AYNSLEY:
Tonight is Kol Nidre, the beginning of the holiest of holy days of the Jewish calendar. Traditionally, you fast for 24 hours, from sundown tonight until sundown tomorrow, taking a small cleanse for your body, concentrating on repentance, forgiveness and beginning anew. I was planning to mark this holiday with something special, even though I won't be fasting this year, but found that I wasn't able to. No meditations came, no rush of energy, no connections to all the others across the world who are taking part in these rituals. I just wanted to walk.
So we walked a couple of miles. That was my exercise for the day-I am trying to work out only five days a week these days and have defaulted to Wednesdays and Fridays as my days "off." Walking was exactly what I needed to do and felt like the only thing possible.
I don't know if this is grief, or apathy, or the way I usually approach the holidays. Everyone keeps asking how I am and I really don't know. I think I am okay. I think I am handling everything well. I can't tell if I will fall apart at a later date or if I fell apart last December and have been putting myself back together ever since in a way that I can live without Mom.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
10.6.11
AYNSLEY:
Gary and I finally caught up on our prenatal appointments this morning and saw our wonderful midwife. And before we started anything, she just looked at us across our kitchen table (seriously, homebirth prenatal appointments are so awesome!) and said "I never met your mom, but in hearing about her from you both, and seeing how you are about your lives and your baby, I can just feel what an amazing woman she was."
What a gift to be reminded that our parents always live on in us. Not that we're aware of it, not that we even notice. But somehow that energy is there. I've had a number of people share this with me in the past few weeks. Even if they didn't know her, they feel like they do. She inspired them, she taught them, she filled them with gratitude for their blessings...one friend, recently back from her daughter's wedding, emailed me how thankful she was to bear witness. That literally just seeing her daughter on her wedding day gave her so much joy. Most of us consider this a given. But Mom's blindness on my wedding day reminded her to appreciate what would ordinarily be taken for granted. Imagine if each of us adopted some form of this once in a while. To be thankful for such minute details. To appreciate seeing your partner's smile, to appreciate feeling sunshine on your skin, that your legs can carry you to your next location.
Mom was always a beauty. I was not. She never struggled with her appearance. I complained constantly about feeling fat, various body parts being larger than they should be, or just overall the wrong shape. And Mom would always chide me: "your body is perfect; it's healthy!" Never have I appreciated this until now. Honestly. Never until this moment, being 7 months pregnant, seeing my belly swell with movement and still being able to run (albeit slowly and with lots of bathroom breaks) did I appreciate the gift of an intact body. What a lot of time wasted. What a lot of time ahead to practice gratitude.
Gary and I finally caught up on our prenatal appointments this morning and saw our wonderful midwife. And before we started anything, she just looked at us across our kitchen table (seriously, homebirth prenatal appointments are so awesome!) and said "I never met your mom, but in hearing about her from you both, and seeing how you are about your lives and your baby, I can just feel what an amazing woman she was."
What a gift to be reminded that our parents always live on in us. Not that we're aware of it, not that we even notice. But somehow that energy is there. I've had a number of people share this with me in the past few weeks. Even if they didn't know her, they feel like they do. She inspired them, she taught them, she filled them with gratitude for their blessings...one friend, recently back from her daughter's wedding, emailed me how thankful she was to bear witness. That literally just seeing her daughter on her wedding day gave her so much joy. Most of us consider this a given. But Mom's blindness on my wedding day reminded her to appreciate what would ordinarily be taken for granted. Imagine if each of us adopted some form of this once in a while. To be thankful for such minute details. To appreciate seeing your partner's smile, to appreciate feeling sunshine on your skin, that your legs can carry you to your next location.
Mom was always a beauty. I was not. She never struggled with her appearance. I complained constantly about feeling fat, various body parts being larger than they should be, or just overall the wrong shape. And Mom would always chide me: "your body is perfect; it's healthy!" Never have I appreciated this until now. Honestly. Never until this moment, being 7 months pregnant, seeing my belly swell with movement and still being able to run (albeit slowly and with lots of bathroom breaks) did I appreciate the gift of an intact body. What a lot of time wasted. What a lot of time ahead to practice gratitude.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
10.5.11
AYNSLEY:
I still have a stack of cards that aren't open, emails that I haven't read, let alone responded to. I have to meter everything out. I have to pace myself. I wonder if we missed out by not sitting shiva. Though in some ways, I have been sitting shiva for nine months. When Mom was first diagnosed, I was completely lost. I was spinning out of control, furious with people and situations that didn't deserve my wrath, prone to sobbing jags every night and oscillating between learning everything I could about the situation and complete denial.
