The Dance

My brother will never dance with my mom at his wedding.

It’s weird how that is one of the things that resonates so strongly with me.  That thought first hit me when my mom was laying in the hospital during her last days, and it has come back to me often.

A moment.  That will never be.  Lost.

I’ve cried for that lost moment many times.  

Dancing with Joe at my wedding

My brother, Joseph’s relationship with my mom was very different than mine.  They didn’t talk every day.  They drove each other simultaneously crazy.  My mom with her hovering, my brother with his fierce independent streak.  They both struggled to be able to give the other what they needed.  

But they loved each other in the purest of  ways.  Fiercely.  My brother with the fiercest of loyalty and my mom with the fiercest of heart.  The two of them, beacons of strength.  So different but so the same.  

When my mom died it was Joseph that I worried the most for.  He’s the strong silent type keeping a lot inside.  A rock.  His silent sobs at her burial were my undoing.  My already broken heart shattered.  The weight of all the moments that would never be turned me inside out.

My brother will never dance with my mom at his wedding.

That sentence paralyzes me.  It is the very essence that haunts the inner corners of my heart.  A worry so deep I don’t know how to break its hold. 

Because,

I am a mom.

I have a son (I have two sons).

I will dance with them at their wedding. 

Letting Go

When my mom passed away she left a lot of stuff.  A LOT of stuff.  Too much stuff!

I knew my mom had an affinity for garage sales and TJ Maxx and Marshalls and specialty food stores and Lord and Taylors and well you get the picture.  She liked to shop.  It was something we all knew.  It was something we would tease her about from time to time.  But I don't think the full magnitude of her shopping sunk in until she was gone. 

I spent this weekend cleaning out my parent's house.  Trying to get it ready to sell.  Trying to help my Dad get out from under the weight of the house.  Trying to get myself out from under the weight of that house.  Clearing out that house has been a daunting and seemingly impossible task.  On Saturday we filled up a second dumpster and then continued to fill dozens of trash bags full of items to discard and items to donate.  I threw away hundreds (probably thousands) of dollars of out of date food.

I cycled between laughing at my mom, yelling at my mom and crying for my mom.

You see, I don't think my mom liked to shop, I think she needed to shop.  I think shopping was her coping mechanism.  I think when she felt lonely or sad or frightened or frustrated she headed out to buy something. 

In so many ways, my mom and I are alike.  We are both planners (that like to procrastinate in execution) we both like things a particular way and expect everyone else to fall in line.  We both look for ways to control our life in a World that seemed uncontrollable.   And we both have anxiety.  I know my mom had some anxiety.  She voiced some of it to me, but I don't think I ever realized, or she ever realized the magnitude of her anxiety.  I think it was greater than any of us ever understood. 

And it makes me sad.  It makes me sad to think that this strong vibrant woman carried this unspoken weight.  A weight that manifested itself in stuff.  Clothes and makeup and perfume and china sets and table clothes and jewelry and roosters (oh the roosters).

I wonder if the weight of all the stuff ever made her suffocate or if it usually brought her comfort.  I wonder if she really was filling a void in her life with stuff.  That's what it looks and feels like today.  And that thought brings tears to my eyes. 

For the last couple of years I have had a hard time letting go of my mom's stuff.  I have felt like I was betraying her, or being wasteful, or throwing pieces of her away.  But I'm coming to recognize that this stuff is not the part of my mom I want to hold onto.  This stuff is just that, stuff.   And it's the stuff that represented a part of my mom I think she hid from the World.  A secret struggle she didn't really want anyone to know about.  And I hate the stuff.  I hate it for what I think it represented to her, I hate it for the weight it carries for me and my family.  I hate it and I want it gone.  This weekend it wasn't as hard to throw stuff away.

I feel kind of guilty writing about this - like I'm sharing too much of my mom, but I think it's important to share.  It's important because I've come to realize even the strongest women have a chink in their armor.  Even the strongest women have problems.  Even the strongest women need help.  And I wish with all my heart I had known and would have talked to my mom about it.  Listened to her.  Helped her find the help she needed.  Helped her face and shed this weight.  And I hope, wherever she is, she is finally rid of it. 

This week - It's hard!

This week is hard.  

I'm trying to find the words for where I am right now but I'm at a loss. 

The memories of three years ago haunt me.  They feel more real right now.  

Three years ago. 

It feels like an eternity and a second at the same time.  It feels like forever ago that I last got to hug my mom.  It feels like ages since I heard her voice.  And at the same moment I cannot believe everything that has happened since I lost her.  All the moments she hasn't been here to share.  And I still reach for my phone to call her on my way home at night.

