People say you get over death

We found out today that my husband has the flu.

No big deal except in the 30+ years we've been together he's never had more than a cold. 

It started a couple of weeks ago with a cough. Then he lost his voice. Then his voice came back.

But the cough wanted to linger, especially first thing in the mornings. 

It became one of those aggravating things. 

Like, "COULD YOU PLEASE STOP COUGHING ALREADY?!!"

Never said out loud of course. 

But definitely screamed inside my head.

Two days ago he started to get tired by midday.

I wondered how he could be tired at all since he had been sleeping an unusual 9-10 hours a night.

"He's probably tired from too much sleep," I thought and dismissed it just as quickly. 

Yesterday he was in bed by 3pm. 

We had a bunch of things we needed to do for our business but while he was waiting for me he decided to lie down. He never gets in bed in the middle of the day. That's when I knew he was sick.

I hoped the Elderberry syrup and tea with honey and lemon would help. It did a little. But he woke up this morning and soon felt dizzy and nauseous. I thought I would have to drag him kicking and screaming to the doctor's office. I was wrong. "Let's go," he said right away when I asked him. 

He came home from the doctor and said he was going to sleep on the couch in the living room tonight. We joked about him staying away from us so he didn't get us sick too. And I was fine with that and started stripping our beds to disinfect our house. 

And then he threw up.

And that was the game changer for me.

When I was 6 years old my mom got sick unexpectedly. We took her to the emergency room and they ran some tests and sent her home. My dad wanted her to get some rest so she slept in their room and the rest of us slept in the living room. My mom got up in the middle of the night to take some medicine. She went back to bed and threw up in her sleep. It went down the wrong pipe and she aspirated.

She died in that room all by herself.

Dramatic I know. To somehow be comparing the two. But the problem is when you suffer tragedy it becomes who you are. You try to walk away from it but no matter how far you go it's still there. Lurking. Hiding. Waiting for the right time to time to rear its ugly head. To remind you that it still remembers you.

To taunt you that it will not be forgotten. 

And tonight was that night.

People say you get over death.

As if it's something that eventually goes away. 

But it doesn't. 

You don't get over death.

You never do.

You just get better at blocking out the pain. 

And so I'll be sleeping in the living room tonight.

On a couch across from Chris.

It may seem crazy to some. To risk getting sick when it doesn't seem necessary.

But my heart can't stop the 6-year-old who still lives inside of me from remembering and believing there's no other place I should be.  

i should be good at death by now

it seems as if my whole life people have been dying.

my mom, my godfather, my uncle.

my sister, my friend, my dad.

i started at such a young age (six) that one would think i'd be a pro by now. that death would be old hat to me. that it wouldn't still catch me by surprise. or make me lose my breath. or cause me to break down.

but it does.

all of those things.

just because i started early doesn't mean i've mastered it. or that i like it. or that i know what to say or what to do.

actually, i'm probably worse at it than most. i fumble it. i stumble over my words.

i react with crazy questions like..."are you joking?"

i mean really,  who asks that? as if someone is going to joke about death. but it seems to be my standard response when i hear the news for the first time.

i said that back in november when my husband's cousin died in the operating room. it was supposed to be routine surgery but there were complications and he didn't make it. "you're kidding, right?" i said to his sister, a girl i have known most of her life. a girl i have loved most of her life. " i'm not kidding," she responded, "he's gone."

i had to smack myself.  her brother just died and i asked if she was kidding? who does that?

that would be me. the girl who should be good at death but isn't. the girl who wants so much to say the right thing but doesn't know what to say.

because it doesn't matter how many deaths i've lived through. it doesn't matter how many funerals i've gone to or cemeteries i've visited. i can't change death. i can't fix it. i can't make it better.

and that's hard for me.

because i'm a fixer. i'm the one who wants to make it right. and there's nothing right in death. not on this earth anyway.

not when the emotions are raw. and the pain is real. and the wounds are fresh.

there's nothing right...right then. and sometimes there's nothing right for awhile.

and that's what my heart focuses on. the "awhile" part. i skip ahead in my mind and wonder what i can do to make it all make sense. to make it all obvious to a bigger plan. to make it all not hurt as much as it does at the moment.

but i flounder. and i fumble. and i fail.

and i say crazy things like, "are you kidding?" and "you're joking right?" and i wonder why i even open my mouth at all.

but i do. because a part of me doesn't want to believe. and a part of me wishes i never heard. and a part of me wants to help. and somehow every emotion runs through me so quickly that i say the only thing that seems to make sense at the moment. that it must be a mistake. that it must be wrong. that it must be a joke.

but it never is.

my disbelief doesn't change the news.  my unwillingness to accept doesn't bring them back.

and if you hear me saying something crazy, please know that it comes from a good place. because i should be good at death by now, but i'm not.

and i'm not sure that i ever will be.

