her wrap her arms around me when I’m sad. I feel her laugh when I laugh. I feel her smile down on me when she knows I’m happy.

I feel her.

And, for that, I’m so thankful.

I may not be able to pick up the phone and call her, but I can speak to her amazing spirit and know she hears me, which heals a small piece of me each and every day.


My beautiful mom, Judi Thompson, while on a cruise with my husband and me.

Before I sign off, I need to give love and thanks to my husband.

Chris, you are my rock. You have been so patient, loving, giving, supportive, and understanding. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thank you for loving me. — I love you.

For the last words of this post, I want to quote one of my favorite authors. She says it well…

“A daughter without her mother is a woman broken. It is a loss that turns to arthritis and settles deep into her bones.” — Kristin Hannah

Continue to rest in peace, Mom. I love you.



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Filed under March 2017

Just on the other side…


Mornings are bleary.

Nights hurt like hell.

The in-between is lack luster.

Something is most definitely missing.

Being forced into the grieving world, one I’ve never been in like this before, is like being pushed into a pool during a Vermont winter’s night.

It stings. It shocks. It numbs.

Even though I know how to dog paddle, swim, and even breast-stroke,  I can’t quite get to other side. Through the flaying arms of grief, through trying to float on my back, through the tears of fear, I need a life-saver.

There are these moments– sometimes, they’re only 30 seconds… sometimes, they’re 30 minutes… but not much more– these moments quickly go by where I’m brushing my teeth, I’m working out, grocery shopping, working on edits, and in the midst of the moment, I forget I’m grieving. Life has happened.

When I smile, or laugh, is when I pop out of it, and realize I’m feeling not sad. I question the happiness.

There are moments I cave, begin to cry again, and fall back in the pool.

Then, sometimes, there’s a nudge… a twist of the shoulder.

Amy, go with it. I want you to laugh. I want you to smile.

And, I do…  Example:

Just the other day, I responded to a text about what Chris and I are doing for Fourth of July. Normally, it’d seem like a boring, neutral text, right? Well, not so much with Maeghan. Before I know it, we’re sending voice texts back and forth of nothing but laughter. I laughed until I cried and none of the tears were from sadness.

Laughs are the tiny cracks in grief. They allow for breath, reprieve from the fog, a quick lesson in life, which is, life has to continue.

Mom has been so close by. She’s been just beyond the veil of life… so close, I feel like I can touch her. I know I’ve felt her hug me. I know I’ve felt the brush of her fingers on my arm. I know she’s been there to pull me out of a hard cry when I’m gasping for air.

From just beyond… on the other side, a slight whisp of air touches my ear. No, not literally, but almost… almost.

It’s so clear, I hear…

Breathe, Amy. Breathe. I’m here. Just breathe.

When I’m floundering in the pool of grief, Mom throws me a life saver.

I choose to believe she has a lifetime supply of those touches and whispers. I know I’ll need them for as long as I live.

Yes, for now, in this early phase of grief, I’ll need a lot.

As time goes, I’ll need fewer.

Then, BAM, it’ll all creep back, and I’ll end up in the pool again.

She’ll be there.

The funny thing about the pool and lifesaver analogy is… Mom wasn’t a fan of water or swimming. She hardly ever got in the deep end of the pool.

Thankfully, she was great at life, and being a mom. She can be my lifeguard from the other side any day. Whether she quietly brushes by, or takes hold, and shakes me, I’ll welcome her.

I’ll ride freely through the ups and downs. I’ll feel the sadness. Cry. Scream. Laugh. Cry again. But, no matter what, I won’t stop riding.

Until next time…














Filed under May 2016


Tuesday, April 26th 

*Phone Rings*


“Amy, this is dad.”

From the sound of his voice, I knew something was wrong.

“What’s going  on?”

“Well, they had to admit your mom into the hospital. They didn’t like what they saw in her blood work. They also called in the oncologist.”

My heart sank. My body began to shake.

Once we hung up, I immediately opened Google. (Yeah, yeah… I know it’s the endless hole of doom when searching symptoms, but I had to do it.)

I googled all her symptoms: headaches, nose bleeds, bruising for no apparent reason (her bruises were large and all over), fatigue, and weakness.

I didn’t like what I read… APML (Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia) was the first five results that popped up.

My stomach churned. I felt sick.

*Phone rings*

My brother’s phone number… not good.

“Hey, bro.”

“Amy, they had to put mom in the ICU.”

“Oh, no! Okay… okay… I’ll start packing now.”

I frantically began throwing stuff in a suitcase.

*Phone rings*

It’s dad.

“Amy, your mom has leukemia. She also has bleeding on the brain and they’ll have to do surgery once they get her platelets up.”

“Okay. Okay. Um… ” My brain is spinning.

“It’s a type of leukemia that has a 90% survival rate if caught soon enough, so they’re starting treatment ASAP.”

My heart raced and I thought it would pump right out of my chest. I wanted to jump in the car and start driving at that very moment, but since it was such a long drive and it was already 7pm, we all decided getting on the road early the next morning would be best.

Early Wednesday morning, I got on the road, and it was a blur of a drive.

The progression of phone calls went like this (of course paraphrased):

Late morning:

“Mom’s head doesn’t hurt as bad and she’s a bit more coherent. They may not even have to do surgery.”

Early afternoon:

“Mom’s having a hard time breathing and panics with the oxygen mask on. They’re going to sedate her and put her on a respirator.”

This is the point where I got an even more sickening feeling.

“This is bad. Really bad.” I talked to myself and began to cry.  There was a feeling in my gut that I couldn’t deny.

