Pretend your parents are dead.
No, but seriously.
Or any loved one, really.
Pretend they are dead, but talk to them. Go through boxes and photos and journals with them. Ask your questions.
The last time I saw my mother was two years ago this week. I went to visit her in Indiana for a pre-Christmas celebration. We went to the symphony holiday show, something we had done most every year of my childhood. We bought the same cookies in the same lobby. A tradition that endured, and there is something poetic and almost foreseen about us going to the show together one last time, for her last Christmas. I know that I'll probably think about her death every July 1st for the rest of my life, but I wonder if every year I'll remember that it's been 3 years, 5 years, 10 years, 25 years, since I last saw my mother. What parts of grief endure?
Wanting to feel close to her this week, perhaps, I thought I would start going through some of the boxes P and I took from her house earlier this year. I didn't get very far, but I did find a journal she had written during the trip on which she met my father. I scanned it for mention of him specifically, but along the way found reference to friends that had been on the trip, a priest that had been along, cities where they had stopped. I had so many questions about who these people were, what she had thought of my dad the first time she saw him... and I won't get any answers. And I wished that I had stumbled upon this when my mom was alive. I wish we could have talked more about this trip. I wish I could ask her the names of people in photos found in the box.
But then, no matter how much of this I had been allowed, there would always be photos unaddressed, memories unresolved, and an argument to be made that I needed more time. So I am trying to be content with what I do have, knowing that I would have never hit a maximum fill line, requiring no more of her.
I could have asked her questions forever.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
On Eagles Wings
For some reason, once in a while, I will get old church hymns stuck in my head. These were family favorites, the ones my father sang most robustly during Mass, the ones my mother chose most often as a church organist and choir director. There wasn't much need for her to practice, especially these old favorites, but if she had to sing rather than just play, she'd practice. And I have many memories of her at the piano downstairs, making music, that I could hear clearly through my bedroom door.
One of the most missed aspects of religion (and, really, perhaps the only one I truly miss) is tradition. Tradition is comfort. It is a collective memory that says you are not alone. Or, even if you are, that it was not always so, and that thousands or millions of other people know the same prayers you do, the same hymns. That you could walk into any Catholic church and follow along, the contents of the Mass unchanged. Though P grew up in an Italian/Czech family in Pennsylvania and I in an Irish family in Indiana, it is like we have some shared memories, or notions, from childhood. I jokingly say that I had wanted to find a formerly Catholic, currently atheist man. I found one, much by accident. So as this man who had not met many of my friends or family sat next to me during my mothers funeral, he sang along, he knew when to sit, kneel, and stand. He squeezed my hand when the priest uttered words he knew I would find offensive and worthy of an eye roll.
This week, we are two atheists with a seven and a half foot Christmas tree, garland and stockings on the mantle, and a manger scene. We've done every Christmas since we've been together. We both like the lights and sparkle, the ornaments with a story, the excuse to dote on one another with gifts. Each year I mentally refine a bit more how we will handle Christmas when we are parents, raising atheist children. Each year I become a little sad, remembering the god father who gave me that manger scene, gone eleven years now; the father who helped me build a stable for it, gone nineteen years now; the mother who gave me most of these decorations, gone not even two years. And when I think about how I will tell my children that some families believe in the myth of Jesus, that it gives their lives order and meaning, that they celebrate this story at this time, we take this time to celebrate love and family. We take the days off work to visit loved ones or to help people in our community. We take the long cold nights as opportunities to drink hot chocolate and read together, to eat a little less healthy than the rest of the year because sometimes, it's okay to splurge. We take the time to celebrate another year that we've had together.
While my children may enter a Catholic church as I would a mosque, respectful and unsure, they will know tradition, and they will know community. They will perhaps even know the old hymns that penetrating the floor boards of my childhood bedroom, as, like a nonsense meditation chant, the songs will sometimes come to me as a focus for my brain that is trying to drift away; an anchor about which I do not have to think but merely drop and feel safe against the waves.
I hope they have less waves than I did as a child. I hope they always feel safe.
