Tag Archives: sadness

It’s Time

sunflower

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.

Anger.

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.

Anger.

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.

Anger.

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.

Anger.

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.

Guilt.

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.

Guilt.

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…

Healing.

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.

Healing.

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.

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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…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under May 2016

Some.

Some will take every chance they can to point your weaknesses, instead of your strengths.

Some want to lower you, so they can appear above you.

Some won’t celebrate your accomplishments, but will definitely relish in your failures.

Some will call you a name, one that’s so far from who you really are, that it proves they don’t know you like you thought they did.

Some won’t reach out to you when you’re hurting and going through a difficult time, but will definitely show up when things are fabulous.

Some never see your tears or hear your breaking heart.

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These “some” are the cause for silence and exiting. These “some” need to know you take your shortcomings head-on and are quite aware of every single one of your faults.  Seriously, every single fault is burned in the memory, especially after being pointed out on more than two or three occasions. These “some” need to know you admit to being part of the unraveling. Yep, absolutely. Absofreakinglutely.

Life is too short to feel less-than in any relationship. Keep hold of the good memories and let go of the negatives. But, in doing that, you may have to move on. A broken heart can heal, but the scars may not be strong enough to keep things going.

This is okay. Life changes and people change.

If they are so very exhausted, and they feel so strangled by the friendship/relationship, why should you stay?

Don’t hold onto bitterness. Don’t hold onto anger. Breathe in positivity, and release the negative that’s weighing you down.

Give forgiveness. Accept forgiveness. And, believe it or not, sometimes, the asking and receiving of forgiveness is silent.

Until next time…

Everyday mediation:

Love life. Be Kind. Be genuine. Eliminate the negative, false, and vain. Peace, love, and happiness to all. 

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Filed under March 2015

Sweet Memories and Saying Goodbye

Grief.

It’s a small word. A quick word… yet it holds tons inside its five letters.

Pain, sadness, confusion, heartbreak, sorrow, anguish, loss– it’s definitely a loaded, complex, heavy word.

The feeling of it… the feeling of it… the feeling of it…. How do you put that into words? I don’t know if I can.

As my beloved Nana is nearing her last days, all the feelings of sadness and loss are raw, and right at the surface. The grief of knowing she won’t be there anymore when I step into their home, the one I’ve known all my life, the one that holds many, many, many memories with her, it hurts. That house is Nana and Papa’s house, and always will be, but she won’t be there. That saddens me. I have to remember, that just because her earthly body won’t be there, she will still be there, no matter what.

Memories of my sweet Nana– the wonderful, lovely memories– they will always make me smile, laugh, and yes, cry.

* Her love of the color fuchsia.

* Her always matching her lipstick, blouses, and pants perfectly. I mean, perfectly. It was a talent. Our trips to Hamrick’s were an adventure… trust me!

* Her scrambled eggs. She made THE best scrambled eggs. I have tried and tried and tried for YEARS to get my eggs like hers, but it proves to be impossible.

* Her never-ending quest to collect umbrellas. No matter where we went, she had to buy an umbrella. Yesterday, my mom was going through some drawers in Nana’s dresser, and found a stash of at least ten, small, never-used, still in the packaging, umbrellas. I couldn’t help but laugh.

* Her quick-witted words. She always had a good come back. Just yesterday, as we were surrounding her bed, papa leaned over, gave her a kiss on the lips, and told her “that was the best sugar I’ve had all day”. Even in her sickly state, she mumbled, “It better be.” That’s my nana!!

* Piddling. She could piddle around in her purse for hours. Sometimes, I don’t think she really knew what she was looking for, but she could always pull something out that she had forgotten about. It could be a packet of jelly from Hardee’s or a mint from the fish camp. Heck, if you ever needed a toothpick, it may have taken her ten minutes to find it, but she’d get you a darn toothpick.

* Her making my Christmas nightgowns. Every Christmas Eve, Dena (my angel of a cousin who passed when I was 21) and I would get a nightgown that Nana handmade for us to wear for Santa’s arrival. We’d run to the back bedroom and change into them before leaving nana and papa’s house. That way, when we got home, all we had to do was run straight to bed. Oh, the excitement of putting on those long, warm, gowns… the perfect ending to what was always a fun celebration on Christmas Eve.

*Her hands. Nana always had beautiful, slender, soft hands. And yesterday, I was able to hold and kiss them for the last time.

I hate to talk about her in the past tense already, but all-in-all, her mind and body are already making their transition to the spirit world, where she will gain her wings, and be my angel.

The next few days, weeks, and months will be tough, but knowing she will be out of pain and will no longer suffer from the horrible disease of dementia, will comfort us as a family. And knowing she will always be a part of us–will always have her beautiful handprints on our soul– will keep us smiling at the beautiful memories she will leave behind.

I love you, Nana. I’ll see you again, but until then, please visit me. Please send me a sign you’re there. Heck, feel free to piddle in my purse. I don’t mind. I’ll even put some fuchsia lip stick in there for you.

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Filed under March 2015