Happy Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day, and I really wanted to write something in memorial for my Mom. Yet, I can't seem to find the words that would adequately relay the great love that I feel for this woman, even now, eleven years after her death. Rather fortuitously, I remembered a letter that I wrote to Mom on Mother's Day in 1999. I didn't know at the time that it would be her last Mother's Day with us. The letter captures everything of what I felt at the time, and much of what I still feel for her today. I miss her terribly, but remain ever grateful to have had her for as long as I did.

I hope everybody has a lovely Mother's Day. I am going to a matinee with my own two lovely daughters, who love me just as much as I love my Mom. Life is good, and goes around and around. 

9 May 1999

Dear Mom,

There aren’t many hours that pass in a day without my thinking of you. And so, I thought that I might share some of the thoughts that have come to me. But first I want you to know that a lot of what I have to say is not new, it is stuff that I have known for a long time but have never shared with you. It just seems as though I have this opportunity to tell you how important you are to me, and I think that I should grab the moment. Besides, I’m running out of things to buy you.

As you know, I hate that you have leukemia. It scares me, maddens me, and very often saddens me. But I am so amazed at how you deal with it, at your strength and courage and all-around attitude. I know that you probably have moments, or days, when your strength falters and I really need you to know that you can share those times with me. Phone me or send me an e-mail, or save it up until you see me, but please don’t keep your worries to yourself. We are able to share so much, I think, and I really want to be able to talk to you about anything. You don’t need to protect me from your pain. You see, I have strength too and I am certain that I got it from you. Anyway, the rest of this letter isn’t about the fact that you got sick and scared me into realizing how much I love you. I am writing because there seems to be no better time than now, to share with you a piece of my heart.

I think I’ve told you about the warmest and most precious memories that I have from when I was little. You know we all go on like we were so hard done by, and I’ve done my fair share of criticizing you and Dad about how you raised us, etc. etc. But I have always known that you both did your very best, and in recent years I have come to realize just how good it really was. I think of what it must have taken for you to arrange our holidays in the summer, to get us a pool, to fix my room up so beautifully, to always make our home warm and safe. I know now how much energy and money that must have taken and as kids, we likely never really appreciated it the way we should have. But the times that are most precious to me are still the times that we sat in the living room, on the couch, probably of a Sunday afternoon, with you reading at one end while I read my Nancy Drew book at the other. Dad and the boys were not usually around, and I guess Deb was either not invented or napping, but I recall sitting, listening to the fat from the roast spitting in the oven. It was just very special. After Debra was born, and you were still at home, after-school time was incredibly wonderful. I suppose it was because you were there (rather than at work) and the boys and I didn’t have the opportunity to scrap but whatever it was, I loved coming home and having you there. And even to this day, I love to watch or feel or hear you, humming or singing while you are puttering in the kitchen or tidying up something. Well, I could go on and on about these silly little childhood memories but most of all what I want to say is that I think it is kind of a shame that we only really know what our parents did for us, when we start getting old enough to wonder why our own children don’t appreciate what we do for them.

I don’t want to get into my teenage years, because they weren’t very good times for you, and hey, this is a present not a punishment. I don’t have any real explanation for why I was such a screw-up, but I am grateful that I lived to see the end of it. There were times when my behaviour was really self-destructive, and I am certain that I was also destroying you and Dad. All I can say is that I am sorry, and I would do anything I could to change things so that we had only happy memories of my teen years, but we can’t so let’s just be grateful that they are long over. And from my perspective, I believe that I learned a lot from those times, and in some ways, that stuff made me who I am today.

I spend a lot of time counting my blessings, and being grateful for all that I have in my life. And I am so glad that I moved back here to be closer to you eleven years ago and that I have gotten to spend so much time with you and Dad this past decade. I want to spend the next decade with you both, and I know that we will do everything we can to make that happen. But I also realize that a lot can happen, to any of us, at any time. And so when I think in terms of time, I realize that I have had the most and best of times with my mother, certainly better than anybody I know. I don’t know another woman who I am close to, except for Debra, who has what we have. And I am so grateful for that. If a person’s success in life is measured by how much they are loved by their children, then I would say that you and Dad are likely the most successful people in the world.

