the only constant is change

two years without my mom.

i had been so eager to get to the 1-year mark because i thought i would magically stop feeling the hole in my heart. but, alas, that did not happen. two things did happen after that first year which caught me off-guard. one, i started to feel an emergence from a dark cloud, which i didn't think i would ever feel. it was baby steps, but the emergence let me feel other things again. by the summer, 16-17 months after she passed, i found i was again aware of my surroundings. i could now look around the house we bought 2 years prior and unpack boxes that were forgotten about, hang up art, or think about decorating for any holidays. most importantly, though, i could be present with my children again.

that first year was all about survival for me. it's cliche to say, "My children saved me," but, in a way, it was true. they had to be dressed, be fed, get to pre-school, have play-dates, etc., and it was up to me to do all that when all i wanted to do was lay in bed and/or stare at a wall. i had to put aside any grief and focus on them, and at the end of the day i was too tired to think or feel. but the grief would creep up and it would come on quickly and suddenly; the second thing that caught me off-guard. it would come out in rare moments i was in the car by myself and i would lose control of my emotions. or washing dishes. or folding laundry. and while these moments in the last year came less, what i didn't count on was the intensity of them staying with me for a few days before getting back on my feet. i felt that for every 2 steps forward i took, those intense moments set me back 5. this made the second year of grief to be a lot more difficult than the first. i felt her physically gone in every one of my pores. and being so much more aware meant the holidays, especially Thanksgiving, were more difficult to get through than the first year. any firsts that happened last year were that much more painful, such as walking my older daughter to school on her first day and leading her to her line for the first time, and then saying goodbye just about killed me.

there are many ways in which my mom's death changed me to the core, and i'm still sorting through those changes and what they mean to me. the sense of finality is so ingrained in me now. i have always strived to live by the words, "Live each day to its fullest"; however, being present with someone who takes her last breath made those words grow life-sized and turn into neon-colored block letters for me. i feel those words. they are not abstract to me anymore. i savor more moments in my life. i tell myself to risk a little more. i remind myself more often to be grateful of the life i've had up to this point.

i still struggle with witnessing my mom's passing. i vacillate between being grateful and happy we were able to fulfill her last wish, and anger because i will forever have those images seared into my memory. it is also my last memory of her.

i feel her sometimes and have dreamt of her, and, of course, i miss her like hell. but i see her in my baby niece and that always makes me smile. i hope i keep feeling her close and i look forward to our fleeting moments in my dreams, but i especially look forward to seeing her spirit come through in her grandchildren.

i don't know what to expect from this upcoming year. from what i'm told, the hole never goes away, but its pain lessens. i can already tell this is true. i try to remind myself that our mom wouldn't want me (us) to dwell on things. for as beautifully, vivaciously, and chaotically as she chose to live her life, and despite seeking out ways to challenge the status quo, one thing she was incredible at was accepting things as they were. she would often remind me that i was stressing over things that i could not control, and i've been trying to work on keeping myself focused on that. i saw her battle breast cancer in 1995 and i saw her fight for 12 weeks in late 2015 through early 2016, defying predictions of top specialists at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix. she shocked nurses and doctors with her will to pull through. her numbers weren't matching the situation she was in. they couldn't make sense of it. but there is always a check-mate and this was cancer's turn. while i'll never know for sure, i think there were a few days of sadness, and maybe even anger, on my mom's part once this reality was presented to her. but 48 hours after meeting with her team where we were told there was nothing they could medically do for her anymore, i noticed her entire demeanor had changed. she was ready to come home and she was no longer in battle mode. she was in acceptance mode. she still had 8 days of hell to go through. we all did. but underneath all of that was the acceptance that this particular life's adventure was coming to an end. out of all that i witnessed and went through in those 12 weeks, this is the one, last, big lesson she taught me. it was also very much in character. so, in honor of her, i've written out the lyrics of the song we played at her request during her memorial - Frank Sinatra's, My Way:

And now, the end is near

And so I face the final curtain

My friend, I'll say it clear

I'll state my case, of which I'm certain

I've live a life that's full

I've traveled each and every highway

But more, much more than this

I did it my way

Regrets, I've had a few

But then again, too few to mention

I did what I had to do

And saw it through without exemption

I planned each chartered course

Each careful step along the byway

And more, much more than this

I did it my way

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew

When I bit off more than I could chew

But through it all, when there was doubt

I at it up and spit it out

I faced it all and stood tall

And did it my way

I've loved. I've laughed and cried

I've had my fill my share of losing

And now,...

Buči buči myliu myliu.*

*Lithuanian, "Kisses, hugs/I love you."

Two Deaths, One Week

I started this last week with the sad news of the passing of my dear friend's step-father the day before - which was her wedding day. Her beautiful, emotional, and touching wedding that he was supposed to attend, but didn't. I ended the week yesterday afternoon finding out about a dear family friend's tragic murder in Sequim, Washington (along with her dog) 3 days ago by a young man she knew well. He was recently diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, hospitalized on Tuesday because of an incident where he attacked his mother with a pencil. He had been released the next day from where he went directly to Cynthia's house.

I am stunned to know someone who was not just murdered, but viciously so. I am beyond heartbroken that two families I know have lost a loved one unexpectedly. I am heartbroken that a friend has to start her marriage under such a dark cloud, and that another family has to grieve a loved one lost at the hands of another.