As the months wore on, and I grew closer with my family (both of origin and new married family), my extremes mellowed. I loved talking with both my parents every night. I loved seeing my Seattle family so often. By the last trip I made, I was actually looking forward to being on the airplane, out of touch for six hours, nothing to do but sit, read and relax. Relinquishing control.
In some ways, I feel like this experience taught me all of the lessons that I needed to learn, everything I struggled against and wouldn't have understood any other way. We have been given gifts of unimaginable measure. We have strengthened bonds, we have opened our hearts, we have felt love so much deeper than we realized. Some days I am truly grateful for all the learning. Some days I rage against it, sure that Mom didn't need to be sacrificed to see all the beauty we witnessed.
I am trying to practice acceptance. It's going okay so far. But I don't think I've come anywhere near feeling the magnitude of what has happened.
I still have a stack of cards that aren't open, emails that I haven't read, let alone responded to. I have to meter everything out. I have to pace myself. I wonder if we missed out by not sitting shiva. Though in some ways, I have been sitting shiva for nine months. When Mom was first diagnosed, I was completely lost. I was spinning out of control, furious with people and situations that didn't deserve my wrath, prone to sobbing jags every night and oscillating between learning everything I could about the situation and complete denial.
As the months wore on, and I grew closer with my family (both of origin and new married family), my extremes mellowed. I loved talking with both my parents every night. I loved seeing my Seattle family so often. By the last trip I made, I was actually looking forward to being on the airplane, out of touch for six hours, nothing to do but sit, read and relax. Relinquishing control.
In some ways, I feel like this experience taught me all of the lessons that I needed to learn, everything I struggled against and wouldn't have understood any other way. We have been given gifts of unimaginable measure. We have strengthened bonds, we have opened our hearts, we have felt love so much deeper than we realized. Some days I am truly grateful for all the learning. Some days I rage against it, sure that Mom didn't need to be sacrificed to see all the beauty we witnessed.
I am trying to practice acceptance. It's going okay so far. But I don't think I've come anywhere near feeling the magnitude of what has happened.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
10.4.11
AYNSLEY:
I have been relieved to be home. Back at work, back to appointments (we had a lot of Pea appointments to catch up on this week), back to the familiar farmer's markets, back to our bed. But being here also allows me the indulgence of denial. I'm not going through Mom's clothes or jewelry. I'm not helping clean out the drawers, finding old photos, old letters, old mementos. I plan to help with some of it when I go back this winter, but I don't honestly know how realistic that will be. How much help I could possibly be to Dad with a newborn to attend to...or how much will be left to do when I am finally able to come. I'm not sure what I'll find when I am there next. I don't know what it's like to live every day in their house, surrounded by ghosts.
I have been relieved to be home. Back at work, back to appointments (we had a lot of Pea appointments to catch up on this week), back to the familiar farmer's markets, back to our bed. But being here also allows me the indulgence of denial. I'm not going through Mom's clothes or jewelry. I'm not helping clean out the drawers, finding old photos, old letters, old mementos. I plan to help with some of it when I go back this winter, but I don't honestly know how realistic that will be. How much help I could possibly be to Dad with a newborn to attend to...or how much will be left to do when I am finally able to come. I'm not sure what I'll find when I am there next. I don't know what it's like to live every day in their house, surrounded by ghosts.
Monday, October 3, 2011
10.3.11
AYNSLEY:
The seasons are different in New York. The two and a half weeks that I spent in Seattle were truly the turning of summer to autumn: the trees had a bit more scarlet every day that I spent there. I literally watched the green be eclipsed. Back home, the change hasn't started, or at least hasn't gotten as far. I don't know what makes the leaves turn when they do, but it does feel a little like going back in time. Scheduling a client this morning, I was shocked to see that it's October. October. How did this happen?
A friend from childhood re-posted a blog link on his facebook page, letting "friends" of his who aren't "friends" of mine know about Mom. He said she passed away after a long battle with breast cancer. I have been mulling this over, this sense of time. And talking with Dad this evening, he mentioned it, too. The perception of time is interesting. It was a long battle. It was the blink of an eye. Dad said today that sometimes it feels as though one hundred years have passed since he grocery shopped, cooked dinner and was home on the couch. And sometimes it's completely unimaginable how quickly everything happened. That less than a year ago Mom was vibrant, riding her bike, enjoying the fall colors, anticipating the possibility that Gary and I would get engaged (oh, yeah, it hasn't been a year since that milestone, either). I don't know if this is some riff on the Theory of Relativity, or if it's akin to the parenting mantra that "the days are long but the years are short" or if this is just human nature to forget how painful the pain is so that we can go on living, but I suspect that it's a function of grief and loss.