Well, my darling Mother, I guess I should stop this shameless display of emotion. I wanted to write you something that would be entirely beautiful and eloquent and touch you right in the center of your soul. But that will have to come later, this letter seems to be more about saying some things that I should have said a long time ago. And yet, I believe that you know these things already, that you know me, and that you know my heart. And so you already know how very much I love you. I could not love you more, but I sure can love you for a lot longer. So we will just continue along, as we have been doing. Even though we have been changed so much by the past few months, I think that when it comes to matters of our hearts, all of our family has shown how much we mean to each other. Not all of us can speak or write about our love for one another, but we all know it. And that is everything.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Love,

Dawn

(Blog Note: I wrote this letter before our own kids learned to appreciate us, but now they do.)

Eleven Years

My Mom died eleven years ago today. I would write about this sad anniversary but I'm afraid that I might lose myself in grief if I get started. I did write my way through it last year, and survived. Honestly, I just don't have the energy, today. My Dad is here, and he hasn't said a word about it, I am not sure if he realizes what day it is or not. Not sure if I will bring it up before the day is done.

In any case, I have Royal Wedding preparations to take care of, as well as a playoff hockey game to watch. So. I miss you Mom. I hope you are doing well, Wills and Kate. And - Go Habs Go.

Fortunately, You Tube always come through when I can't or choose not to find the words myself.

In loving memory of my Mom, Dorothy Mary

April 1932 - April 2000

Happy Birthday

Mom, you would have turned 79 today. As has been the case for each of your birthdays this past nearly eleven years, it's been a bit of a rough week for me. I'm trying for a lighter touch today because, well to be quite frank, I've been on kind of a downer lately and it's getting pretty old. If you were here, you would be getting impatient with me and saying things like "enough already, snap out of it, move on." I'd be tempted to listen to you, but then my therapist would be irritated with me.

So for today at least, on your birthday, I'd like to catch you up on a few things I would tell you if you were here, things that I think would make you smile. If you were here, I think that you would laugh as I fill you in on things and sometimes you would say, "You silly arse." I loved it when you called us kids silly arses. Do you know that you almost always said it with a smile on your face?

Yes, I think that you would be quite surprised to learn what's been going on with me since you left. For example:

• I'm still not much of a cook, and I still have no interest in baking;
• I still haven't had a drink and it's been nearly 24 years (I helped myself to some of your medication a week after you died though, so I changed my "clean" date to May 11, 2000);
• I finished my PhD, but don't really give a shit about it because I think the main reason I did it was to make you proud of me, and I realized half-way into it that you were probably proud of me anyway. I finished it anyway, have a huge student loan.
• An interesting piece of that is that I defended my PhD thesis in the hospital one week after they removed my cancerous colon, which is kind of a hoot of a story to tell people;
• I have a garden now and it's quite lovely, but I still kill houseplants on a regular basis;
• I wear long johns all winter long, fancy ones with lace at the bottom (under my jeans and dress pants);
• Soul Mate started drinking black tea in your memory after you died, and now he is addicted to it. We don't just drink your favourite (Red Rose) anymore, in fact we buy loose tea now, at a cost of about $25 a pound. It would freak you out to know that we go through a pound about every two weeks.
• First Born has inherited yours and my voracious appetite for reading and collecting books. She still loves ribs for dinner more than anything, especially her Poppa's;
• Yoga Kid still reads mostly non-fiction. She is now a vegetarian, so she's not into anything we ever cook around here anymore, but eats a lot of quinoa (I know, you have no idea what that is, do you?);
• I now hate the colour forest green because I overdosed on it so so much in the 90s;
• I drive a Nissan Cube now, you would laugh at it and tell me it's funny looking (because it is) but I love it;
• My favourite thing in the world to do is sit by the ocean and think and drink tea or coffee, and I often think of you and how much I miss you, while I am there;
• We are no longer landlocked, but moved to an island so the ocean is only about a 7.5 minute drive away in my funny looking Cube;
• I still can't carry a tune or draw, but I am learning to knit a wicked slipper;
• I still miss you so much sometimes that I cry until my face is red and blotchy and snot drops drip onto my chest or into my ears if I am lying down;
• I eat crumpets with jam (in memory of you) even when I am trying not to eat wheat or flour;
• I sometimes amaze myself by not crying when I am thinking or writing about missing you. Like right now.

I'm going to keep trying to celebrate a "happy" birthday for you today, Mom. I know you would like that, for both of us. Before I go, I want to share a picture that your sweet nephew created and sent to Baby Sister and I. To be honest, it kind of creeped me out a bit at first, but I love the idea of it. That you are there, watching over me and all of your loved ones, from somewhere just beyond the ocean's horizon, is a comfort.

I love you, Mom.

