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
Friday, October 22, 2010
7
Dear Mom,
I'm sorry its been so long since I last wrote. Life (and your death) keep throwing curveballs at me. One minute I'm fine, the next unable to move--frozen by grief and sadness. I am well aware (and as Dad and I keep telling myself) that you wouldn't want me to be so static in my life after your death. I keep trying to move on but this has shattered me in ways I can't fathom. That I never knew would. In ways I thought were for other people, not me.
I am utterly incapable, it seems, to stop from crying at every little thing. One of the CDs I listened to while you were sick and before you died was "Church Music." One song in particular off that album kept reminding me that no matter what, I had to "shine my light" through this terrible darkness that was your illness and your Cancer. I don't usually link to things here, but the band just released it as a single. Here's their video for "SMS Shine."
I can't listen to this song without crying, and the video? BREAKS MY HEART EVERY TIME.
I seem to be able to put on a front for people at work, and in my usual day-to-day life. Most of them don't know these things. Don't know that I'm still trying to cope. Tim knows, but his patience is running a bit thin with me sometimes. I just notice things about myself. I'm so much more keenly aware of myself, it is not a happy thing for me. It's seemingly impacting my entire life. This I don't like, and I'm trying to stop myself from being TOO self-aware.
Anyway, Mom, I wish you'd pop in one of my dreams again sometime soon. I miss seeing you, and it'd be good for me to be around you, even in my dreams.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
I'm sorry its been so long since I last wrote. Life (and your death) keep throwing curveballs at me. One minute I'm fine, the next unable to move--frozen by grief and sadness. I am well aware (and as Dad and I keep telling myself) that you wouldn't want me to be so static in my life after your death. I keep trying to move on but this has shattered me in ways I can't fathom. That I never knew would. In ways I thought were for other people, not me.
I am utterly incapable, it seems, to stop from crying at every little thing. One of the CDs I listened to while you were sick and before you died was "Church Music." One song in particular off that album kept reminding me that no matter what, I had to "shine my light" through this terrible darkness that was your illness and your Cancer. I don't usually link to things here, but the band just released it as a single. Here's their video for "SMS Shine."
I can't listen to this song without crying, and the video? BREAKS MY HEART EVERY TIME.
I seem to be able to put on a front for people at work, and in my usual day-to-day life. Most of them don't know these things. Don't know that I'm still trying to cope. Tim knows, but his patience is running a bit thin with me sometimes. I just notice things about myself. I'm so much more keenly aware of myself, it is not a happy thing for me. It's seemingly impacting my entire life. This I don't like, and I'm trying to stop myself from being TOO self-aware.
Anyway, Mom, I wish you'd pop in one of my dreams again sometime soon. I miss seeing you, and it'd be good for me to be around you, even in my dreams.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Friday, October 8, 2010
6
Dear Mom,
Now that September's over, I can stop quoting Billie Joel's "Wake Me Up When September Ends." His live version on the Stand Up 2 Cancer show breaks my heart every time. It would break yours too. It made me think of you in more ways than I'd like to admit. Now though, it's October, and there's even more Cancer stuff on TV and in radio and internet ads. While my initial anger at Cancer is starting to wane a little, the pangs of hurt I feel with these ads makes me miss you very acutely.
I had my first dream of you in a long while today. It was a dream I didn't DIDN'T want to wake up from. I'm really sad and sorry I did. I was having fun hanging with you. The dreams are bittersweet--you are both here and not, and I was relieved to dream of you.
Right now I've been feeling like I can't remember your voice. I know it's crazy, but I wish I could still physically call you. That would really make my day, frankly. That'd make my life, if I could talk to you again. I still talk to you in the car sometimes. You'd be super proud of me for driving Willy around. I've been doing really well with it. You'd also be proud of the work I did today. It was really good.
I'm not sure what else to do with myself. There are a few things in the works that I think will be wonderfully great, especially if they work out. I'll tell you more about them when the time comes. I want to say too, Mom, that I'm glad you are able to see all the fall colors from the best seat ever. I'm pretty jealous.
I'll write more later, Mom. ILU.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Now that September's over, I can stop quoting Billie Joel's "Wake Me Up When September Ends." His live version on the Stand Up 2 Cancer show breaks my heart every time. It would break yours too. It made me think of you in more ways than I'd like to admit. Now though, it's October, and there's even more Cancer stuff on TV and in radio and internet ads. While my initial anger at Cancer is starting to wane a little, the pangs of hurt I feel with these ads makes me miss you very acutely.
