Fog shrouds my recent morning walk. Street lights halo both bare trees and evergreens. The moon, on the cusp of fullness, is setting in the west, hidden as day yawns to rising in the east. Despite dense fog, light is waking and crows begin their morning report. Winter chill is still in the air and the empty bench remains empty despite my desire to watch the unfolding longer. It’s not that I have anything pressing on the calendar and the quiet of the holiday lull (Martin Luther King Day) that has settled over the neighborhood almost lulls me into forgetting about COVID and the most recent variant, Omicron. Almost.
Shattered: On Loss, Grief, and Growth
Perhaps a year after we moved into our home and furniture finally made an appearance in our living room, my ex and I purchased two pieces of art. It was a stretch for us, but both pieces brought us pleasure over the years. One piece was a large, glass-blown plate saturated with turquoise, navy, pearl, rose, and fuchsia elegance. Heavy, it sat upright nested in a plastic holder on the console table behind the couch where on bright days it would retain the sun’s heat. The plate witnessed birthday parties, holiday gatherings, graduations, and close to three decades of life passing by. If you believe, like I do, that even inanimate objects can soak in the energy of a home, this one held love and loss, sadness and acceptance, disappointment and relief…and bundles of laughter. That plate appeared in a myriad of family photos as it remained in the same spot for over 27 years until we sold our home and divorced four years ago. It absorbed our stories as much as it absorbed the heat of the sun.
Sacred Witness
I didn’t expect her journey to last this long. But it has. Three weeks have passed since the heart “event” that tipped the scales in favor of dying “sooner” versus living “longer.” Three weeks of decline with brief rallies. From spending her days in her chair, engaging with company between long naps and eating small meals, to being bed bound. She spends the hours in deep sleep, sometimes restless, no longer outwardly responding to my voice. I accept after each visit it may be the last time I experience her warm skin against mine. But no phone call awakens me in the wee hours...
Tiptoeing Toward Death
She is tiptoeing toward Death as she would a vaguely familiar lover. And Death gently reaches out to her, rubbing her feet, her hands, leaving them cold. Death strokes her cheek with a soft, open palm. At first she leans in, like a cat accepting the caress. Then she pulls away, not ready to fall into these arms. Her eyes open and look into mine and she says, “My darling girl.”
Being the Daughter, Not the Chaplain
The day comes when you are the daughter, not the chaplain. You are grateful for your experiences and for the lessons other daughters and sons have taught you when you walked beside them. Relieved that you invited families to trust the journey of their loved ones and to practice self-care, so that you too can hear the echo of your own words as you sit and watch your mother meander from this world toward the next.
Swimming with Grief
December 17th, my father’s birthday. My dad would have turned 93 this year if he had lived so long. He lived to 63, barely. Funny how grief can linger submerged for a decade or two or even close to three and then bob to the surface for no apparent reason. Or maybe there is a reason—a mother with Alzheimer’s who, as she drifts farther out in a sea of old memories, brings my father up a lot, stirring my own recollections. She still gets peeved with him for “leaving” so long ago, knowing it wasn’t a choice.
Anticipatory Grief
My pug, Hugo, turned 15 today, June 26. I remember the day we, my then 13 year-old daughter, 10 year-old son, and 74 year-old mother, drove to Southern Oregon to pick him up. A hot mid-August day, a day we had been anticipating after months of research and deciding on what type of dog to get for our family of four. My mother volunteered to go with us and let us use her car as it was more reliable. We brought a puppy toy, blankets and towels, water bowl and a tiny harness. We brought excited hearts, ideas for names and promises of being consistent on training and chores. I don’t remember much else about how the day unfolded except the scared whimper of a puppy, held between my children in the backseat until he finally slept, and our own oohing and awing at how soft and cute he was and the joy he would bring.
