ROSS:
Today, my mom would have turned 57 years old. This is her first birthday since her passing, and it is truly a difficult day. Although I have been spending the day so far reflecting on our lives together, channeling her voice and spirit, and trying to feel close to her, it has been a very somber day.
It is still hard to believe that everything last year actually happened. Although I feel that my mom prepared me well for my own life, I could always still use her guidance. She was always there to ask me the big picture questions. I have felt somewhat lost without her. The bigger picture of my life has direction, it is somewhat confusing and ambiguous, but the general direction is there. Now it is the day to day of my life that I struggle through: the motivation to make the bigger picture happen, or simply trying to feel like I am becoming a better person each day.
I know these observations are personal, but I think they demonstrate how much my mom helped people feel complete. Maybe others who were close to her have been feeling similar. I don't know. What I do know is that today is a difficult day for a lot of people. I have already received a great deal of sympathies today from people who love my mom and who are thinking of her. I know days like today will become easier to get through over time. But most of all, I know that my mom's love lives on.
One of the most difficult lessons to learn is how to feel someone's unconditional love in their physical absence. It is true and real and I feel it everyday. But sometimes there is no feeling more painful than pure, honest, endless love. However, I would not trade this feeling for anything, or ever try to ignore it.
I think Kahlil Gibran captures it best in The Prophet:
"Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain...
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."
Happy Birthday Mom. I love you and miss you. I am endlessly grateful for you.
Thanks for it all.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Pea is here!!
AYNSLEY:
Eliza Flynne Cohen arrived safely at 7:53am on Tuesday, January 3rd. She was born at home after an intense 13 hour labor, weighing in at 8 pounds and stretching out at 20 inches. She is a Capicorn with Capicorn rising and a Taurus moon, born in the year of the Rabbit and just 20 minutes after sunrise.
Gary and I are beyond in love. This past week has been hands down the best in my life; I can't stop staring at her with intense, fierce wonder and pure gratitude. Gary and I called her The Pea, or just Pea for her entire in utero life; Mom's friends took it a step further and called her Sweet Pea. And, I have to tell you all, that's the perfect name. She is beyond sweet, nuzzling our necks and holding onto my fingers while she nurses. She smiles in her sleep. She is so mellow most of the time, but even when she's having meltdowns, she still wants to be cuddled and kissed (and I am more than happy to oblige-this is one spoiled kid already).
Eliza came out a little swollen, like all newborns do. In her first week, her face has changed a lot, but we still couldn't pinpoint who we thought she looked like in those first few days. Of course, now we know. She looks like Mom.
Eliza Flynne Cohen arrived safely at 7:53am on Tuesday, January 3rd. She was born at home after an intense 13 hour labor, weighing in at 8 pounds and stretching out at 20 inches. She is a Capicorn with Capicorn rising and a Taurus moon, born in the year of the Rabbit and just 20 minutes after sunrise.
Gary and I are beyond in love. This past week has been hands down the best in my life; I can't stop staring at her with intense, fierce wonder and pure gratitude. Gary and I called her The Pea, or just Pea for her entire in utero life; Mom's friends took it a step further and called her Sweet Pea. And, I have to tell you all, that's the perfect name. She is beyond sweet, nuzzling our necks and holding onto my fingers while she nurses. She smiles in her sleep. She is so mellow most of the time, but even when she's having meltdowns, she still wants to be cuddled and kissed (and I am more than happy to oblige-this is one spoiled kid already).
Eliza came out a little swollen, like all newborns do. In her first week, her face has changed a lot, but we still couldn't pinpoint who we thought she looked like in those first few days. Of course, now we know. She looks like Mom.
right after birth
First family photo
day 3
day 7
Friday, December 23, 2011
12.23.11
AYNSLEY:
And now we're on the other side of the Solstice. The days have already begun inching longer; last night was a bit shorter than the night before. One year ago today, Gary and I flew out to Seattle, not knowing what we'd find there. We packed funeral clothes. I had spent the previous night sleepless, praying as hard as I could that I would at least get to have one more conscious conversation with Mom. That was my only focus.