One of the most missed aspects of religion (and, really, perhaps the only one I truly miss) is tradition. Tradition is comfort. It is a collective memory that says you are not alone. Or, even if you are, that it was not always so, and that thousands or millions of other people know the same prayers you do, the same hymns. That you could walk into any Catholic church and follow along, the contents of the Mass unchanged. Though P grew up in an Italian/Czech family in Pennsylvania and I in an Irish family in Indiana, it is like we have some shared memories, or notions, from childhood. I jokingly say that I had wanted to find a formerly Catholic, currently atheist man. I found one, much by accident. So as this man who had not met many of my friends or family sat next to me during my mothers funeral, he sang along, he knew when to sit, kneel, and stand. He squeezed my hand when the priest uttered words he knew I would find offensive and worthy of an eye roll.
This week, we are two atheists with a seven and a half foot Christmas tree, garland and stockings on the mantle, and a manger scene. We've done every Christmas since we've been together. We both like the lights and sparkle, the ornaments with a story, the excuse to dote on one another with gifts. Each year I mentally refine a bit more how we will handle Christmas when we are parents, raising atheist children. Each year I become a little sad, remembering the god father who gave me that manger scene, gone eleven years now; the father who helped me build a stable for it, gone nineteen years now; the mother who gave me most of these decorations, gone not even two years. And when I think about how I will tell my children that some families believe in the myth of Jesus, that it gives their lives order and meaning, that they celebrate this story at this time, we take this time to celebrate love and family. We take the days off work to visit loved ones or to help people in our community. We take the long cold nights as opportunities to drink hot chocolate and read together, to eat a little less healthy than the rest of the year because sometimes, it's okay to splurge. We take the time to celebrate another year that we've had together.
While my children may enter a Catholic church as I would a mosque, respectful and unsure, they will know tradition, and they will know community. They will perhaps even know the old hymns that penetrating the floor boards of my childhood bedroom, as, like a nonsense meditation chant, the songs will sometimes come to me as a focus for my brain that is trying to drift away; an anchor about which I do not have to think but merely drop and feel safe against the waves.
I hope they have less waves than I did as a child. I hope they always feel safe.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
A little friend
The symptoms of my emotional breakdowns look like a bad flu that suddenly becomes a screaming match that is entirely one-sided. For days I sulk, I wallow, I even start aching and coughing, actually. And then one thing sets me off and I start yelling, a lot, or crying, or both, and screaming into pillows like a banshee muted behind several closed doors. These episodes have likely caused my husband and other loved ones to wish for several closed (and locked, and heavily guarded) doors between us.
The days following the death of D were in keeping with my model. I actually felt ill. The novice I was several years ago would have thought I was actually fighting a virus, but the seasoned me knew that it was grief. I had just done research on it not that long ago, in that lull between my mom's death and D dying. I learned that the body sometimes does not know how to handle shocks to the emotional system, and sometimes the physical is affected. For days I woke up each morning unrested, feeling like something was sitting on my chest, feeling like my neck and shoulder muscles were on fire, feeling like putty moved through my sinus system. But I pushed through: there was the important meeting at work that I really ought to attend, the memorial service to plan, the memorial service to attend, the dog to be walked, the breakfast my growling stomach needed. Something usually pushed me out of bed.
But the disease held firmly finally, unshakeable, too heavy, one day. Shackling me to the bed as I tried earnestly to get up. As I weighed the pros and cons in my head, as I tried to care what the HR department or my clients would say, I reached for my cell phone to check the time. I was hoping to learn that I had ten more minutes to decide. But what I learned was so much sweeter.
One of my oldest friends was a new mama.
His name, the name of this new human, was followed by the date and time of his arrival. I was told he was doing well. I was told my friend was doing well.
And I got up.
It may have been just the morning before his birth that I had dropped the shampoo bottle on my toe and retaliated by picking up the bottle and bashing it against the wall of the shower, in actual anger. But the morning I knew that some little person was having his first morning, ever, I showered with a smile. I bounced around the house through my morning routine and called my friend's mom on my way to work to giggle and congratulate. Just ten days out from Ds death, my co-workers were still a bit somber around me, still asking with those eyes you only get for divorce or death, "How are you today?" So when I skipped into the office that day shouting "GUESS WHAT!" I think a few assumed the worst. But soon they were showing me the best baby toys on Amazon, and we were talking about our favorite children's books.
When M told me she was pregnant, I was sure her little one would be my buddy. I hoped that though we lived in different states, the kid would think I was cool, and maybe we'd have some "thing"--we'd go to the same ice cream place whenever I came to town, or I'd give them a cool nickname.
