5 years without her

five years gone.

five.

the first two to three were rougher than rough. trying to handle this monumental change on top of other monumental changes that occurred in the 11 months prior to my mom’s passing was trying, exhausting, and numbing. i missed so much of my 2nd daughter’s early childhood as a result, and while the mind understands, the heart finds it hard to forgive. there were milestones both daughters’s met without my mom’s cheers or without her words of support. there were moments of getting blind-sided by overwhelming grief like coming across a forgotten hand-written note while looking for something else or opening the closet and suddenly getting a waft of her smell that is still on the scarves i inherited.

having to redefine and reconfigure your life without a loved one as the rest of the world hums along is one of the most challenging experiences many of us will go through.

is today as difficult as it was 4-5 years ago? no. life’s routines and responsibilities, in this way, are a saving grace. my girls were my saving grace. they were a daily reminder that “life goes on.” but the brain still seeks a “How To” book; a timeline of what happens when. we want answers. we want to know what to expect. we want to be prepared. we want to gauge others’s experiences, compare it to ours and determine if we are “on the right track.” someone said to me that i must share my grief so that they will know what exactly to expect and how it will “be.” i am here to emphatically say there is no “How To” book. this is fundamentally why grief is so God damn lonely. your grief will be different from mine. it may take years for one to reach the anger stage. it took me less than 4 weeks. some stay in that stage for a long time. i didn’t. there is no guidebook to say “On Day 46 you will feel like ‘     .’ it all sucks, and the only way is through. 

the only way is through.

it's easy to think the big events will get you: the bday celebrations that won't happen, the holidays, the anniversary of the passing... those aren't easy, per se, but, for me the hardest has been all the little things in between that i always took for granted. the letter in the mail, the phone call, the "just because" packages. i still sometimes check my email in the morning to see if she's written me. 

i recently handed off to my sister some clothes that our mom had sent me for my daughter, and as i showed them, i happened to say "Myti" out loud (which is what we called her). as her name passed my lips, i realized i couldn't remember the last time i said her name out loud. that stung. 

then, a few weeks ago, i went for a walk and found myself at my daughters's school and it hit me that soon it'll be a year since covid shut us down. i stared at the jungle gym bar that my older spent the first 4-5 months of school playing on trying to learn how to flip over. i remembered the day she met me after school excited that she had finally accomplished her goal. seeing her so happy overflowed my heart with joy. i turned it into a teachable moment about how important it was to not give up and not give in to fear when you want to achieve something. i stood there now recognizing that my daughter’s accomplishment was something i could never share with my mom. i started to cry as my grief for my mom became entangled in my grief for this last year with covid, and the crying turned to sobbing as the hole in my heart throbbed wanting nothing more than for my mom to tell me all will be ok. that i will be ok. that i can handle all of *this.* that i'm strong and will survive like i always have.

this is why there's no "How to." what hit me maybe wouldn’t hit someone else. and if it did, maybe it would happen on Day 73 or Day 5,227, respectively. for me it was Day 1,798 and Day 1,800, respectively.

despite the heaviness in my heart, i have done much emotional kneading in the last five years. i’ve always been pretty good at self-analysis, but this time it’s different because it is punctuated by, and driven by, my mother’s loss. i continuously analyze my life and my past, and how it all fits into the road that i wish to carve out for myself. i will share one thing that has become crystal clear. it is so cliché, but, for me, it is so true, and so important that i’m going to say it anyway: my life isn’t driven so much by fear now as it is driven by my desire to accumulate as many moments (memories) as possible that fulfill my soul. i am lucky that prior to my mom’s death, i already had many such memories, but it is now a purpose. often such occasions are spontaneous and i try to seize such experiences when they present themselves. it’s good to have a plan, but it’s even better to be open to flexibility. this has also been, unfortunately, a rather challenging wish to fulfill because not everyone around me feels this way, or even ever understands this. sometimes reaching fulfillment takes effort and to some, the effort isn’t worth the reward. it’s possible “reward” is viewed differently, but i have become all the more convinced that effort is in of itself a “reward.” after much self-reflection, i realized i have spent quite a bit of my life in the last 23 years or so in a passive state because of fear, allowing the trap of don’t-venture-outside-of-your-box to dictate decisions.

work, laundry, paying bills, picking up toys, organizing closets…the list goes on and on…those things are never ending. i’ve done marathon laundry days, i’ve washed mountains of dishes, had marathon cooking days…those help in the short-term, but i know that on my deathbed i won’t be thinking about those never-ending chores. you hear such things over the years, but there’s a difference between hearing and knowing. i still do all of those necessary-to-function chores, but i now view their worth differently which, based on various grief readings i have done, often comes with the territory of losing a loved one, often a parent(s), often your mom.(1)