One thing that has made me take a step back is reading comments about the young man who murdered Cynthia. He is sick. He needs help. He needs medication. What he did is wrong. But he is SICK. People are attacking him and calling him names. They probably don't know about his diagnosis but it underscores how quick we are to judge. How quick we are to misunderstand.

Death is so final. I know this brings out a "Duh". But until someone in your inner circle dies, you can't understand the depth of that word "final." I didn't even understand completely despite the painful death of a close neighbor in 1996 from bone cancer and another very close family friend passing in 1999. To me, death was something that happened to others. Of course I knew I'd die one day, but it was in the abstract. When my mom died, mortality punched me in the face. Now, I know. And the depth of the word "final" keeps deepening because, at least, initially, in the first year or two (maybe three, I don't know) there are constant reminders: the empty car you have to sell, the clothes that need to be packed and given away, the books and furniture that need to be given away, bank accounts that need to close... I see all this and think, This will be my stuff one day. My kids will have to do this one day. My kids will feel this one day.

I want to say something inspirational but it all feels cliched. Life is hard. It is unfair. It gives relentlessly and take away mercilessly. We can feel or we can push away. I have mentally aged a lot since my mom's passing last year, and with each subsequent death, I understand more deeply that all we truly have is but this moment right now. Then, it's gone. And we have a new moment. Then, that's gone. And so the clock ticks.

We're so fond of compartmentalizing our lives, prioritizing what is most important to us. For many, it is money at the top of that "most important" list which then dictates every decision in order to reach that goal. I remember the day my mom died, I desperately kept counting the few dollars I found in her purse convincing myself that if I kept counting her money, she'd come back. Money is tangible. You need it. If I just held her money in my hand, she'd be coming back, right? But the fact is, no matter the way of death, you take nothing with you. No body, no car, no money. In the next place, these things aren't needed. Or maybe there's something better.

I can't make these families' pain go away as much I would like to do so. I told my husband last night when I broke the news to him about Cynthia that grieving is such a horrible feeling that I wish I could protect everyone I know from that dark, lonely pain. But I can't. So all I can hope to do is hold my wish deep in my heart for these families to find truth and honesty within themselves to help them cope with this journey. I also hope deeply that we, as a society, get serious about mental health. No one deserves the kind of death Cynthia got. She loved life. She loved to travel. She loved people. A big part of her reminded me of my mom. I hope she is flying free, laughing, smiling, forgiving.

Given A Life, But No Voice

I’m an animal lover, hands down. In 41 years, I have never gone longer than a few months without an animal in my life. One of the many things I hope to pass down to my own children is a love for animals. So far, I can tell the younger one already does, but the jury’s still out on the older one. I’m working on it.

With that being said, what I have a lot of trouble wrapping my head around is how we have strong laws against animal abuse but can’t yet seem to find a unified policy when it comes to child abuse and neglect. I remember a video of two guys abusing a kitten going viral with the world calling for their heads (and rightly so), but now another child was recently found dead at the hands of his abusive mother and not a peep anywhere except for the LA Times.

On the front page of the California section on Thursday, September 15, 2016, one of the headlines reads, “Dead boy, 11, weighed just 34 pounds.” My heart sank. Again.

Let’s break down the article a little bit.

“The records show that Yonatan’s risk of abuse at home had been marked as ‘high’ four times from 2009 to 2012 by a program intended to guide social workers’ level of intervention.” The article continues, “The boy’s family had been the subject of six prior reports to DCFS…”

So:

1. The child’s risk of abuse was rated “high” four times in 3 years. Nothing was done.

2. The boy’s family had a history of being reported. Nothing was done.

Michael Vick, former NFL player, was found guilty of illegal dog-fighting and jailed for his crimes. Many, if not most, of the dogs found new homes and were given a second lease on life. Where was Yonatan’s second lease?

Back to the article.

“…although allegations of physical abuse regarding Yonatan were reported to both DCFS and police, no police investigation was launched” and in December 2011, the boy was found in the bathroom suffering from hypothermia and “again deemed to be at high risk of abuse” but, again, nothing was done.

On March 15, 2012 (just 3 months after the hypothermia incident), Yonatan “came to school with a black eye,” so DCFS and the cops were called but “no cases were opened.” Four days later, when Yonatan was seen grabbing whatever and as much food he could get his hands on, DCFS was called, again, but no case was opened calling the allegation “unfounded.”

I once discovered an owner keeping his or her cat in his or her car during the day and night. I anonymously called it in and the cat was immediately rescued, no questions asked.

Yonatan died in a fetal position, in a closet on the floor and weighing just 34 pounds. He was 11 years old. Who was his advocate? Who was his superhero? Who was around to tell him his life mattered and he was important enough to fight for?

I don’t want to come across as arrogant and that I have all the answers. I don’t. I know that the DCFS is overworked. I can’t imagine all the cases with which they have to deal. My comments and observations are merely to punctuate the imbalance in our society when we have clear laws to protect an animal but not for a child. I’m reminded of the case of Viola Vanclief who was placed in the home of Kiana Barker and her boyfriend, both convicted criminals. Kiana beat Viola to death. She was two. [1] Do you know of any animals who would be put in the home of a convicted animal abuser? I sure don’t. 

       These stories and situations are hard to accept. We can do better because we should want to.

1. USC Annenberg Center for Health Journalism http://www.centerforhealthjournalism.org/2013/12/24/series-details-abuse-california-foster-care-system Accessed 15 Sept. 2016