He seems to like me alright. Granted, he's 7 months old so his preferences are not very discerning at this juncture. I don't know what he will end up thinking of me, or if he'll relish the thought of having a "thing" we share, but I know that each time I see him, whether in person or in a photo text message, I think about that morning after his birth. I think about being too despondent to cry anymore, I think about wondering how I was going to get through losing two parental figures in less than a year. And then, with one piece of information, a smile. Some news to share that was good. A reason to travel that did not call for a black dress and sensible shoes. No speech to give, no thank you cards to write, no faking of grace when a distant relative says the wrong thing. No pitying eyes. So for now, that is our thing. Our thing is something he won't be able to remember, but I hope one day I can tell him that his first morning was my first morning of coming back around to myself.
I hesitated writing this for a while, because I kept thinking, "This baby and this birth are not about me. Why do you always have to make everything about you?" But I think I realized that the beauty of it all was that, for the first time in a long time, it wasn't about me. It wasn't about who I'd lost or how I was coping or how long it had been since my last panic attack or the last crying jag. It was about someone else, and about life rather than death. It was about everyone other than myself. And suddenly, my world again became bigger than my grief.
The days following the death of D were in keeping with my model. I actually felt ill. The novice I was several years ago would have thought I was actually fighting a virus, but the seasoned me knew that it was grief. I had just done research on it not that long ago, in that lull between my mom's death and D dying. I learned that the body sometimes does not know how to handle shocks to the emotional system, and sometimes the physical is affected. For days I woke up each morning unrested, feeling like something was sitting on my chest, feeling like my neck and shoulder muscles were on fire, feeling like putty moved through my sinus system. But I pushed through: there was the important meeting at work that I really ought to attend, the memorial service to plan, the memorial service to attend, the dog to be walked, the breakfast my growling stomach needed. Something usually pushed me out of bed.
But the disease held firmly finally, unshakeable, too heavy, one day. Shackling me to the bed as I tried earnestly to get up. As I weighed the pros and cons in my head, as I tried to care what the HR department or my clients would say, I reached for my cell phone to check the time. I was hoping to learn that I had ten more minutes to decide. But what I learned was so much sweeter.
One of my oldest friends was a new mama.
His name, the name of this new human, was followed by the date and time of his arrival. I was told he was doing well. I was told my friend was doing well.
And I got up.
It may have been just the morning before his birth that I had dropped the shampoo bottle on my toe and retaliated by picking up the bottle and bashing it against the wall of the shower, in actual anger. But the morning I knew that some little person was having his first morning, ever, I showered with a smile. I bounced around the house through my morning routine and called my friend's mom on my way to work to giggle and congratulate. Just ten days out from Ds death, my co-workers were still a bit somber around me, still asking with those eyes you only get for divorce or death, "How are you today?" So when I skipped into the office that day shouting "GUESS WHAT!" I think a few assumed the worst. But soon they were showing me the best baby toys on Amazon, and we were talking about our favorite children's books.
When M told me she was pregnant, I was sure her little one would be my buddy. I hoped that though we lived in different states, the kid would think I was cool, and maybe we'd have some "thing"--we'd go to the same ice cream place whenever I came to town, or I'd give them a cool nickname.
He seems to like me alright. Granted, he's 7 months old so his preferences are not very discerning at this juncture. I don't know what he will end up thinking of me, or if he'll relish the thought of having a "thing" we share, but I know that each time I see him, whether in person or in a photo text message, I think about that morning after his birth. I think about being too despondent to cry anymore, I think about wondering how I was going to get through losing two parental figures in less than a year. And then, with one piece of information, a smile. Some news to share that was good. A reason to travel that did not call for a black dress and sensible shoes. No speech to give, no thank you cards to write, no faking of grace when a distant relative says the wrong thing. No pitying eyes. So for now, that is our thing. Our thing is something he won't be able to remember, but I hope one day I can tell him that his first morning was my first morning of coming back around to myself.
I hesitated writing this for a while, because I kept thinking, "This baby and this birth are not about me. Why do you always have to make everything about you?" But I think I realized that the beauty of it all was that, for the first time in a long time, it wasn't about me. It wasn't about who I'd lost or how I was coping or how long it had been since my last panic attack or the last crying jag. It was about someone else, and about life rather than death. It was about everyone other than myself. And suddenly, my world again became bigger than my grief.
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