And I get angry.  So so so so so so freaking angry that she got robbed of these moments.  That I got robbed of these moments.  And sad. And tired. 

I'm not going to tie this post up with a pretty bow.  Find some big life lesson or attempt to have insight into my emotions.  Sometimes you just need to be mad.  And sad.  And tired.

Yeah, this week is hard!

Emily's Question

I recently wrote this post over at Merelymothers.  Emily left a comment and asked me to write about how I got through the toughest times and if I have any tips or ideas for facing such a loss.  Emily shared that her mom has been diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimers Disease.

Emily, if you are reading this, first let me say that I am so sorry that you and your mother have to face this.  And thank you for reaching out.  Loss is such a hard and lonely process.  It's so very personal and no one will ever experience loss the exact same way you will.

I cannot begin to understand the emotions you are feeling.  The loss of my mom was, in comparison, sudden and unexpected.  It was acute on every level.  I didn't have a long time to to think about what was to come.  To play the future over in my head.  I can only imagine that the anticipation of what is to come is overwhelming and all encompassing. 

I think it is important to put out there that I am by no means an expert in grief and loss.  Personally, I don't think I have necessarily faced the loss in my life all that gracefully.  I don't think that I have done it right.  So I feel completely unqualified to be giving advice. But I have spent an enormous amount of time reflecting on where I am and where I have been and there are some lessons I learned and some things I have worked on that I will share with you.  These may (or may not) resonate with you or anyone else who has faced loss but they come from my very personal grieving experience.

Be kind to yourself.  This is something I have struggled with in life.  I have always been very critical of how I handle situations - I was the same way (and still am) when dealing with grief.  It is OK not to be OK.  It is OK to give yourself the space and time to deal with your emotions, what ever they are, in the moment.  Don't judge your process - because remember, grief and loss is personal.  It is your journey, don't compare it to anothers, don't expect to follow a prescribed path.

Take care of yourself.  Physically.  Grief and loss is hard on your system.  It will wear you down.  Exhaust you.  Eat.  Sleep.  Even at the worst of times, things felt more manageable after a good night of sleep. 

Take care of yourself.  Emotionally.  I am a huge (HUGE) proponent of therapy.  There is nothing to be ashamed of in getting professional help.  A good therapist will be able to help you verbalize and navigate your feelings.     

Everyone else around you will be grieving and dealing with loss too and they will not deal with it the same way you do.  I remember when I lost my mom all I wanted was to reach out and to latch onto someone else.  I wanted someone else to love me the way my mom did.  I wanted someone else to understand me the way my mom did.  My first realization was that no one else around me was capable to doing that because they were processing the loss of my mom as well.  They were stuck in their grief.  The second thing I realized is that you can't avoid grief simply by replacing the lost love.  There is no replacement. 

Similarly, I had to give space for others that are grieving.  It's not a pretty process.  People facing loss are necessarily selfish.  Their whole being is encompassed with how the loss is affecting THEM.  I found that my capacity and the capacity of those around me to truly understand how others were affected was simply not there.  It is so easy to get into the "I loved her more" "I miss her more" "the loss is the worst for me" game.  When you feel yourself going there, or see someone else going there, take a step back.  Those feelings are real, but they can be hurtful.  Grief is hard enough without it being a competition.

Embrace small moments of happiness.  Oh, I remember how guilty I felt when I first felt joy after losing my mom.  I remember how hard it was to reconcile grief and joy.  But those small moments of happiness are so important for the healing process.  They start as tiny little glimmers.  Don't ignore the glimmers.

Sit in the grief.  Don't run from it.  It will find you.  Cry.  Cry hard.  Cry ugly.  I had to hit the bottom to start climbing back up. And I hit it time and time again.  It's  OK!

Grief for me has been a two step forward, one step back process. Slow progress.  I start feeling like I am coping and things are much much better just to fall down again.  It happens.  It happens a lot.  I think it's OK.

Something my therapist told me (remember I'm a big fan of those guys): I may have lost my mom but she lives inside me.  She is part of me.  And because I carry her with me she lives on.  As long as I love her, she lives on.  As long as I continue to be the person she raised me to be, she lives on. There are days that sounds like such bull shit.  But on other days I have found immense comfort in that. 

And I'll end with this - I have found it simply amazing just how strong the human soul is at the moment it feels the weakest. 

I have only now started to be able to connect with the experiences others have had with grief and loss.  I have only now begun to see little ways this awful terrible thing has made me stronger and more resilient.  In a millisecond I would give all that strength and resiliency back to have my mom here but I guess what I am trying to say is even though it feels like it never will - it does get better.  Even though it feels like you never will - you will laugh again.  Even though it feels like you can't do it - you can.  You will.  I did.  I am.