I had my first dream of you in a long while today. It was a dream I didn't DIDN'T want to wake up from. I'm really sad and sorry I did. I was having fun hanging with you. The dreams are bittersweet--you are both here and not, and I was relieved to dream of you.
Right now I've been feeling like I can't remember your voice. I know it's crazy, but I wish I could still physically call you. That would really make my day, frankly. That'd make my life, if I could talk to you again. I still talk to you in the car sometimes. You'd be super proud of me for driving Willy around. I've been doing really well with it. You'd also be proud of the work I did today. It was really good.
I'm not sure what else to do with myself. There are a few things in the works that I think will be wonderfully great, especially if they work out. I'll tell you more about them when the time comes. I want to say too, Mom, that I'm glad you are able to see all the fall colors from the best seat ever. I'm pretty jealous.
I'll write more later, Mom. ILU.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Sunday, September 26, 2010
5
Dear Mom,
I haven't had a lot of dreams of you recently. I also haven't cried a lot recently, though if I let myself feel it, I will fall to pieces. I can tell I've been bottling things up, holding them in, as if I let them go, I'll let you go. I know it's irrational, but I can't help it.
The video/audio I seem to be constantly replaying is the 36 hours before you died, over and over and over. It's driving me crazy, Mom. I just keep hearing me tell you I love you, and hearing your whispered voice telling me you love me too. I keep hearing your breathing and wishing on everything I can that you'd have lived, that the evil cancer would have stopped or slowed...I swear I cried so hard for you in those hours. Fell to my knees and down on the ground, wrapped in myself so much and kept so quiet as I cried. It was not loud or obnoxious, just tears falling, falling.
I'm sort of glad that Dad wasn't awake to watch you die too, because it would have been too hard for him. One of the hardest things we've ever done, after saying goodbye to David that day, was Dad and me walking back to your room hand in hand and crying. We talked quickly and I suggested to him we tell you how much we love you, and that you didn't have to fight anymore--that you could let go and didn't have to stay here in pain for us. It bothered me because I couldn't tell if you were still cognizant of things or not. I hated to think that your mind was still completely well and we were telling you to die...I think you understood though. By then your kidneys had failed and you probably weren't very aware of things, though you often could listen to us.
I still miss you so much it physically pains me sometimes. I can't listen to certain songs because they make me think of you. Of praying for your death to be quick and painless, of praying and hoping for the cancer to stop, disappear. I wondered if God Himself had heard me, and I wasn't sure. I hated the thought He hadn't heard me.
Death is such a terrible thing. I simply can't seem to get a handle on things that I need to. I keep trying to get things done around the house and I just CAN'T SEEM to get a grip. I keep wishing that I could rewind the world to Early-Mid June, back when life was seemingly perfect. Then I could tell you to just go to the Dr and get that hysterectomy, and not worry about the repercussions of it. I sometimes wish you'd have listened to me, but even by the time we talked about that, it was probably too late. The outcome might have been the same, and the devil himself is making me think it might not have been the same, that you'd still be alive. I tell myself I'm being tricked by his evil. I am still trying to relearn how to trust God after this happened. I am so scared to do it since He didn't save you...
I'm trying to be a good girl, Mom. I'm trying to get better about this. I'm still so depressed, I sometimes feel so very alone. Oh Mom--I wish I could still hug you. I wish I could feel your arms around mine and eat your good cooking, for us to talk and laugh and love together. I still needed you here; why did you get taken away?
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
I haven't had a lot of dreams of you recently. I also haven't cried a lot recently, though if I let myself feel it, I will fall to pieces. I can tell I've been bottling things up, holding them in, as if I let them go, I'll let you go. I know it's irrational, but I can't help it.
The video/audio I seem to be constantly replaying is the 36 hours before you died, over and over and over. It's driving me crazy, Mom. I just keep hearing me tell you I love you, and hearing your whispered voice telling me you love me too. I keep hearing your breathing and wishing on everything I can that you'd have lived, that the evil cancer would have stopped or slowed...I swear I cried so hard for you in those hours. Fell to my knees and down on the ground, wrapped in myself so much and kept so quiet as I cried. It was not loud or obnoxious, just tears falling, falling.