My dreams of Mom have shifted in the past couple of days. I had been dreaming of her as she was, sick and incapacitated in some way. But last night, I dreamt that she was her whole, healthy self. Her hair was long, she could see, she was sitting upright, unassisted and we were just having a conversation, but she was very sad. I hope that these continue to evolve and, in time, she will appear in my dreams as I hope to remember her most: joyful, active and enjoying herself. Loving life as she always did.
The seasons are different in New York. The two and a half weeks that I spent in Seattle were truly the turning of summer to autumn: the trees had a bit more scarlet every day that I spent there. I literally watched the green be eclipsed. Back home, the change hasn't started, or at least hasn't gotten as far. I don't know what makes the leaves turn when they do, but it does feel a little like going back in time. Scheduling a client this morning, I was shocked to see that it's October. October. How did this happen?
A friend from childhood re-posted a blog link on his facebook page, letting "friends" of his who aren't "friends" of mine know about Mom. He said she passed away after a long battle with breast cancer. I have been mulling this over, this sense of time. And talking with Dad this evening, he mentioned it, too. The perception of time is interesting. It was a long battle. It was the blink of an eye. Dad said today that sometimes it feels as though one hundred years have passed since he grocery shopped, cooked dinner and was home on the couch. And sometimes it's completely unimaginable how quickly everything happened. That less than a year ago Mom was vibrant, riding her bike, enjoying the fall colors, anticipating the possibility that Gary and I would get engaged (oh, yeah, it hasn't been a year since that milestone, either). I don't know if this is some riff on the Theory of Relativity, or if it's akin to the parenting mantra that "the days are long but the years are short" or if this is just human nature to forget how painful the pain is so that we can go on living, but I suspect that it's a function of grief and loss.
My dreams of Mom have shifted in the past couple of days. I had been dreaming of her as she was, sick and incapacitated in some way. But last night, I dreamt that she was her whole, healthy self. Her hair was long, she could see, she was sitting upright, unassisted and we were just having a conversation, but she was very sad. I hope that these continue to evolve and, in time, she will appear in my dreams as I hope to remember her most: joyful, active and enjoying herself. Loving life as she always did.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
10.2.11
AYNSLEY:
Today I am grateful for things that I have and moments I got to experience. I slept in today, finally waking at 9:30 to the feeling of thumps in my belly. It's really a bizarre experience, having something moving inside of you. So far, in my seventh month of pregnancy, I've never experienced pain or extreme discomfort caused by the Pea. I enjoy her movements; they makes me less anxious. Today was the first time her kicking (or head-butting-who really knows?) actually woke me up, but it was a nice feeling (probably because it was at 9:30 and not 3:30). And I was so happy that Mom got to feel her move, too. In her last week, I would unexpectedly grab Mom's hand whenever the Pea started dancing to have Mom feel. And Mom would take every opportunity when she was eye level with my belly to rub it and talk to the baby. While I know the Pea will not have any memories of this time, I know that she heard Mom's voice. Mom and I both know that we felt her move.
It's not enough, it's not what I wanted or what we planned, but it's what we got. And it's so much better than nothing.
Today I am grateful for things that I have and moments I got to experience. I slept in today, finally waking at 9:30 to the feeling of thumps in my belly. It's really a bizarre experience, having something moving inside of you. So far, in my seventh month of pregnancy, I've never experienced pain or extreme discomfort caused by the Pea. I enjoy her movements; they makes me less anxious. Today was the first time her kicking (or head-butting-who really knows?) actually woke me up, but it was a nice feeling (probably because it was at 9:30 and not 3:30). And I was so happy that Mom got to feel her move, too. In her last week, I would unexpectedly grab Mom's hand whenever the Pea started dancing to have Mom feel. And Mom would take every opportunity when she was eye level with my belly to rub it and talk to the baby. While I know the Pea will not have any memories of this time, I know that she heard Mom's voice. Mom and I both know that we felt her move.