Thursdays, Therapy, and Me

It’s past noon on Saint Patrick’s day. I was out and about this morning, and I have just realized that I’m not wearing green. There is a thin vein of chartreuse running through my scarf, but that wouldn’t nearly cut it for my Irish relatives. I should be stripped of my one-eighth Irish heritage. I haven’t even drank green beer for going on 24 years. Haven’t drank alcohol at all, for that long. Not much of an Irishman, some would argue. At least those who subscribe to stereotypes.

It’s also Therapy Thursday. This morning’s session was much like last week’s. It took me a while to get going, but I finally hit that chord variation that I keep trying to avoid, the one I need to tune into, play through, and then, when the time is right, release it...note by note. The solution to my condition is in part, to feel the feelings that I have tried for so many years to block with school, work, busyness.  

Good thing I adore my therapist. I loved my last one too, some twenty years ago. Her name was Fyfe, and the therapist of the moment, well her name is Fiona. Both good Celtic names, albeit more Scottish than Irish. I appreciate them both, for their part in leading me back towards myself. At the moment, Fiona has me feeling emotionally depleted. Not crawl into a ball devastated, more like “really don’t think I am going to be cleaning the bathroom today after all” kind of devastated. Yet I also feel vaguely mellow, in a pleasant sort of way.

This morning I recounted what it was like to sit in an oncologist’s office eleven years ago and hear a doctor tell my mother that she had three weeks to live. How it felt when the oncologist left the room, promising that he would be right back, and then never came back. How mad I was that my mother was so hurt by his abrupt abandonment. My mother had put her life and her faith into this man and his medicine for sixteen months, and he didn’t have the guts or the grace to come back into the room and wish her well. Later that day Mom lamented: “To think that he didn’t even have the decency to come in and say good luck, take care or kiss me arse or anything.” Or something to that effect. My mother could be quite Irish when she wanted to be. Today, I’ve come to understand that not everyone can handle talking to people about dying, or saying goodbye. But that day, I wanted to go back to the cancer centre and strangle the bloody oncologist.

The other memory I had today, was that later that night, my Dad went to play darts with my brother and the guys, as scheduled. He was clearly in denial, shock. It was the best thing for him to do, as irrational as that may sound to people who don't know our family. I drove my mother back to the home she loved so dearly, the one place on earth that she loved above all others. We watched Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune and Touched By An Angel. We ate Kraft Dinner and pumpkin pie. My mother always loved Kraft dinner, but rarely made it because Dad doesn’t like it, at all. At one point in the evening, I sat at my mother’s feet and laid my head upon her knee. She caressed the top of my head as I cried and said to her very quietly: "I want to go with you." I didn’t really of course. I would never want to leave my beautiful family, my lovely life. Not then, not now. I guess I just wanted her to know that if I could, I would be with her forever. Always.

Thursdays are hard. I need to revisit the story, and process the grief. But I know and I trust that healing can and will follow the pain. I believe that with all of my being. I'm just beginning to remember the story.

Well, enough of this for today. Sorry if I have caused anybody out there sadness. I am going to switch emotional gears and go grab myself some lunch. But first, I might as well go out with a good old Irish bang. This one’s for all of my green-beer drinking Irish relatives, and in memory of my Mom, and of course, with love to my brother Danny.

This version is sung by a wee lad named Declan Galbraith. Enjoy it, and I promise tomorrow I will be funny.

  

Therapeutic Thursdays

I got a bit confused yesterday. I wrote a guest blog for another blog site but forgot to post my own daily pondering, here. When I realized this when I woke up at 4 am, I was deeply disappointed in myself. Until yesterday, I have kept my commitment to blog every damned day. I have loved keeping my word. However, in this, my new way of life, the one that says to treat myself with loving kindness and care, I am thinking - what the hell. I can blog twice today.

I had a therapy session yesterday afternoon that was simply divine. Deadly painful, but divine. Ever had one of those? I prefer not to go into deep detail here, but let me just share a few things that I learned from speaking with my therapist, and in the aftermath of the session. Perhaps if you want to learn more about any of the following, you could also get a therapist. Or, just trust me and believe that the same could be true for you, in one or more instances.

Things I Realized on Thursday

• Missing someone is not the same as grieving someone (now that one blew me out of the water)
• I like to mother the people I love (as in, it's not always a bad thing)
• I don't like goodbyes (builds on an earlier awareness from therapy that I don't like transitions)
• I can and prefer to love unconditionally (I couldn't always)
• Hearts broken in childhood take a lot of time to heal
• You can run but you can't hide (notice the use of the word "you" - guess I'll need to work on this one)
• Anger probably really is inner pain turned outward

That's all she wrote.

For now.