on February 26, 2016, as my mom transitioned, i stroked her hand and told her to let go, to fly free, that it was OK and that we would miss her, but that i would always remember her and i would talk about her to my girls. i thanked her for everything; for all our times together, for all the experiences we had, for being in my life, and that now it was time for her to be free. not once did i think about all those bills we helped each other pay or whatever fights we had or how she upset me or the ways in which i felt she was being unreasonable. it was the moments and experiences we had together; the overall journey. later, my thoughts fell to wanting to sit down with her just one more time to discuss, or argue, politics, or to discuss religion and spirituality, challenges and/or any hopes and dreams we had, or to talk about mundane things like lesson plans. life’s routine and schedule will always be there. there’s no escaping the societal construct we have created, and there’s nothing necessarily wrong with that. but, i no longer want that to be this tunnel vision like it has been for so many years. what’s unfortunate is that covid hit just as i began to awaken to this shift in focus and i’ve been forced to put off some of those bigger moments i seek to have. but, i accept the gift this virus has given and i try to find ways to have constructive time with family especially my girls. i’m silly with them, i dance with them, i play with them, i make art with them, we talk religion or have more difficult conversations like racism and white privilege (yes, you can have those conversations with children!), and i look forward to the many days ahead where we sit down with some wine and some lighted candles, and discuss, or argue, politics, or discuss religion and spirituality, or any challenges and/or any hopes and dreams we have, or to talk about the mundane things whatever they may be at the moment. the only constant is change, and change knows only one direction: forward. 

i want, more than anything else, for my “forward moments” to be filled with many more of my “best moments.” it is how i want to honor my mom, and it is how i want to honor me.

(1) i highly recommend The Orphaned Adult by Alexander Levy

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."

grief ain't for the faint-hearted

today is 6 mo when i lost my mom. with my sister on one side and i on the other, we held her hands as she transitioned from this life into wherever we go when we die. i wish i could say that i am the only person in the world to have lost someone i love because it would then justify the darkness and the loneliness i'm left to navigate all by myself. it doesn't matter if you have siblings, a large family or a small one, the grieving process is one of the loneliest journeys we will ever experience.

i wish that i could say i've gained wisdom in these passed months, that somehow witnessing such a deeply personal experience gave me some sort of higher understanding of our world and meaning of it all, but all i have to show in these months is a lot of anger and resentment and hatred and frustration. i know this is all part of the grieving process and those who have lost before tell me it will get easier over time. somewhere i know this to be true.

my mother and i had a tumultuous relationship for most of my life. i would always joke that the first 24 hours of us being together were the best but then we would start to push each other’s buttons. my mom approached life with her heart and i approach it cerebrally. it took many years of analyzing to come to an understanding in my mind and heart that we both needed to live a little more like the other. i’m a work in progress. 

however, it wasn't until i had a baby (and thanks to years of therapy), that i began to relate to her on a completely different level. i didn’t necessarily turn to her for advice about baby stuff, but i would have days where i understood her struggle as a parent better. eventually, our conversations about politics and life would have a deeper meaning, and i found myself turning to her more often for advice on things that i didn’t think i ever would.

she moved to lithuania in 2008 and, because my family is the way it is, communication is done mainly via email (or text). at the urging of my therapist at the time, i made several attempts to alter this habit, but it was too easy to fall back into our old pattern. plus the 10 hour time difference made it difficult to establish a routine. excuses, yes, but our family's reality. i still check my email daily soon after waking up with a glimmer of hope that all of this was just a nightmare and that i'll find an email from her asking me where i've been and why i haven't written to her (which would always piss me off because she was the one who was impossible to pin down).

so i'm left with navigating these emotions. 41 years of emotions. i'm left with moments of hugging her clothes so hard against my chest desperately wishing i could stuff them into my heart to seal the hole so i could just stop hurting. or, in a rare moment of sitting in the car alone, blasting whatever music happens to be on with the hopes that it will drown out the sorrow. or moments when i, unexpectedly, find a still unopened package of ladybug barrettes she bought, ones that my daughter says she will hold in her hands all night while she sleeps. this then reminds me that my daughter’s last memories of her grandmother will be ones of her shriveling away because of cancer. then the guilt sets in that i have no right to even have such thoughts because my sister's kids, should she have them, will never have known their grandmother at all.

losing a loved one sucks. we will all experience it at some point and probably more than once. i wish there was a book to tell me exactly how this all goes down so i can study it and be done with it. the emotional tug-of-war and the two steps forward three steps back is tormenting. i've had exactly one moment of solace where i felt one with her, and one where i felt i began to understand the saying that a loved one is never truly gone. the person is the wind that sways the leaves, the bird that sings, and the deer that drinks from the stream. as i hiked through mt. talmapais a few weeks ago, i felt her around me and with me, and i felt such peace. since then, i try to remind myself of that peace, of that moment when i stood under a tree that would've taken her breath away, and where the raindrops fell from the branches on to my head and my outstretched arms. she was there with me, smiling with me, being present with me even if it was in a different form. i'm selfish and want her here so that i could laugh with her and hear her sing again. hell, so that we could even argue again and i can complain about how much she drives me crazy. but i have to settle for the breeze and the bird and the deer.

i'm grateful to have had what i had with her, warts and all, because for all the mistakes and the decisions she made that hurt me, she was the most unique person i had ever met. she taught me so many good things and, even in her death, she underscored for me that it's not what you do, it's how you do it. that this life is all we have. so how will i honor it?