Tag Archives: sadness

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…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3 Comments

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.

broken

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. 

3 Comments

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.

18 Comments

Filed under March 2015