She's Up then She's Down

My mood swings have been epic this last week.

 I'm like a total Katy Perry song.  Have I ever told you that Sam looooooves Katy Perry.  When he was a new born California Girls could get him to stop crying. Now his favorite Sesame Street video is the banned Katy Perry video (Yup, hand over that Parent of the Year award)!  Anyway, where was I.

Oh, yes, my mood swings.  One minute I'm on the floor playing with the boys, the next minute I'm curled up in a ball crying.  One minute I'm laughing, the next minute I'm ready to take someone's head off.   Related to my mood is my absolute lack of patience. 

Lack of patience + mood swings + two toddlers = FAIL

I know that I'm going to have these stumbling blocks, these moments where I slip backwards.  But I don't want to.  Yesterday the boys were playing together.  Like really, laying on the ground both pushing trucks around, playing together.  And the sun was coming in the front window and I was all warm and glowy.  Because it was all just so perfect.

And then the sadness started to creep in.  It just started tugging at me, trying to pull me out of my warm and glowy place.  I didn't want to go.  I didn't want to give into the sadness because it was just too wonderful where I was.  So I pushed back against it.  I fought to stay in the moment, but I had already lost the moment.  I ended up in this weird kind of purgatory, straddling the joy and the sadness -- both pulling me in opposite directions -- both making it impossible to fully give into the other.   

I know I'm going to have these moments, days, weeks.  I know that grief is a process.  I know that it will probably be with me in some form for the rest of my life.  But I only have so many glowy moments and I'm sick of giving them up to the grief. 

And when I am being stretched to my limit by my emotions I struggle with my moods.  I become snappy and short fused and all the things I don't want to be which makes me frustrated which makes me more emotional which makes me more moody.  Anyone else exhausted?

And Just Like that I'm Right Back Where I Started

I am going up to NJ next weekend to help clean out my Mom and Dad's house.

Honestly, since my mom died it's so hard to be there. 

And despite how well I think I'm doing on a day to day basis I feel myself slipping as the weekend gets closer.

This is hard to write because I feel so guilty for feeling this way.  I feel like I should be in a better place by now.  And I worry that these feelings will hurt my family's feelings which is the last thing I would want to do.

My anxiety is taking over.  The weight of what needs to be done to get my parent's house ready to sell is suffocating.    I know I need to do it.  I know I need to be there.  It's just so hard.  Three years later it is still so hard.

And As I was walking today I realized that it was just about three years ago that I raced up to New Jersey to be with my mom as she lost her battle.  And it's all too real, too close, too raw. 

It's always been hard - going home.  This time seems especially hard.  Maybe it's because I'm starting to feel better.  Maybe it's because I have found a way to find a sense of peace.  Maybe I have held New Jersey at a distance to protect myself.  No, I definitely have held it at a distance to protect myself.  And to go back there will bring those feelings back -- the feelings that I have been able to move past for the most part.  The thought of slipping back into the grief, the sadness, the anxiety, the helplessness has already exhausted me.

Am I my own worst enemy for anticipating this?  Why can't I just go?  It's one weekend.  I get to see my dad and my brother and the rest of my family.  Why can't I just embrace the good?  Why am I letting the anxiety seep in?  I hate that I feel this way.  I hate that I put this off until I can't put it off any longer.  I'm so frustrated with myself.  I feel like such a baby!  

How is it that I feel the loneliest and the most isolated when I am there?  I feel the most vulnerable when I am in the place that holds the best memories of the past, the place where I am surrounded by those that have always loved me.  I miss feeling like I am going home.  I miss feeling like I am safe.  I hate that I can't get back there. 

Seeking Inspiration

A couple of weeks ago I spent some time adding new bloggers to my twitter feed and daily reading list.  One has cancer, one's sister died, one is a recovering addict, one is a struggling single mom, one's husband is on deployment.  The list goes on.

As I thought about this the other day my initial reaction was - gee Amanda, you seem to be spending a lot of time reading about other's misfortunes.  And I contemplated stopping.  Was I looking for others who felt despair?  Was I comparing my struggles with their struggles?  Was I looking for a reason for my heart to ache? 

I really wasn't sure why I was spending so much time with these strangers and their "problems."  I even downloaded a book last night written by a man who lost his mother, wife and 4 year old daughter in a horrific car crash. 