Being December 23rd and last minute, we couldn't find a non-stop flight. Our first leg was delayed 6 hours, but we didn't find out until we arrived at the airport. The ticket agent couldn't figure out how to re-book our connection, so she cancelled our entire travel plan and tried to rebook us making three connections, but somehow couldn't do that, either. Already panicking, my clearest memory of that morning is willing my knees not to buckle as I held tightly to the counter, attempting to plead with her to put us on some plane that would arrive to Seattle at some point, but unable to form coherent sentences. Gary took over, negotiating everything: getting us back on the original late flight, getting us on a later connection, making me eat something for breakfast. And a couple of hours later, sitting at JFK, I got my prayers answered. Mom was alert enough to talk on the phone; I hadn't spoken to her in a couple of days and was getting all of the information relayed, so just to hear her voice was so reassuring. She was sluggish and medicated, but totally there and clearly happy to talk to me.
We finally arrived in Seattle close to 10pm PST. Dad picked us up at the airport. We went straight to the hospital and again and again, my prayers were answered. The next day, the waiting room was filled with our family and friends and didn't empty out until well after the New Year. This blog was launched because I couldn't field all of the phone calls, texts and emails that I was receiving, so I figured I'd let all of you come to us on your own time and when you were interested. And I'd only have to do it once.
This year, as we enter the light half, my life is so profoundly different. Any doubts or misgivings I had about getting married (and there were many, one year ago) have disappeared; I saw the strength of my parent's marriage every day and can't imagine one day since last December 23rd without Gary's support and love. My general anxiety has faded significantly; I've learned that my imagination is far crueler than life and that things I thought would destroy me have not. I saw the value in a support system and learned what it means to show up for people and am committed to maintaining and strengthening my own. I am trying to thank more, to love more, to allow more, to laugh more. I am happier this Solstice than I was at the last one. Strange that that should be true; I have suffered more, I have watched those I love most suffer more, I have lost more. And yet, I am undeniably a more settled, grounded, content person. I learned so much from Mom, watching her grace, her determination, her utter refusal to go into despair. And though she was literally surrounded in darkness for the entirety of her illness, it didn't penetrate her. And so, the darkness couldn't reach me, either.
And now we're on the other side of the Solstice. The days have already begun inching longer; last night was a bit shorter than the night before. One year ago today, Gary and I flew out to Seattle, not knowing what we'd find there. We packed funeral clothes. I had spent the previous night sleepless, praying as hard as I could that I would at least get to have one more conscious conversation with Mom. That was my only focus.
Being December 23rd and last minute, we couldn't find a non-stop flight. Our first leg was delayed 6 hours, but we didn't find out until we arrived at the airport. The ticket agent couldn't figure out how to re-book our connection, so she cancelled our entire travel plan and tried to rebook us making three connections, but somehow couldn't do that, either. Already panicking, my clearest memory of that morning is willing my knees not to buckle as I held tightly to the counter, attempting to plead with her to put us on some plane that would arrive to Seattle at some point, but unable to form coherent sentences. Gary took over, negotiating everything: getting us back on the original late flight, getting us on a later connection, making me eat something for breakfast. And a couple of hours later, sitting at JFK, I got my prayers answered. Mom was alert enough to talk on the phone; I hadn't spoken to her in a couple of days and was getting all of the information relayed, so just to hear her voice was so reassuring. She was sluggish and medicated, but totally there and clearly happy to talk to me.
We finally arrived in Seattle close to 10pm PST. Dad picked us up at the airport. We went straight to the hospital and again and again, my prayers were answered. The next day, the waiting room was filled with our family and friends and didn't empty out until well after the New Year. This blog was launched because I couldn't field all of the phone calls, texts and emails that I was receiving, so I figured I'd let all of you come to us on your own time and when you were interested. And I'd only have to do it once.