i miss my dad

i miss my dad.

though he's been gone for almost ten years, i still miss him.

though i haven't heard his voice in almost a decade, i still hear him. though i haven't seen him in forever, i still see him.

i see him in the older man shuffling up the aisle at church. bent over a bit, holding on to each pew for support. i see him, body sick with cancer, still going to church. still encouraging others. still holding on.

i hear him in my own voice, talking to my children. instilling his values and wisdom to the next generation. "don't forget your friends", i hear him saying, "don't forget your family". "tell the truth and the truth will set you free." 

advice i heard a hundred times. 

advice i still hear. 

advice i still believe to this day.

i find him in the sunday paper. the one with the big crossword puzzle. the one with the hard words and the intimidating clues. i see him, cigar in the corner of his mouth, pen in hand, enjoying his simple pleasure in life.

i wonder if that's normal. that no matter the passing of time, we can still hear. still see. still honestly love someone who has left this world. 

that something so simple can remind us. can catch us off guard. can take us back to a moment in time that makes us believe they are still here. still watching. still loving us through the absence.

i wonder if  i'm the only person who can't let go. if i'm the only person who doesn't want to move on. if i'm the only person who wishes they could go back, just for one day, and do it all again.

i'm sure i'm not. i'm sure there are others who want a second chance. who still have things left to say. who still want a little more time.

regrets, wishes, should have dones...all lined up in a corner, wondering why i let the time pass. wondering how i so easily forgot that life is short and time is precious and people will die.

wondering how i let the last years, the last days, the last moments slip so easily between my fingers.

i thought i had more time. i thought i had more moments. i thought i could make more memories.

but there were no more memories to be made and so i'm left with just the ones i have. 

but even they fade with time. even they sometimes pause at the remembering.

and that scares me. 

that the memories will become so old, so fuzzy, that one day i won't have them anymore. 

that the most important person in my life will be forgotten. 

that i will have forgotten my dad.

and maybe that's why i look for him. maybe that's why i see him. maybe that's why i hear him.

because my mind still remembers.

and my heart refuses to forget.

the most important influence i had in life, the most important example i had for living...

is gone...

and i still miss him.

my mom died today

      part of her never wonders

        just as part of her never forgets

        the last image in a six year old's mind

        of a mother she never got to know

        25 years later

        as her own life approaches the last 

        of her mother's days

        she remembers the little things

        and mentally prepares to die.

        after all...one doesn't outlive their mother do they?

   

        (taken from my journal - written a few years before i turned 37)

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may 2, 1975 at 2:30 in the morning, my mom took her last breath. thirty-six years ago today, at the age of 37, in a one bedroom apartment in lantana, florida, patricia ann foley laquay died in her sleep. i was six years old. my sister was seven.

i didn't understand at the time what death was of course. to me death meant someone would be gone for awhile but they'd be back. at six years old i didn't understand never. i didn't know that i'd never see her again. i didn't know death was final.

i didn't know my life was forever altered. that i would miss her. that i would grow up wondering about her. that i would live with questions about her that would never be answered.  

i didn't know that her dying at 37 would mean that i'd struggle one day to want children of my own. that i wouldn't be able to promise anyone "i'll always be here for you", when i knew first hand it was a promise you can't always keep.

i didn't know that i would hate when my friend's fought with their moms. that i would think they were crazy to take for granted the luxury of having a mother. that i would shake my head and think it wasn't fair that they had a mom and i didn't.

 

i didn't know that i wouldn't have anyone to show me about the girl things in life. that i would have to tell my dad the first time i got my period. that i would never be able to sign my mom up to be class mom or help with girl scouts.

i didn't know that i would fear turning 37 myself. that i would wonder if i was going to die too. that i would have a tremendous amount of guilt for outliving my mother.

the day my mom died i didn't know then that i'd spend my whole life without a mother. that i'd never look at the world the same as everyone else. that i'd spend years pretending it didn't matter.

at six years old there were a lot of things i didn't know. there were a lot of things i wasn't ready for. but somehow, amidst the fear, and the guilt, and the struggling,  i still grew up. i still lived past 37. i still survived.

though i never really knew my mom, she was one of the greatest teacher's i've ever had. her death at such a young age taught me -at such a young age- that life is fragile,  and short, and temporary. it taught me to not take people for granted. to say what you feel. to not be embarrassed to hug or to cry or to love. 

her death taught me that life is short and that people are important. her death taught me that we all have inside of us more strength than we think. her death taught me that God is real.

thirty six years ago today my mom died and my life was forever changed. i'll always miss her. i'll always wish i had a chance to know her. i'll always wish she hadn't died. but i'll never regret who i became because of her. 

there's a part of my mom that lives on inside of me. a part of her that still teaches me about life. a part of her, that though i never knew it and though i never knew her, was really a part of that six year old girl all along.