But as I was reading through my list of current favorite blogs this morning I realized something.  These are not blogs about despair, or the depths of human sorrow, or raw pain  These are blogs about overcoming that despair and sorrow and pain.  These are blogs about digging deep into your soul and facing some of the hardest moments.  These are blogs about resiliency and hope and faith.  These women and men are putting themselves out there, exposing their most vulnerable moments and sharing little glimmers, little moments of truth, little moments of strength.

When I first lost my mom I was too overcome with grief to even hope to find glimmers of truth or strength.  I was too jaded to have hope or faith.  But now, now I'm searching.  The wounds are not as raw.  The grief isn't as palpable.  And I'm searching to connect.  To connect to others' journeys.  To see the good that has come out of grief and loss and pain.  To know that there is something beautiful that can blossom from devastation.

 Lately, I've been grappling with how to bring meaning to my mom's death.  How to honor her in my daily life.  How to not let her presence in my life, and now lack of presence fade into the past, become an "event" in my life.  I'm scared that by moving past the devastation, that all encompassing grief, that I'm moving past her.  And I struggle with finding a way to hold her in the present.  I don't have an answer for this.  I've done grief and despair for a long time.  But I don't know what comes next.  I don't know how to do the next phase (whatever that phase is).         

I think this is why I'm drawn to the lives behind these blogs.  I think this is why I keep seeking out others who have faced difficulty.  I need to know how they do it.  I need to see how they do it.  I need their inspiration And their moments of wisdom and truth are helping me navigate my way into whatever lies ahead.

I Interrupt this Regularly Scheduled Blog Post

I'm pretty excited about today! 

Why? You may ask.

Well, because I'm making my guest blogger debut over at Merelymothers.

I've been totally loving having this outlet to pour my heart into.  It's helped me process, helped me stay honest with myself, motivated me to keep training and generated a fair amount of donations for breast cancer research.  So when the opportunity to share my heart with another audience came I was both excited and kind of petrified.
It's pretty safe here.  Most the folks that read my blog know me.  They send encouraging words or at least bite their tongue when they don't agree with me.  Venturing out into the bigger blogging world is a little bit scary.  Kind of like starting a new job or going to a new school.  Not knowing if anyone is going to like you or want to sit with you at lunch or pick you for their kick ball team.  But most good things come when you stretch outside your comfort zone.  So stretch I will.

Merelymothers was created by a group of stay at home mom's as a place to share their thoughts and recommendations and support to other mom's.  One of the founding members, Dawn, has been a friend of Matt and mine for a long time and I've loved watching her little girl grow!

While I am not a stay at home mom, I think there are so many things that connect us as mothers regardless of your status as a domestic goddess or working warrior.  We face many of the same challenges, conquer the same obstacles, celebrate the same triumphs.  We are all MOMs!  And this sisterhood of motherhood and womanhood is just what I am celebrating today over at Merelymothers.  So head on over there and check it out.  
--Amanda

Unwelcome Memories

It's been a while since a memory has snuck up and smacked me across the face.

It use to happen all the time.  I think it was my brain's way of processing something that it never imagined having to process.

What on earth are you talking about Amanda?

When my mom got very sick I rushed home to be at her side.  We didn't know how long she had.  Hours? Days?  No one really knew but we knew it was BAD.  Very very bad.  I spent the next 2 weeks at her side in the hospital.  There were some good days.  Days with progress.  Days where she was with us and laughing.  Good moments.  Moments where hope broke through.  But there were so many more bad moments.  Moments I would replay over and over and over and over again in my head.

I could smell the hospital for months.  I would wake in my bed having spent most the night thinking I was sleeping in a chair next to my mom.  My brain wouldn't let it go.  My brain tormented me with images and words and sounds and smells I never wanted to think about again.

But eventually it did give me a break.  It did let go.  And those memories flooded my senses less and less and less.

Now, it is rare that my mind goes back to the hospital unless I have willed it to.  It's rare that it catches me off guard.  Very rare.  But when it does it can knock me off my feet.

This morning I was in the bathroom straightening my hair.  Something I do every morning.  Nothing was unusual.  Nothing was special or unique about today.  It's not an anniversary of anything.  Just and ordinary Friday morning getting ready for work.

Then bam - I'm sitting in the hospital lounge surrounded by my family while the oncologist helped explain why it was time to move my mom to hospice.  We had already made the decision but I had asked the oncologist to come make the case to my family.  I knew I wasn't strong enough to answer why we made the choice.  To look my family in the eye and tell them it was time.  I needed someone else to do that heavy lift.  I needed someone else to convince them it was the right decision.

