Dear Mom,
Two years now you've been gone. Two years and I feel like I've come around the world a few times. I'm still harder-hearted than I probably want to be about it. Still sore. But I'm starting to do better. I'm not immediately known as "The Girl With a Dead Mom" at work or even in my public life. But people notice when important dates come around because I tend to get angry still. I get short and annoyed and snappy. And then they ask. And then feel bad.
Dad and I talked on the day that we two recognize, and we said it was a good thing for us to have to share together. We were glad to be with you in your last hours, talking to you and trying to make you comfortable. I haven't forgotten walking David to his car and hugging him tight, and then walking back to the hospital room clutching at Dad's hand, and saying that since you were fighting that we might need to give you permission. And we bawled. I still cry. Not every day, but every few weeks.
I've started doing better with General Cancer stuff. Like when somebody I know's parent/sibling/relative is doing well, I'm not entirely jealous/angry/hurtful. I'm mostly happy. But then I think that so many people get Cancer and live; you got Cancer and died. Breaks my heart everyday. But it's getting better. I don't beat myself up anymore. People haven't really bothered me too much recently.
I'm 27 now, too. Two years ago the Aunts threw me birthday party. Seeing as we buried you two days before my birthday, they wanted me to have a good day. It was sweet and thoughtful. And it was mournful too, because all we wanted was for you to be there. Thankfully they didn't make us eat the leftover coldcut sandwiches that were leftover from your funeral.
Life is going well here. I love you. Things are OK. I am OK. Dad and David and Tim are OK. You're so loved.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
13
Dear Mom,
I had a nightmare the other night. I awoke breathless and scared. Heartrate skyrocketing. I dreamt of the night of your death. Of watching you die. Again and again and again. I was fighting, fighting with the doctors and even with your body a little, trying to get it to not die again. Not that that is your fault. Not that you had any control over the cancer as it raged inside of you.
I miss you all the time still, and I have been trying to make a point of wearing all the jewelry I inherited from you. I don't do as well as I should, most days, but there are two pieces I wear all the time, and they mean a lot to me. The first is your 25th Anniversary band, and that is on my little finger. Five little diamonds, representing 25 years, of love, faith, happiness... I cherish this ring greatly. It is the first piece of your jewelry I wore on a constant basis. The next is your golden Celtic cross necklace, which everyone and their mothers seem to comment on. They want to know where I got it, if I'm Irish, and that opens the door to say "It was my mom's." Some get the grammar of that sentence, some don't. Most leave it at that. I've only had one comment on a cancer awareness rubber bracelet I wear. The man asked what it said ("Hope" "Faith" "Courage" and "Strength") , and wanted to know what kind of cancer it was. He harshly said "Well, a hysterectomy should just take care of That, now, shouldn't it?!" and when I responded with a "Well, she was Stage IV Metastasized when they DIAGNOSED her, so that wouldn't really have worked you know." He shut up after that.
I've heard from you once or twice in the last month. Most recently was at a women's conference in Fridley MN and for a minute it was as if you had said "This is where you need to be." and I knew it. People still don't really know me, which is weird because I tell them I'll put my whole self out there if only asked. Nobody believes me. Anyway.
Good things are being done down here, which you probably know about already. I've been knitting hats for donation to wherever there is a need. It's already had a HUGE impact on a few worlds nearby. I have never been happier.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
I had a nightmare the other night. I awoke breathless and scared. Heartrate skyrocketing. I dreamt of the night of your death. Of watching you die. Again and again and again. I was fighting, fighting with the doctors and even with your body a little, trying to get it to not die again. Not that that is your fault. Not that you had any control over the cancer as it raged inside of you.
I miss you all the time still, and I have been trying to make a point of wearing all the jewelry I inherited from you. I don't do as well as I should, most days, but there are two pieces I wear all the time, and they mean a lot to me. The first is your 25th Anniversary band, and that is on my little finger. Five little diamonds, representing 25 years, of love, faith, happiness... I cherish this ring greatly. It is the first piece of your jewelry I wore on a constant basis. The next is your golden Celtic cross necklace, which everyone and their mothers seem to comment on. They want to know where I got it, if I'm Irish, and that opens the door to say "It was my mom's." Some get the grammar of that sentence, some don't. Most leave it at that. I've only had one comment on a cancer awareness rubber bracelet I wear. The man asked what it said ("Hope" "Faith" "Courage" and "Strength") , and wanted to know what kind of cancer it was. He harshly said "Well, a hysterectomy should just take care of That, now, shouldn't it?!" and when I responded with a "Well, she was Stage IV Metastasized when they DIAGNOSED her, so that wouldn't really have worked you know." He shut up after that.