It's not enough, it's not what I wanted or what we planned, but it's what we got. And it's so much better than nothing.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
10.1.11
AYNSLEY:
Writing this now feels like an addiction. There are no more updates on Mom, no more good days to be celebrated, no more bad days to get through. Or at least not in the same sense. I'm sure my family will have more good days and more bad days; the rest of us are all still on this journey. But I can see these posts morphing into updates on us, on me, on our individual and collective grieving processes and maybe this isn't the appropriate forum. But, as I said, I'm a bit attached and addicted to the writing right now and not yet ready to stop.
Soon. But not just yet.
I am back home in NY, and went to work today. After being away for two and a half weeks, I had a lot to catch up on and a lot to sort through. A similar, though smaller, avalanche of condolence cards sits on my dining room table, mirroring Dad's dining room table.
Dad attempted to (and succeeded in) have(ing) a busy, social and enjoyable Saturday-a round of golf in the morning and the Nebraska game in the afternoon. I'm so proud of the way he is handling everything. He is choosing to enjoy the things he loves. He acknowledges the waves of emotion that come up and doesn't push them away. He talks to his friends and family. His eyes well up, he is angry, he is heartbroken, he is making arrangements, he is planning for the future, he is finding joy and beauty in what is left over. He is looking forward to things.
Ross is back at school, full force. He is preparing for an awesome independent study course this quarter, he is seeing friends a lot, he is receiving the support he needs and deserves.
And I am okay. I'm actually concerned with how okay I am. I don't know if I'm in denial or if I've been grieving for so long now that I truly am relieved that there's no more pain, no more unknowns. But I feel okay. I am sleeping, I am laughing, I am enjoying making future plans. I got to spend so much time with my family over the past nine months. I spent every other night of my last trip with Mom, and every day. I trimmed her fingernails, I rubbed her back, we talked politics, we sang to my belly. We entertained guests. We said "I love you" constantly. I don't know if there will ever be a point where I really know in my bones that she's gone forever. I'm sure I have a lot of magical thinking to do. I'm sure there will be many sudden impact moments where it will hit me violently and I'll lose my train of thought and all joy for a while.
But for now, we are hanging in there. We have an amazing support system, the same one that got us through the past nine months. The people who have done our laundry, brought in Starbucks every morning, called to check in, emailed anecdotes, texted just to say "I'm thinking of you"...they're all still here. And they are still doing what they've always done. And I suspect that's the real reason any of us are doing as well as we are.
Writing this now feels like an addiction. There are no more updates on Mom, no more good days to be celebrated, no more bad days to get through. Or at least not in the same sense. I'm sure my family will have more good days and more bad days; the rest of us are all still on this journey. But I can see these posts morphing into updates on us, on me, on our individual and collective grieving processes and maybe this isn't the appropriate forum. But, as I said, I'm a bit attached and addicted to the writing right now and not yet ready to stop.
Soon. But not just yet.
I am back home in NY, and went to work today. After being away for two and a half weeks, I had a lot to catch up on and a lot to sort through. A similar, though smaller, avalanche of condolence cards sits on my dining room table, mirroring Dad's dining room table.
Dad attempted to (and succeeded in) have(ing) a busy, social and enjoyable Saturday-a round of golf in the morning and the Nebraska game in the afternoon. I'm so proud of the way he is handling everything. He is choosing to enjoy the things he loves. He acknowledges the waves of emotion that come up and doesn't push them away. He talks to his friends and family. His eyes well up, he is angry, he is heartbroken, he is making arrangements, he is planning for the future, he is finding joy and beauty in what is left over. He is looking forward to things.
Ross is back at school, full force. He is preparing for an awesome independent study course this quarter, he is seeing friends a lot, he is receiving the support he needs and deserves.
And I am okay. I'm actually concerned with how okay I am. I don't know if I'm in denial or if I've been grieving for so long now that I truly am relieved that there's no more pain, no more unknowns. But I feel okay. I am sleeping, I am laughing, I am enjoying making future plans. I got to spend so much time with my family over the past nine months. I spent every other night of my last trip with Mom, and every day. I trimmed her fingernails, I rubbed her back, we talked politics, we sang to my belly. We entertained guests. We said "I love you" constantly. I don't know if there will ever be a point where I really know in my bones that she's gone forever. I'm sure I have a lot of magical thinking to do. I'm sure there will be many sudden impact moments where it will hit me violently and I'll lose my train of thought and all joy for a while.
But for now, we are hanging in there. We have an amazing support system, the same one that got us through the past nine months. The people who have done our laundry, brought in Starbucks every morning, called to check in, emailed anecdotes, texted just to say "I'm thinking of you"...they're all still here. And they are still doing what they've always done. And I suspect that's the real reason any of us are doing as well as we are.
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