I'm sort of glad that Dad wasn't awake to watch you die too, because it would have been too hard for him. One of the hardest things we've ever done, after saying goodbye to David that day, was Dad and me walking back to your room hand in hand and crying. We talked quickly and I suggested to him we tell you how much we love you, and that you didn't have to fight anymore--that you could let go and didn't have to stay here in pain for us. It bothered me because I couldn't tell if you were still cognizant of things or not. I hated to think that your mind was still completely well and we were telling you to die...I think you understood though. By then your kidneys had failed and you probably weren't very aware of things, though you often could listen to us.
I still miss you so much it physically pains me sometimes. I can't listen to certain songs because they make me think of you. Of praying for your death to be quick and painless, of praying and hoping for the cancer to stop, disappear. I wondered if God Himself had heard me, and I wasn't sure. I hated the thought He hadn't heard me.
Death is such a terrible thing. I simply can't seem to get a handle on things that I need to. I keep trying to get things done around the house and I just CAN'T SEEM to get a grip. I keep wishing that I could rewind the world to Early-Mid June, back when life was seemingly perfect. Then I could tell you to just go to the Dr and get that hysterectomy, and not worry about the repercussions of it. I sometimes wish you'd have listened to me, but even by the time we talked about that, it was probably too late. The outcome might have been the same, and the devil himself is making me think it might not have been the same, that you'd still be alive. I tell myself I'm being tricked by his evil. I am still trying to relearn how to trust God after this happened. I am so scared to do it since He didn't save you...
I'm trying to be a good girl, Mom. I'm trying to get better about this. I'm still so depressed, I sometimes feel so very alone. Oh Mom--I wish I could still hug you. I wish I could feel your arms around mine and eat your good cooking, for us to talk and laugh and love together. I still needed you here; why did you get taken away?
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Saturday, September 18, 2010
4
Dear Mom,
I keep dreaming of you. Keep having dreams. In this one we were hiding from people, getting ready to go to the memorial in Connecticut...and you were alive-but-not, if that makes sense. You were wearing your beautiful peach Easter dress. I could touch and hug your semi-corporeal body. It was only a little disturbing, because you were really a ghost.
Life keeps throwing me around, and I don't know what I can do to make things better for myself. I keep trying so hard to make my life better, in the normal and "safe" ways, meaning, not racking up credit card debt and other bad things, and I can't ever seem to get ahead.
I was reading back on some old emails you sent me and I am so thankful I still have them. I keep thinking I should call you, and that's been hard for me. The last few days I've just felt like crying and crying, and sometimes my body shakes with tears. My lip quivers, and hot tears fall from my eyes onto my cheeks. I really, really miss you. I don't know what to do about it other than miss you more acutely each day. I keep telling myself that it sucks to be here when you're not, but overall I am so happy you're not suffering anymore. I know it is selfish of me to want you to be here on earth, even though you'd be in pain or suffering. I'm so tired and sad of Cancer being around. I am so depressed without you, Mom.
I feel sometimes as if I can't go on, even though I know that's what you wanted me to do. I've been pretty good the last few days and haven't cried much, but it keeps wanting to well up inside me and overflow. Most of the time I want to stay curled up in bed and sleep all day. This depression is getting to me. I've been talking to you a lot when I drive to and fro, trying to get something more or discover something in myself. I also keep feeling as if you're still around, and while I generally like that, I don't know what to make of it.
Anyway Mom, I don't have much more to say for now. Life has been too hard in the last weeks, and it'd be easier if you were here for me to talk to. I miss you so very much that when I think about it I cry. I wish you could give me some advice. I could really use it.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
I keep dreaming of you. Keep having dreams. In this one we were hiding from people, getting ready to go to the memorial in Connecticut...and you were alive-but-not, if that makes sense. You were wearing your beautiful peach Easter dress. I could touch and hug your semi-corporeal body. It was only a little disturbing, because you were really a ghost.
Life keeps throwing me around, and I don't know what I can do to make things better for myself. I keep trying so hard to make my life better, in the normal and "safe" ways, meaning, not racking up credit card debt and other bad things, and I can't ever seem to get ahead.
I was reading back on some old emails you sent me and I am so thankful I still have them. I keep thinking I should call you, and that's been hard for me. The last few days I've just felt like crying and crying, and sometimes my body shakes with tears. My lip quivers, and hot tears fall from my eyes onto my cheeks. I really, really miss you. I don't know what to do about it other than miss you more acutely each day. I keep telling myself that it sucks to be here when you're not, but overall I am so happy you're not suffering anymore. I know it is selfish of me to want you to be here on earth, even though you'd be in pain or suffering. I'm so tired and sad of Cancer being around. I am so depressed without you, Mom.