I've heard from you once or twice in the last month. Most recently was at a women's conference in Fridley MN and for a minute it was as if you had said "This is where you need to be." and I knew it. People still don't really know me, which is weird because I tell them I'll put my whole self out there if only asked. Nobody believes me. Anyway.
Good things are being done down here, which you probably know about already. I've been knitting hats for donation to wherever there is a need. It's already had a HUGE impact on a few worlds nearby. I have never been happier.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Sunday, September 4, 2011
12
Dear Mom,
Your anniversary was last Tuesday. I miss you insanely, intensely much. I cannot truthfully tell you how much I miss you. So much so, that if I were to let myself, I would be a puddle of grief once more, much like I was in the hours leading up to your death. It was so hard for me that day. And it was harder still for me the day of your anniversary. I did not allow myself to cry too much since I had to work, but when I was there I kept it together.
We all miss you so much, Mom. I know you know this, I know you see it and that you miss us too. We are doing OK. Not great, but OK. Dad misses you, I miss you, David misses you. I cannot tell you. I cannot do more than just try to smile and move on about my business. You are so wonderful.
I have decided a few things, too, which I think are cool, but that you might not like at all, and that you would think are inappropriate and not OK. It's been about a year and I was thinking of something that I could put in the house, or maybe wear, that is explicitly you that will let me remember everything and all our memories together, including and up to the end of our journey. And then it hit me while a coworker was looking at Memorial Ribbons for different causes. I asked her to look up the color of reproductive cancers in women, particularly uterine, cervical and ovarian cancers. They were all the same color: Teal. It was then I realized what I wanted. I decided that I want to get a memorial tattoo of a treble clef in teal somewhere on my body. I was thinking on my wrist, but I'm not sure about that yet. All I know is I want that treble clef. That way I can remember you forever and show the world, quietly and carefully, that you are with me, and I love you.
I am dealing particularly well. As best as I can, anyway. You would be quite proud of all of us. You're so missed. And I'll say it again. I love you. I miss you. I wish you were still here. But I know you're up there in Heaven. And I appreciate when you visit me. Makes it easy to cope with, knowing you come by every once in a while. For now that's all.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Your anniversary was last Tuesday. I miss you insanely, intensely much. I cannot truthfully tell you how much I miss you. So much so, that if I were to let myself, I would be a puddle of grief once more, much like I was in the hours leading up to your death. It was so hard for me that day. And it was harder still for me the day of your anniversary. I did not allow myself to cry too much since I had to work, but when I was there I kept it together.
We all miss you so much, Mom. I know you know this, I know you see it and that you miss us too. We are doing OK. Not great, but OK. Dad misses you, I miss you, David misses you. I cannot tell you. I cannot do more than just try to smile and move on about my business. You are so wonderful.
I have decided a few things, too, which I think are cool, but that you might not like at all, and that you would think are inappropriate and not OK. It's been about a year and I was thinking of something that I could put in the house, or maybe wear, that is explicitly you that will let me remember everything and all our memories together, including and up to the end of our journey. And then it hit me while a coworker was looking at Memorial Ribbons for different causes. I asked her to look up the color of reproductive cancers in women, particularly uterine, cervical and ovarian cancers. They were all the same color: Teal. It was then I realized what I wanted. I decided that I want to get a memorial tattoo of a treble clef in teal somewhere on my body. I was thinking on my wrist, but I'm not sure about that yet. All I know is I want that treble clef. That way I can remember you forever and show the world, quietly and carefully, that you are with me, and I love you.
I am dealing particularly well. As best as I can, anyway. You would be quite proud of all of us. You're so missed. And I'll say it again. I love you. I miss you. I wish you were still here. But I know you're up there in Heaven. And I appreciate when you visit me. Makes it easy to cope with, knowing you come by every once in a while. For now that's all.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Saturday, May 28, 2011
11
Dear Mom,
I've been bottling things up again. I have waves of good and bad days, and I guess in recent weeks I've just kinda been...rather than anything else. The last week or so has been one of tremendous stress and upset, and I think that is having an affect on me.
Last night things came to a head and I lost it. I was listening to music with Tim and I just started to bawl, unable to stop the tears running down my face. Certain TV shows open the wounds just slightly, touching on a death of a mother in main characters' lives, and how they interact and respond to it...it's like ripping off a scab. It bleeds, and still hurts, but not as much as the regular injury.