Early evening:

“Amy, they can’t regulate mom’s blood pressure and there are some other major things going on and they need to put her on life support. They’re hoping this will stabilize her.”

“What? No way!”

“I know. Just dive safely and come straight to the hospital instead of going to Dad’s first.”

It hit me like a ton of bricks. My whole body shook uncontrollably. Tears streamed down my face. I had to take short, quick breaths to get any air into my lungs. I wanted to drive faster, but couldn’t.

I screamed, “Mama! Please, hang on. Please!”

When I was just outside of Charlotte, it began pouring rain, lightning, and thundering. I had to slow down, yet again. (I forgot to mention, I had gone through four traffic jams, which had already added two hours to my drive.)

Once I got through the storm, about ten minutes later, Chris called.

“Amy,” long pause…

I knew what he was going to say.

“Amy, do you want to pull over?”

“No. Just tell me. Just tell me.”

“Amy, your mom has passed away.”


I didn’t make it. I didn’t get there in time. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to kiss her cheek and hold her hand. I didn’t get to say, “I love you, mom” just one more time.

Mom passed away at 9:03pm– during that bad storm I drove through.

She’s gone.

She’s gone.

How can it be?

She’s gone.

How could it be that the next few days we’d be picking out the outfit she’d wear, the casket she’d rest in, and the kind of service she’d have. How could it be that I’d have to find strength to drive to the funeral home to see her one last time? Once we got there,  I couldn’t do it. I tried, but I got about ten feet from the casket and fell apart. There was no way I could see mom that way. No way at all.

I cried, “I can’t do it. I can’t. I just can’t.”

Chris put his arms around me, and whispered, “Amy, it’s okay. You don’t have to.”

I tried again when we got to the church for the memorial. Again, I couldn’t do it. I got, maybe, one step closer than I had earlier, but fell apart again. I couldn’t even put the letter I wrote her in the casket. Chris had to do it for me.

I hugged into Chris’ arms. “I’m not strong enough.”

“This isn’t about being strong,” he whispered.

Those words… so perfect and true.

The memorial and funeral were beautiful… if such a service can be beautiful. Lots of flowers. Lots of memories flashing on big screens. One minute, I was numb. The next, I was laughing at a memory someone talked about as they hugged me. Then, there were a lot of moments of pure excruciating pain and tears.  It felt like I was walking through a horrible, horrible nightmare.

Seeing my dad lose his best friend and soulmate is horrible (they were together a total of 50 years). Seeing my brother and sister-in-law having to comfort their three boys while they cry their little hearts out because they’ve lost Grammy is horrible. Seeing friends and family mourn the loss of such a beautiful, caring, loving, genuine, kindhearted woman is horrible.

It doesn’t seem fair. She deserved more time. She had more life to live.

To be honest, I really don’t want to hear, “Everything happens for a reason” or “It was her time to go.”

Sorry. My head and heart can’t go there.

I want her back. Period. PERIOD!

Losing her so unexpectedly, so quickly, so abruptly weighs heavy on my heart and soul. She was the constant, always there, string of thread in my life. She couldn’t wait to hear any good news I may have– big or small. If I had something upsetting, unsettling, or hurtful to share with her, she’d always pass a ray of sunshine my way or a piece of practical, usable motherly advice. She deeply felt my happiness or sadness, even from a thousand miles away. Her motherly intuition was always set on high. There were many times she’d message or call before I had a chance to let her know something was on my mind and heart, which never ceased to amaze me.

This is the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. In the matter of a nanosecond, it makes me sick to my stomach when I think about how I can’t call her and have four hour long conversations anymore. Heck, I’d take a thirty second call. I can’t reach out to her, my best friend, when I need words of love and encouragement. I can’t message her a simple “I love you. I hope you have a good day.”

I could go on and on with all the things I’ll miss. I know there won’t be a day that goes by when I won’t think of her. Yes, it makes me sad, but it also makes me happy. It means we had so much love between us that a day can’t exist without her.


I want to share the one thing that sticks out more than anything about my mom– She was the sweetest, kindest person… to everyone. I heard over and over at the funeral,”I never heard your mom speak a bad, unkind word about anyone.”

And that’s the truth. She was genuinely nice to her core.

The following was sent to my dad via private message and I asked for permission to use it in my post and she said it would be okay. This is the epitome of who my mom was:

“I wanted to tell you about a kindness Judi showed me in high school. I wasn’t at all popular and was getting married right after high school and a lot of people bullied me for that and other reasons. One day when that was going on, your precious Judi stepped up out of nowhere and told those people to leave her friend alone. She saved my sanity, Allen. I was begging my parents to let me get my GED but thanks to your lovely saint of a wife, I didn’t have to. I went on to finish my education at Spartanburg Tech with no problem at night after work but I wanted you to know this. Please remember the good times; that’s what got me through.”

Yep… that’s my mama.

I’m so proud to be her daughter and I’m so thankful I had such a loving relationship with her. I will miss her so very much. Actually, much more than that. There’s not a word in the dictionary to fully express how much I will ache in her absence from this world. I will have to depend on all the wonderful, fun, happy, loving memories. There’s enough of those to have one (or two or three) each and every day.

I have a feeling there’s much more to say, much more to write, but it’ll have to wait. For now, I just need to feel and write as I go. I’m still in the phase of, “This isn’t really happening, right?”

Living my life without my mama just doesn’t seem real…


Mama, thank you for being more than a mom. Thank you for being my best friend. Thank you for all the tears you let me cry. Thank you for all the laughter we had. Thank you for loving me unconditionally. Thank you for always supporting me. Thank you for being you. I love you.







Filed under May 2016