I feel sometimes as if I can't go on, even though I know that's what you wanted me to do. I've been pretty good the last few days and haven't cried much, but it keeps wanting to well up inside me and overflow. Most of the time I want to stay curled up in bed and sleep all day. This depression is getting to me. I've been talking to you a lot when I drive to and fro, trying to get something more or discover something in myself. I also keep feeling as if you're still around, and while I generally like that, I don't know what to make of it.
Anyway Mom, I don't have much more to say for now. Life has been too hard in the last weeks, and it'd be easier if you were here for me to talk to. I miss you so very much that when I think about it I cry. I wish you could give me some advice. I could really use it.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
3
Dear Mom,
I'm still trying to learn to live without you being here. I'm still talking about you in the present tense. I've been having problems with that. I guess I'm not the only one, so I guess that isn't totally unheard of. It will take me months to get used to that.
I keep almost calling your cell phone. Dad had said he had wished he had given your cell to one of the aunts...but I said I'm glad he forgot it in Maine. Your number is still there and I didn't want to get a phone call from "Mom" on my cell and have it be a relative, and not you. That would seriously mess with my head and not in a good way.
I just keep thinking that you're still here. It's hard for me. It's weird, because I can say simply that I watched you die, I went to your funeral, I saw you buried. I know you're not alive anymore. I'm trying not to be in denial about it. I am entirely happy for you being in Heaven. No question about that. And I know I'm being selfish.
I'm just trying to learn to deal with things. Trying to grieve properly. How does one really, truly grieve the experience of losing a parent? I'm not sure I'm doing it the right way, but I have to at least try.
Once I feel steady enough, I'm planning on writing a new book about us. About our lives, about love and family and faith. You know where I'm going with this, right? I plan on dedicating it to you, Mom, as well as Dad. I am so thankful for both of you.
Dad and David bought me a KitchenAid mixer for my birthday. It is so awesome! You'd really like it. I plan on making David and Dad some Calzones when they come through Minneapolis sometime. The dough hook is amazingly wonderful. They were both glad that I liked my present so much, even though it wasn't what one might think of as a good birthday gift.
I'll leave off for now, because I'm done writing for today. I'll write in a few days when I might have more to say. Love you, Mom.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
I'm still trying to learn to live without you being here. I'm still talking about you in the present tense. I've been having problems with that. I guess I'm not the only one, so I guess that isn't totally unheard of. It will take me months to get used to that.
I keep almost calling your cell phone. Dad had said he had wished he had given your cell to one of the aunts...but I said I'm glad he forgot it in Maine. Your number is still there and I didn't want to get a phone call from "Mom" on my cell and have it be a relative, and not you. That would seriously mess with my head and not in a good way.
I just keep thinking that you're still here. It's hard for me. It's weird, because I can say simply that I watched you die, I went to your funeral, I saw you buried. I know you're not alive anymore. I'm trying not to be in denial about it. I am entirely happy for you being in Heaven. No question about that. And I know I'm being selfish.
I'm just trying to learn to deal with things. Trying to grieve properly. How does one really, truly grieve the experience of losing a parent? I'm not sure I'm doing it the right way, but I have to at least try.
Once I feel steady enough, I'm planning on writing a new book about us. About our lives, about love and family and faith. You know where I'm going with this, right? I plan on dedicating it to you, Mom, as well as Dad. I am so thankful for both of you.
Dad and David bought me a KitchenAid mixer for my birthday. It is so awesome! You'd really like it. I plan on making David and Dad some Calzones when they come through Minneapolis sometime. The dough hook is amazingly wonderful. They were both glad that I liked my present so much, even though it wasn't what one might think of as a good birthday gift.
I'll leave off for now, because I'm done writing for today. I'll write in a few days when I might have more to say. Love you, Mom.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Sunday, September 12, 2010
2
Dear Mom,
Yesterday was a little better for me. I was able to go to work for the first time since I left for Boston and not get too overwhelmed. Friday was a good day too. In fact, it was such a good day that normally I'd have called and said so...You would be proud of me for the day I had.
Linda has been checking in with me every few weeks (Chris's Mom) and making sure I'm ok. She, Chris and I went out for a drive/walk to Wayzata for a few hours to people watch and see the sailboats...it was very peaceful, really. It reminded me of the Yarmouth Harbor that Dad and I drove by a few times when we were at your house...lots of little boats and sails running around.