My heart is still broken and I still cry when I think of it. Of you. And of the last words we spoke to each other, which were I love you and We're Ok and We're forgiven. I remember after David left, Dad and I walked hand in hand down the Boston street, and we decided that you needed to hear that we gave you permission to die. You were hanging on for us, and we didn't want you to hurt anymore. We walked to the room and we said we knew it sounded stupid to hear but we wanted you to know that it was OK to go. That we loved you, didn't want you to hurt anymore. We knew you could hear us and we knew how ridiculous it was that we gave you permission to die...your brain still worked, you had cognitive function...and here we were, telling you to die! We cried so hard when we told you that. It was for the best, and we didn't know what else to do. We didn't want you to suffer. Never wanted to have you suffer. And we sounded like idiots.
Those final hours, I sometimes can't remember them. Sometimes they are clouded. Other times I remember them as if I lived them yesterday. I remember your voice, but sometimes it slips away from me. I still want to call you and get your advice on things, and it takes ALL I HAVE not to call your old cell phone, which is still programmed in mine. I can't yet delete it as a contact. I'm trying to be ok. I'm still mad at a lot of things. Trying to find forgiveness and grace and love in a world that has left me broken and unable. There's just a lot of little things. I miss you more and more each day, Mom. I don't like not having you around. I still needed you here. And you were taken from me. That's the part I really hate.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
I've been bottling things up again. I have waves of good and bad days, and I guess in recent weeks I've just kinda been...rather than anything else. The last week or so has been one of tremendous stress and upset, and I think that is having an affect on me.
Last night things came to a head and I lost it. I was listening to music with Tim and I just started to bawl, unable to stop the tears running down my face. Certain TV shows open the wounds just slightly, touching on a death of a mother in main characters' lives, and how they interact and respond to it...it's like ripping off a scab. It bleeds, and still hurts, but not as much as the regular injury.
My heart is still broken and I still cry when I think of it. Of you. And of the last words we spoke to each other, which were I love you and We're Ok and We're forgiven. I remember after David left, Dad and I walked hand in hand down the Boston street, and we decided that you needed to hear that we gave you permission to die. You were hanging on for us, and we didn't want you to hurt anymore. We walked to the room and we said we knew it sounded stupid to hear but we wanted you to know that it was OK to go. That we loved you, didn't want you to hurt anymore. We knew you could hear us and we knew how ridiculous it was that we gave you permission to die...your brain still worked, you had cognitive function...and here we were, telling you to die! We cried so hard when we told you that. It was for the best, and we didn't know what else to do. We didn't want you to suffer. Never wanted to have you suffer. And we sounded like idiots.
Those final hours, I sometimes can't remember them. Sometimes they are clouded. Other times I remember them as if I lived them yesterday. I remember your voice, but sometimes it slips away from me. I still want to call you and get your advice on things, and it takes ALL I HAVE not to call your old cell phone, which is still programmed in mine. I can't yet delete it as a contact. I'm trying to be ok. I'm still mad at a lot of things. Trying to find forgiveness and grace and love in a world that has left me broken and unable. There's just a lot of little things. I miss you more and more each day, Mom. I don't like not having you around. I still needed you here. And you were taken from me. That's the part I really hate.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Sunday, April 17, 2011
10
Dear Mom,
It was your birthday on the 8th. I spent most of my day thinking of you. In recent weeks, months, my feelings have become more moderate. I am able to generally get through the day without too much anguish. For your birthday, I was on my honeymoon in San Francisco.
I made a decision that I think I will do forever after now: I will have Ben and Jerry's and a Starbucks to celebrate. We have a picture of you, taken a few months before you got cancer, sitting outside eating a B+J's ice cream and drinking a Starbucks coffee. It is one of my favorite pictures of you, because you look so happy. Smiling. Those were two of your vices, I think, once you took that healthy diet/life change and cut out some of those "unnecessary" calories. So Tim and I got a Starbucks coffee for me, and we both had some Ben and Jerry's. Tim took a picture of me posing with these things. So everyday for your birthday, we'll eat that.
I was happy on your birthday. It was a day of happy memories, glad times and while somewhat sad since you weren't there for me to call.
Your headstone was finally finished, and has since been placed over your grave. You would like it, I think. It has musical notes and a rose on there held with two hands as if in prayer. It was something dad worked on, and it is perfect.
I haven't felt you around me in the last few months. This could be because I'm starting to finally accept your death, or maybe it's because I'm handling things better. I sometimes still laugh because I seem to see you in strange places. You'll sometimes turn off my radio if I hear a song that makes me sad or think of you and cry, and I say thank you. I am handling things better now than I used to. I think all of us are, though I worry a lot about the people I love.