And I was stuck there.  I was stuck looking around the room at the people I loved as we had this awful conversation.  I was stuck looking at the hospital cart with the coffee and cookies the nurses provided for us -- for this awful conversation.  I was stuck looking at that ugly hospital furniture that was somewhere between sky blue and mint green and just UGLY.  I was stuck curled up on one of those chairs hugging my knees to my chest and crying.

Matt came upstairs and the sound of his footsteps broke through and I was free.  Blotchy faced, teary eyed but free.  I've found myself going back there today.  To that moment and wanting to know why?  Why did that moment surface?  Why did my brain go there this morning?

And so I wrote it down.  Because over the last couple of months I have discovered that if something is bouncing around inside my head, writing can help set it free.  Writing can help put it to rest. 

Maybe one day I'll understand why my brain does this to me.  Maybe one day I'll have a better way of coping with it.  But for today I'll just write.

Faith, and God, and the Meaning of Life - Where do I Start?

One of the things I've really wanted to work on lately is my faith.

I read this post today.  She talks about always feeling carried by a higher being but not knowing how to help someone get there.  And I get that.

In my life, I had always felt carried, protected, loved, understood by something higher.  For me that something higher was understood through a Roman Catholic context but for right here, right now I'm just going to call it something higher.  Something external from myself and from this earthly world.  And this higher power carried me through a fair share of hardships, things that challenged me emotionally.  It was a rock I held onto when the rest of the World didn't make sense.

But then 2009 happened and that feeling of being carried disappeared.  I felt betrayed.  Hm, maybe worse.  I felt like maybe there was never anything there to begin with.  That maybe this feeling that I was carried, loved, protected and understood by a higher power was not grounded in any truth.  Because if there was something there and it really did understand me, how could it possibly take away my mom -- so young -- so quick.  How could it do that to me?  How could a higher power that truly knows me and understands me and wants to protect me and carry me hurt me so badly.

And so for the last few years I have been struggling.  Well maybe that's not exactly true because for a while I just gave up.  I didn't care.  How can you struggle when you don't believe?  But this is something I want to put back on the table.  I have babies and I feel like I owe it to them to figure out where my faith is.  One day soon they will be asking questions and I'll tell them I don't have all the answers, but I owe it to them to seek those answers because that is what I will tell them to do.

Still, I don't know how to go back.  Where do I begin to rebuild this  relationship?  How do I start?  It's like a really bad breakup and what was said and done is just too bad, too hard, to forget.  It lingers and the hurt lingers and it's like poison.  I feel like I'm on really shaky ground and I don't know how to get a foot hold.

To the Parents who Taught me About Love

Today is my parent's wedding anniversary.  The day that joined the two people who shaped me into the person I am today.  I tend to worry about my dad on ceremonial days like today.  But the one thing that the last few years have shown me is that my dad is stronger and more resilient than I ever thought possible.  So today, instead of worrying I am going to take a few moments and honor the union of two of the people I love the very most in this World. 

I wouldn't say my parent's marriage was always easy but it was always honest and it was always grounded in love.  It set the example for me of what a relationship, a partnership, a family should be.

There was compromise and compassion, teamwork and communication.  They complimented each other - my mom's fiery and outgoing personality with my dad's more understated dry wit and charm. 

When they would get dressed up and leave us with a babysitter for a night out I swore they were the most glamorous people in the world.  My mom with her high heels clicking on the tile floors, lipstick freshly applied, perfume in the air.  My dad in a freshly pressed shirt, hair perfectly combed and the cologne that always made him smell freshly showered.  The picture of a perfect young couple. 

As the years passed and I grew up some of that shine faded away and I got glimpses into the every day or their relationship and the glamor was replaced by something even more amazing -- unconditional love.  Love in the face of struggles.  Love in spite of adversity.  Love for each others best attributes and the others ability to see beyond the worst. 
 
I am grateful that these are my parents.  I am grateful that they believed in each other.  I am thankful that they constantly choose love, no matter how hard it could get.  And I am grateful that they let me see their marriage at its best and hardest moments.  They taught me that two is better than one, that love is worth the work, that even when things are hard the climb back to the top can be the most rewarding.
 

33 Years Ago

 

Kids say the Darndest Things

Yesterday when I got the boys up we all boisterously sang Happy Birthday to Will.  Sam loved every second of it.  I quickly got them dressed and ready for school.

I was walking Sam out to the car in the beautiful 60 degree weather when he stopped dead in his tracks and said "Gama! Happy Birthday to you Gama!"

I. Kid. You. Not.

I don't know where it came from.  We hadn't talked about Grandma Linda all morning.  I hadn't made a big deal of her birthday to the boys.  It was completely out of nowhere.