Linda said that after her mom died, all the kids and she noticed that they saw butterflies all the time...and she said that her mom loved butterflies. I wish I had something like that, to see you. I'll be keeping an eye out, just in case, because I'd like to see you around. You're still visiting me in my dreams but recently less so. I wish you'd come by every night, because I miss you.
My birthday was early last week, just after Labor Day. I turned 25. A few weeks ago I remember talking to you about it, how scared I was to be turning 25. You said that you had a hard time with that too. 30 wasn't such a big deal, you said. I agreed with you on that. I wish you could have been at my birthday party, Mom. All your sisters organized a party for me, and even Grandma M and Tom and Helen came! We had a great time eating food on the BBQ. Dad is a good griller! We had a lot of unhealthy food, but we splurged a little on it. We also had cake and Hudsonville Ice cream. Everybody had a lot of fun making me feel awkward when I opened presents. I hated attention being on me. Jon and Bri made a really nice video and music of my life and dedicated it to you...there wasn't a dry eye in the house! You would have felt weird with pictures of you up there though...all those 90s hair and dresses! You looked great though. Always put together.
Today is your memorial in Connecticut. Dad made an executive decision that David and I not go. That's ok, though I haven't been in Brookfield since April 2008 I think. After this it will be "over" from a closure standpoint for him, but it will never really be over, you know? I think he is driving back home tonight and will start work tomorrow. I don't know though. I've been giving him a little space even though I don't really want to. I don't want to smother him, of course, but I don't want to let him get lonely, either.
All of us wish you had made it home from Boston, even for a little bit. To have some more time. I'm kinda kicking myself for not coming out earlier and spending time. I really, really miss you and wish I hadn't wasted so many opportunities. Tim has been asking me "what do you want? what do you need?" and I always say "I want my mom back." Then I cry, like I am now. It's a little more restrained crying at the moment, but I know it will soon turn to body-wracking sobs.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Yesterday was a little better for me. I was able to go to work for the first time since I left for Boston and not get too overwhelmed. Friday was a good day too. In fact, it was such a good day that normally I'd have called and said so...You would be proud of me for the day I had.
Linda has been checking in with me every few weeks (Chris's Mom) and making sure I'm ok. She, Chris and I went out for a drive/walk to Wayzata for a few hours to people watch and see the sailboats...it was very peaceful, really. It reminded me of the Yarmouth Harbor that Dad and I drove by a few times when we were at your house...lots of little boats and sails running around.
Linda said that after her mom died, all the kids and she noticed that they saw butterflies all the time...and she said that her mom loved butterflies. I wish I had something like that, to see you. I'll be keeping an eye out, just in case, because I'd like to see you around. You're still visiting me in my dreams but recently less so. I wish you'd come by every night, because I miss you.
My birthday was early last week, just after Labor Day. I turned 25. A few weeks ago I remember talking to you about it, how scared I was to be turning 25. You said that you had a hard time with that too. 30 wasn't such a big deal, you said. I agreed with you on that. I wish you could have been at my birthday party, Mom. All your sisters organized a party for me, and even Grandma M and Tom and Helen came! We had a great time eating food on the BBQ. Dad is a good griller! We had a lot of unhealthy food, but we splurged a little on it. We also had cake and Hudsonville Ice cream. Everybody had a lot of fun making me feel awkward when I opened presents. I hated attention being on me. Jon and Bri made a really nice video and music of my life and dedicated it to you...there wasn't a dry eye in the house! You would have felt weird with pictures of you up there though...all those 90s hair and dresses! You looked great though. Always put together.
Today is your memorial in Connecticut. Dad made an executive decision that David and I not go. That's ok, though I haven't been in Brookfield since April 2008 I think. After this it will be "over" from a closure standpoint for him, but it will never really be over, you know? I think he is driving back home tonight and will start work tomorrow. I don't know though. I've been giving him a little space even though I don't really want to. I don't want to smother him, of course, but I don't want to let him get lonely, either.
All of us wish you had made it home from Boston, even for a little bit. To have some more time. I'm kinda kicking myself for not coming out earlier and spending time. I really, really miss you and wish I hadn't wasted so many opportunities. Tim has been asking me "what do you want? what do you need?" and I always say "I want my mom back." Then I cry, like I am now. It's a little more restrained crying at the moment, but I know it will soon turn to body-wracking sobs.
I love you, forever and always.
Love,
Christy
Friday, September 10, 2010
1
Dear Mom,
It's been a little over two weeks since I saw you die in Brigham Women's Hospital, and about a week since your funeral. I'm having some problems dealing with the fact you're gone. I miss you SO MUCH. I love you so much more.