As usual things are always changing. I try to tell myself that it is OK and that I can handle life without you, even though I hate it. My grieving has changed a little in the last six months. Your half year mark left me feeling depressed and sullen. People who knew me were concerned. So they asked me what they could do, and I told them why I was sullen. They just said they understood (the woman in particular I am talking about lost her mother a few years ago as well, and understood better than most).
It is weird to feel happy. It is truthful happiness, and not the fake stuff I usually do. I am truthfully happy, and that is so unlikely and so unusual that I don't know what to do with myself. Anyway. That has been my life. So take care up there in Heaven, and know that we down here still love and miss you everyday.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
It was your birthday on the 8th. I spent most of my day thinking of you. In recent weeks, months, my feelings have become more moderate. I am able to generally get through the day without too much anguish. For your birthday, I was on my honeymoon in San Francisco.
I made a decision that I think I will do forever after now: I will have Ben and Jerry's and a Starbucks to celebrate. We have a picture of you, taken a few months before you got cancer, sitting outside eating a B+J's ice cream and drinking a Starbucks coffee. It is one of my favorite pictures of you, because you look so happy. Smiling. Those were two of your vices, I think, once you took that healthy diet/life change and cut out some of those "unnecessary" calories. So Tim and I got a Starbucks coffee for me, and we both had some Ben and Jerry's. Tim took a picture of me posing with these things. So everyday for your birthday, we'll eat that.
I was happy on your birthday. It was a day of happy memories, glad times and while somewhat sad since you weren't there for me to call.
Your headstone was finally finished, and has since been placed over your grave. You would like it, I think. It has musical notes and a rose on there held with two hands as if in prayer. It was something dad worked on, and it is perfect.
I haven't felt you around me in the last few months. This could be because I'm starting to finally accept your death, or maybe it's because I'm handling things better. I sometimes still laugh because I seem to see you in strange places. You'll sometimes turn off my radio if I hear a song that makes me sad or think of you and cry, and I say thank you. I am handling things better now than I used to. I think all of us are, though I worry a lot about the people I love.
As usual things are always changing. I try to tell myself that it is OK and that I can handle life without you, even though I hate it. My grieving has changed a little in the last six months. Your half year mark left me feeling depressed and sullen. People who knew me were concerned. So they asked me what they could do, and I told them why I was sullen. They just said they understood (the woman in particular I am talking about lost her mother a few years ago as well, and understood better than most).
It is weird to feel happy. It is truthful happiness, and not the fake stuff I usually do. I am truthfully happy, and that is so unlikely and so unusual that I don't know what to do with myself. Anyway. That has been my life. So take care up there in Heaven, and know that we down here still love and miss you everyday.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Sunday, January 9, 2011
9
Dear Mom,
2011 is upon me. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's is all over, thank goodness. I missed you every second. I still think about calling you, often. Your number is memorized in my brain. I suppose I could call you...but I couldn't handle hearing messages from you, or from listening to your voicemail message.
Christmas was the hardest other than Dad's birthday. I kinda lost it then. I got the most fantastic gift, which you've already seen/known about. JB made me a BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL quilt. Wait, let me explain. JB and family visited you in summer, before you got sick. When they heard, JB started working on a quilt for YOU, FOR YOU, to have and old during radiation/chemo/treatment to remind you that the Lord is Good and ever faithful.
Then you died. That's not your fault. The quilt was put on hold for the grief, and she decided that it would be a nice thing for me to have. This quilt is amazing, Mom. All swirls of blue and green and sea colors -- the color of the ocean by Cousins Island. And bursts of bright oranges, pinks and yellows -- to show YOUR BRIGHTNESS AND LIGHT through it all. There are quotes and verses from your funeral and other things reminding me that He is good...even if sometimes I don't like it or get mad at Him or whatever.
I am plugging along. I started wearing your anniversary band a few weeks ago. A constant reminder of you, not like I really need one, but still. I tried wearing your bands and your diamond as well for a while at Christmas but it was too hard. I couldn't do it.
I miss you constantly. All the time, everyday. I wish I could ask you for advice. Sometimes I do, and you must hear me all the way up in Heaven because sometimes I ask you for a sign you're there or if you're still around to visit. Sometimes I don't get them. But on the days I really need it, you talk to me. Like the time on my lunch break I was having a hard time and asked for a sign you heard me talking to you in the car--and I saw that fortune cookie paper in my purse and what it said. I smiled. And Willy's radio being all...twitchy over bumps...I was talking to you then too, and at the crux of it, the worst and saddest part, it suddenly turned on to a song relevant to what I was thinking and feeling about you! I like these little things. They make me happy. I should probably go get some breakfast now, so I'll leave you with this small offering today.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
2011 is upon me. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's is all over, thank goodness. I missed you every second. I still think about calling you, often. Your number is memorized in my brain. I suppose I could call you...but I couldn't handle hearing messages from you, or from listening to your voicemail message.