Sort of makes you wonder, huh?

A Birthday Wish for My Mom

Dear Mom,

Happy Birthday. 

How I wish you were here for me to say that to you. 

I wish you were here to share this day with Will - celebrating your 59th year life and Will's first year.  Oh, how I know you would have loved sharing your big day with this sweet child. 

Mom, thank you for helping me become the woman I am today.  Thank you for teaching me that no matter how hard things get, there is always a reason to look to tomorrow.  Thank you for teaching me to use my words and my writing to express what is inside my mind and heart.  Thank you for making me "strong like bull."

Thank you for teaching me what it means to be a mother.  Thank you for being the example of the parent I want to be.  Thank you for teaching me that being a mom is about kissing booboos and setting boundaries, reading stories and teaching manors, giving room to soar while being a soft place to land.  I walk in a big shadow, but there is no one else's shadow I would want to walk in.

I miss you every day of my life - I miss your voice and your laugh and your hugs -- I miss you!   

I see you in Sam's stubbornness and determination and Will's spirit.  I wish they had the chance to get to know their grandmother the way I knew her.  But don't worry mom, your grandbabies will know you.  They will know you through me and everyone else that carries you with them.

I miss you Mommy.  Happy Birthday!

Don't worry.  I haven't forgotten about Will.  His letter will be posted later today.

It's an Emotional Week

The emotion of this week just hit me.

Excitement over the celebration of the life that came crashing into my world a year ago.  It's hard to believe that my Will is going to be one.  That he is straddling the line between infancy and toddlerhood.  My baby is so quickly following in his brother's footsteps and becoming a little boy.

And grief over a celebration that will never be . . . God I miss you mom!

Bittersweet.

All about Will - My Surprise Blessing

Will was . . . how shall we say it . . . an unexpected blessing.  In the first few months after I found out I was pregnant I said that over and over and over again trying to convince myself it was true.

The fact is I was up to my ears in a rambunctious 7 month old named Sam and the thought of adding another baby to the chaos that was our life was overwhelming.  But while I was struggling to make peace with the timing I celebrated the baby inside me.  While my sleep deprived brain tried to catch up, my heart was already in love with this little life.

Will was due on my birthday -- March 8 -- but he didn't wait that long.  Induced due to preeclampsia, Will made his appearance in this world on February 23 -- my mom's birthday.  It really couldn't have been more perfect.  And I don't think I can find the words to describe the mix of emotions -- bittersweet and all consuming -- that I felt when I held my sweet Will for the very first time.  The grief and joy were so intermingled I couldn't tell one from the other.

But in that moment I knew something for sure.  Will was not an unexpected blessing. Will was a very planned and intentional gift from my mom.

You see, I believe that God gave me Sam. He knew I needed Sam to get me through the first year without my mom.

But Will was my mom's doing.  Her answer to my desperate pleas.  I wasn't seeing her in my dreams like others had reported.  I would cry out questions to her that would go unanswered.  Just as I was struggling to see her in the every day she sent me a sign that she was still with me.  And every day since I look at that little boy who has so stolen my heart and I know, I just know deep down inside that she is with me.

Another Milestone

Today I did something most women my age have not done . . . I had my first mammogram. 

Because my mom was diagnosed at 47 doctors had long recommended that I start early screenings at the age of 30.  When her breast cancer metastasized the doctors insisted upon it.   However, I have been pregnant or breastfeeding for the last two years and this is the first week since my 30th birthday that I was allowed to be screened.  I made the first appointment available. 

Since I am one of the first of my friends to have a mammogram let me demystify it for you.  It's NO BIG DEAL.  After a long (very long) wait in the radiology waiting room I was called into the back.  Asked to change out of my shirt and bra and put on a hospital gown.  I was taken into a room where I stood in front of a large machine with two plates.  The technician positioned each breast, one at a time, between the plates -- squeezed and took a 3 second image.  She reangled the machine to get a cross-section image and repeated.  There was no pain.  There was barely enough time for discomfort to register.   She sent me to go change back into my clothes and off I went

A couple years ago I would have been embarrassed, modest.  But let's be honest - after two children all modesty is gone and more people have probably seen my breasts than I care to aknowldege.

The actual mammogram was the easy part.  Now comes the hard part.  Waiting to get the all clear from the radiologist. 

I have a fear -- actually I don't think that is the right word.  I have a feeling that I will, one day, face breast cancer.  Maybe it is my anxious tendencies, but deep down, I feel this is a battle I will face.  So while some women may go into their screenings with the expectation of getting an "all clear" I went into today's screening with the expectation of their being a problem.  This is why my mom hated it -- I'm sure.  This is why she put off her mammograms.  The fear that something would be amiss.