I've been having dreams about you since you died. I am so thankful for them but at the same time I am so sad that I can only see and talk to you in my dreams. I wish you were still here. I keep thinking that if I were only to call your cell phone, or even call the house when Dad's working that you'd just pick up and I could talk to you. I feel like I need so much advice. I'm so young, and I need my mom.
I wish I could have appreciated everything you did so much more when you were still alive; but I know more than ever that you heard me when I said I loved you, and that I was stupid to be a dumb teenager for all that time. I'm so sorry I hurt you...I always loved you, even when you thought I didn't. How could I not love you? You're my mom and I always, always loved you. I'm so thankful we had some good years before you got sick--we had started mending bridges a few years ago. I wish I'd have told you when you were well how sorry I was. How was I to know that you would leave us after only 8 weeks?
I'm worried now that I won't be a good mom when I have my own kids. How can I know how to be a good mom without you to call and ask for advice? Who will come in and calm me down in the delivery room when I freak out and need you? I feel so alone, Mom. So very alone. I know I'm not though, but I still don't know what to do.
I miss you so much. Please know that up in Heaven on your cloud, OK?
I'm getting really angry, Mom. Not at you, not at God, but I'm mad at Satan for taking you away from me. I'm angry because September is Cancer Awareness Month and unfortunately for me, I am now so acutely aware I could punch somebody. I'm angry because I can't believe how evil Cancer really is, and how badly I wish the outcome could have been different.
You would probably be glad to know that when I think of you I remember you as alive and vibrant and always going-going, smiling and always happy instead of what you were when I went to Boston. I'm just saying I'm remembering you as you were, not as you ended up. I'm not trying to insult you, Mom, truly...I just think you would like for me to remember you the way you were before the Cancer took hold. You were still beautiful even then, even when the Cancer had ravaged you and hurt your body in ways I can only imagine. You were so beautiful. I loved every line on your face and every smile I could get from you, even when I wasn't sure you were listening. I'll always be your little girl, your darling redhead.
I love you forever and always. I'm going to have to stop here because I am crying so hard my body is shaking.
Love,
Christy
It's been a little over two weeks since I saw you die in Brigham Women's Hospital, and about a week since your funeral. I'm having some problems dealing with the fact you're gone. I miss you SO MUCH. I love you so much more.
I've been having dreams about you since you died. I am so thankful for them but at the same time I am so sad that I can only see and talk to you in my dreams. I wish you were still here. I keep thinking that if I were only to call your cell phone, or even call the house when Dad's working that you'd just pick up and I could talk to you. I feel like I need so much advice. I'm so young, and I need my mom.
I wish I could have appreciated everything you did so much more when you were still alive; but I know more than ever that you heard me when I said I loved you, and that I was stupid to be a dumb teenager for all that time. I'm so sorry I hurt you...I always loved you, even when you thought I didn't. How could I not love you? You're my mom and I always, always loved you. I'm so thankful we had some good years before you got sick--we had started mending bridges a few years ago. I wish I'd have told you when you were well how sorry I was. How was I to know that you would leave us after only 8 weeks?
I'm worried now that I won't be a good mom when I have my own kids. How can I know how to be a good mom without you to call and ask for advice? Who will come in and calm me down in the delivery room when I freak out and need you? I feel so alone, Mom. So very alone. I know I'm not though, but I still don't know what to do.
I miss you so much. Please know that up in Heaven on your cloud, OK?
I'm getting really angry, Mom. Not at you, not at God, but I'm mad at Satan for taking you away from me. I'm angry because September is Cancer Awareness Month and unfortunately for me, I am now so acutely aware I could punch somebody. I'm angry because I can't believe how evil Cancer really is, and how badly I wish the outcome could have been different.
You would probably be glad to know that when I think of you I remember you as alive and vibrant and always going-going, smiling and always happy instead of what you were when I went to Boston. I'm just saying I'm remembering you as you were, not as you ended up. I'm not trying to insult you, Mom, truly...I just think you would like for me to remember you the way you were before the Cancer took hold. You were still beautiful even then, even when the Cancer had ravaged you and hurt your body in ways I can only imagine. You were so beautiful. I loved every line on your face and every smile I could get from you, even when I wasn't sure you were listening. I'll always be your little girl, your darling redhead.
I love you forever and always. I'm going to have to stop here because I am crying so hard my body is shaking.
Love,
Christy
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