Christmas was the hardest other than Dad's birthday. I kinda lost it then. I got the most fantastic gift, which you've already seen/known about. JB made me a BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL quilt. Wait, let me explain. JB and family visited you in summer, before you got sick. When they heard, JB started working on a quilt for YOU, FOR YOU, to have and old during radiation/chemo/treatment to remind you that the Lord is Good and ever faithful.
Then you died. That's not your fault. The quilt was put on hold for the grief, and she decided that it would be a nice thing for me to have. This quilt is amazing, Mom. All swirls of blue and green and sea colors -- the color of the ocean by Cousins Island. And bursts of bright oranges, pinks and yellows -- to show YOUR BRIGHTNESS AND LIGHT through it all. There are quotes and verses from your funeral and other things reminding me that He is good...even if sometimes I don't like it or get mad at Him or whatever.
I am plugging along. I started wearing your anniversary band a few weeks ago. A constant reminder of you, not like I really need one, but still. I tried wearing your bands and your diamond as well for a while at Christmas but it was too hard. I couldn't do it.
I miss you constantly. All the time, everyday. I wish I could ask you for advice. Sometimes I do, and you must hear me all the way up in Heaven because sometimes I ask you for a sign you're there or if you're still around to visit. Sometimes I don't get them. But on the days I really need it, you talk to me. Like the time on my lunch break I was having a hard time and asked for a sign you heard me talking to you in the car--and I saw that fortune cookie paper in my purse and what it said. I smiled. And Willy's radio being all...twitchy over bumps...I was talking to you then too, and at the crux of it, the worst and saddest part, it suddenly turned on to a song relevant to what I was thinking and feeling about you! I like these little things. They make me happy. I should probably go get some breakfast now, so I'll leave you with this small offering today.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Friday, December 3, 2010
8
Dear Mom,
I'm sorry there has been so much silence from me the last few weeks. Life has been rather tumultuous the last few weeks. At the start of November I got a new job, working full time. You would have been so proud of me for that. I had really been struggling there and I wanted to talk to you to say that and to hear that you believed in me and were proud. I know you are, even if you can't tell me.
My life since then has been a juggling act that I had had problems dealing with. Stuff is too crazy. Always too crazy. People still miss you. I still miss you. I think you're still around sometimes because I've been dreaming of you more in the last two or three days. It is kind of nice. And I'm feeling good about you, but I still wish you were here.
I'm feeling quite sick with a bad cold. I want to call you and say "how to fix this." "how can I make myself feel better?" I want my mom when I'm sick. I wish that you could be here with me because there is so much I want to talk to you about. So much I want advice about. I still miss you too much.
Dad is having a hard time. He says things like "I'm glad that other people are having fun." I worry about him. I worry about everybody. There is so much that I have to do and things. I just can't help but miss you so acutely, so intensely.
I have to stop writing for a bit, Momma. I love you a lot but right now this is too hard. What I'll say for now? I wrote about 15,000 words for NaNoWriMo about you. It's the best stuff I think I've ever written. And that's saying something.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
I'm sorry there has been so much silence from me the last few weeks. Life has been rather tumultuous the last few weeks. At the start of November I got a new job, working full time. You would have been so proud of me for that. I had really been struggling there and I wanted to talk to you to say that and to hear that you believed in me and were proud. I know you are, even if you can't tell me.
My life since then has been a juggling act that I had had problems dealing with. Stuff is too crazy. Always too crazy. People still miss you. I still miss you. I think you're still around sometimes because I've been dreaming of you more in the last two or three days. It is kind of nice. And I'm feeling good about you, but I still wish you were here.
I'm feeling quite sick with a bad cold. I want to call you and say "how to fix this." "how can I make myself feel better?" I want my mom when I'm sick. I wish that you could be here with me because there is so much I want to talk to you about. So much I want advice about. I still miss you too much.
Dad is having a hard time. He says things like "I'm glad that other people are having fun." I worry about him. I worry about everybody. There is so much that I have to do and things. I just can't help but miss you so acutely, so intensely.
I have to stop writing for a bit, Momma. I love you a lot but right now this is too hard. What I'll say for now? I wrote about 15,000 words for NaNoWriMo about you. It's the best stuff I think I've ever written. And that's saying something.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
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