All that being said, early detection is what gave my mom the chance to live many years after her first diagnosis.  So unlike my mom, every year I will make an appointment for my yearly mammogram at the first opportunity because every second counts in the fight for your life!

My Mom's battle - My War

Tuesday night, my teammates girlfriends and I attended the Susan G. Komen 3 Day Get started meeting. I think we all walked away moved and energized by our mission to make a difference in the fight against breast cancer.  Committed to waging war against this enemy!  I also walked away, having heard the very personal stories of women battling for their life and those that lost.  One particular story so closely mirrored my mom's that I almost lost my breath.  As I listened to the story of this mom's struggle I was moved to tell my own mom's story.  

A warning to close friends and family -- this may be tough to read.  It was torture to write.

This story does not have a happy ending.

In early 2001 as I was getting ready to complete my final year of College I got a call from my mom.  I don't remember the words she said.  I only heard breast cancer.  I can still feel the lump in my stomach.  I can still feel the panic rising.  I know she comforted me -- because that's what mom's do -- they make you believe that everything is going to be alright even when they face fear and uncertainty.  They give you what strength and courage they have to carry you forward.  My mom was 47.

The doctors moved quickly scheduling a lumpectomy.  The date was set.  It happened to be smack dab in the middle of my spring break.  A trip planned with my new boyfriend (now husband) to Disney World.  I wanted to cancel.  She insisted I go.  A mom -- encouraging me to move forward with my life even when she is facing a threat to hers.

I went on the trip.  Matt will tell you I was a mess.  Anxiety and nerves and guilt and fear.  I couldn't have been very fun to be around.  I can still tell you exactly where I was standing when my mom got out of surgery.  My cell phone (it was a rather large contraption in 2001) rang while I was standing at the stairs leading up into the overhang for Big Thunder Mountain.  Reception was bad -- we let the line pass us by so I could talk to my dad.  The news -- mom was out of surgery.  It went well.  Looks like they got it all.

Relief.

Tears.

Smiles.

Chemo, radiation and years of hormone therapy followed.  Her hair thinned.  She went into early menopause.  She hated how tired she was, how sick the treatments made her.  But she looked that big ugly beast cancer square in the eye and she beat it.  She repeated "I think I can."  She told the cancer she hated it.  She told the cancer she was stronger than it -- strong like bull. She told the cancer she had more to do.  She told the cancer she was in control of her life!  Through it all she was brave, she was strong, she remained the center of our family.  She remained the unwavering friend.  She became my hero!

In 2006 she celebrated her 5 year survival date.  I began to breathe easier.  Not worried that cancer would jump out from its hiding spot.  She hated her yearly mammogram.  I think she skipped a few -- the fear of the other shoe dropping would get the better of her.  But year after year, they would come back clear.

In 2009 my mom fell ill shortly after the New Year with what appeared to be a nasty flu.  It knocked her down for weeks.  After numerous visits to the Dr. and finally an admission to the hospital she was getting a full work up.  Her liver enzymes were out of whack which led to an ultrasound and a diagnosis of severe cirrhosis of the liver.  More tests and a biopsy.  A call from my mom telling me it was cancer.  Metastatic disease.  Her breast cancer had metastasized to her liver.  I fell apart.  She put me back together.  A mom!

The oncologist was optimistic.  Gave her and me hope.  Talked about a long life.  Multiple rounds of chemo and tests followed.  I made appointments with John's Hopkins and Sloan Kettering.  Appointments my mom would never make.  Less than three months later my mom was admitted to the hospital. Unresponsive.  Her liver was failing.  We were aggressive with her meds which brought her back to us for a few short days.  Days my family and I lived in the hospital breaking every hospital protocol.  Days where her friends and family put life aside to spend with her.  I let her share my news with everyone -- I was 8 weeks pregnant.

During those days we protected her.  It was my decision.  I didn't want her to be scared.  I didn't want her to know that she was losing her battle.  I wanted those days to be filled with love and laughter.  For her last days to be as full as possible.  Maybe I was wrong to do this.  I still question this decision.  Maybe I should have let people be honest with her.  Let her say goodbye.  Let her leave on her terms.  I couldn't!  I wouldn't!  Deep down I believe she knew -- I took weeks off of work, her family flew in from all over the country.  This wasn't normal.  But it was my turn.  My mom always protected me.  Comforted me.  Calmed my fears.  In her last days I knew I had to do this for her.

Her liver Dr. scolded me.  He wanted me to let her go peacefully, stop medical interventions.  Stop her drugs.  It was too late he said.  I wasn't ready to give up.  She wasn't either.   We're fighters -- strong like bull!

We tried one more round of chemo.  Hoping it would start reversing the tumors that had taken over her liver.  We planned a Derby day party with hats and virgin mint juleps.  We never had the party.  The chemo was too much.  Her liver was too weak.  She slipped back into unconsciousness.  It would be her last round.

The night before she died I laid in bed with my mom.  Holding her too me and told her that we would be OK.  That I would be OK.  I told her if she wanted to she could let go.  She didn't have to fight anymore.

On May 5, 2009 my mom lost her battle to breast cancer.  She was surrounded by family who held her hands while she took her last breath.  Who told her it was OK to go while her heart beat for minutes after.  The nurse told us she had a strong heart -- of course she did!

My mom may have lost her battle but the war isn't over.  Her fight mattered.  Her story matters.   I walk because I can.  I walk because she can't.  I walk to win her war.

Note: I am walking in the Susan G. Komen 3 Day in memory of my mom.

A Little Peace

I haven't written much the last couple of weeks.  The holiday's exhausted me - in a wonderfully joyful way.  This is the third Christmas I have spent without my mom.  It was the first Christmas that I was able to embrace as my own.

The last three years we have hosted Christmas, in one form or another at my house.  There are many reasons. New babies, pregnancy, having my babies wake up in their own beds and discover Santa in their own home.  But mostly because being in my mom's home, without my mom, on Christmas is something I'm just not strong enough to face yet.  Too many memories.  Too many ghosts. 

Creating Christmas in my house was hard the first two years.  Emotionally draining.  I did it with a heavy heart.  Smiles hiding the tears that bubbled up to the surface and spilled too often. 

The hardest part for me?  Cooking!  And I love to cook.  But while my mom opened her home to many over the holidays, the kitchen was our space.  A place where the two of us fell into a rhythm creating the familiar dishes that filled our dining room table year after year and experimenting with one or two new additions to keep things fresh.

The last few years I have found myself in the kitchen alone.  Cooking the dishes I no longer need a recipe for because they are ingrained in my head and heart.  Those first two years I was consumed with the loneliness.  Hated the solitude.  Resented every moment I spent in the kitchen.

This year there was a shift.  Don't get me wrong - I still missed my mom every minute.  I still wished she was standing across the kitchen from me slicing onions.  But I also found peace in the routine.  Comfort in creating the dishes my mom served year after year.  A sense of continuity bringing them forward into the new Christmas we have begun to create.

A Christmas where my home and table welcome good friends to share a holiday meal with my family much like my mom's always did.  A Christmas where I snuggle up with my boys in Christmas PJs and listen to Nani and Poppi's voices read "Twas the Night Before Christmas."  A Christmas where mommy and daddy and uncle Joe Joe spend hours drinking and building toys while Grandpa looks on remembering the nights he spent doing the same thing.  A Christmas filled with bleary eyed boys stumbling from their rooms on Christmas morning to see what Santa left under their tree.  A Christmas that is my own, but shares the warmth and love and comfort of my mom's.

I hope one day I'll be able to face the ghosts of Christmas in NJ.  But for now, I'm going to enjoy the the peace I am finding in the Christmas Matt and I have created and claim a small victory.

Filling the Void

My mom's death left a huge void in my life.  A gaping hole that I thought was going to swallow me whole.  The void was tangible.  I had hours in my day that I use to fill by talking with her.  Hours that were now empty.  The void was also intangible the lost memories, lost dreams, lost hopes.  In the months (years) after I lost her, there were many days I thought I lost myself too.

I struggled desperately to fill the void. To fill that time.  To replace lost memories, dreams and hopes.  I repeatedly reached for people to take her place.   But it was like fitting square pegs in a round hole and in the end I was lonelier than ever.

I'm not sure exactly when it happened.  But sometime over the course of this last year I stopped trying to fill that hole with something.  I accepted that there is not a person or a thing that can fill that void.  I embraced the void.  I accepted it as part of me.  And I've let it be a place for my mom to rest peacefully.  

That void was my mom's place in my life and instead of trying to fill it with distractions or replacements I would let it remain full of her.  At times I can still get lost in the void.  But by accepting it and giving it space in my life I have broken it's hold over me. 

And at the same time, it has freed me to love my friends and family for what they are in my life.  They are not my mom, they shouldn't be.  But they fill my life with so much love and happiness and support and for that I am forever grateful!