This year, as we enter the light half, my life is so profoundly different. Any doubts or misgivings I had about getting married (and there were many, one year ago) have disappeared; I saw the strength of my parent's marriage every day and can't imagine one day since last December 23rd without Gary's support and love. My general anxiety has faded significantly; I've learned that my imagination is far crueler than life and that things I thought would destroy me have not. I saw the value in a support system and learned what it means to show up for people and am committed to maintaining and strengthening my own. I am trying to thank more, to love more, to allow more, to laugh more. I am happier this Solstice than I was at the last one. Strange that that should be true; I have suffered more, I have watched those I love most suffer more, I have lost more. And yet, I am undeniably a more settled, grounded, content person. I learned so much from Mom, watching her grace, her determination, her utter refusal to go into despair. And though she was literally surrounded in darkness for the entirety of her illness, it didn't penetrate her. And so, the darkness couldn't reach me, either.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
12.7.11
AYNSLEY:
This past Sunday, one of my dearests threw me a women-only baby shower. Sixteen of us crammed into Gary and my little apartment, most sitting on the floor (including my mother in law, which I still feel badly about). Everyone at different life stages; some mothers, some never to be mothers, some just at the beginning of their adulthood, others with enough experience to offer sage advice. I always say gifts are optional but no one arrived empty handed. The amount of baby gifts we have received is unbelievable. Some of this is the nature of being first on both sides of the family, but a lot of it is concentrated well wishes from followers of the blog, people who don't really even know me but adore Mom and, still feeling helpless and sad about the circumstances, can't help themselves. But the best gifts were truly all of the blessings I received that day. Everyone either anointed me with oil or said a little prayer or gave me mounds of reassurance that I will not only make it through this transition to mother in one piece, but I will do a good job of it. And to seal in those blessings, everyone transferred them directly to my belly, in the form of henna tattoos.
I realize the past few entries have been depressing and raw and hard to read. But the truth is that while those emotions are real and true, they are not a realistic view of life now. Those are just the moments when it's easiest to write. Yes, absolutely, there are moments when the loss is overwhelming. But there are also many more moments when life simply continues, when we look forward to good things and deal with the mundane. And there are many moments when I think of Mom and it makes my heart soar with joy for the 31 years I got to be with her and all she taught me.
My dreams of her are still infrequent and mostly from when she was ill. A couple of nights ago, I was treated to dreams of her all night; we were hanging out at the Kline, working on walking the halls, and it dawned on me that if she really were still here and working on getting stronger, at some point I'd have to lose her again. And maybe that's the ultimate peace-making realization. That as hard as this past year was, we never have to do it again. And she made such a beautiful time of it. She lived her last year as fully as she could, finding joy and celebration; so many never even come close to such grace. And as difficult as it will be to enter into parenthood without her, and as sad as it makes me that she never experienced being a grandmother, my not having any real responsibilities allowed us more time together. I was able to fly to Seattle at a moments' notice, I didn't care about spending ridiculous amounts of money on airfare; things were easy in a way that they never will be again. So that's been my most recent discovery and most recent source of comfort. This mourning is what it is. I know that it has changed me forever. But at least I never have to lose her again.
This past Sunday, one of my dearests threw me a women-only baby shower. Sixteen of us crammed into Gary and my little apartment, most sitting on the floor (including my mother in law, which I still feel badly about). Everyone at different life stages; some mothers, some never to be mothers, some just at the beginning of their adulthood, others with enough experience to offer sage advice. I always say gifts are optional but no one arrived empty handed. The amount of baby gifts we have received is unbelievable. Some of this is the nature of being first on both sides of the family, but a lot of it is concentrated well wishes from followers of the blog, people who don't really even know me but adore Mom and, still feeling helpless and sad about the circumstances, can't help themselves. But the best gifts were truly all of the blessings I received that day. Everyone either anointed me with oil or said a little prayer or gave me mounds of reassurance that I will not only make it through this transition to mother in one piece, but I will do a good job of it. And to seal in those blessings, everyone transferred them directly to my belly, in the form of henna tattoos.
I realize the past few entries have been depressing and raw and hard to read. But the truth is that while those emotions are real and true, they are not a realistic view of life now. Those are just the moments when it's easiest to write. Yes, absolutely, there are moments when the loss is overwhelming. But there are also many more moments when life simply continues, when we look forward to good things and deal with the mundane. And there are many moments when I think of Mom and it makes my heart soar with joy for the 31 years I got to be with her and all she taught me.
My dreams of her are still infrequent and mostly from when she was ill. A couple of nights ago, I was treated to dreams of her all night; we were hanging out at the Kline, working on walking the halls, and it dawned on me that if she really were still here and working on getting stronger, at some point I'd have to lose her again. And maybe that's the ultimate peace-making realization. That as hard as this past year was, we never have to do it again. And she made such a beautiful time of it. She lived her last year as fully as she could, finding joy and celebration; so many never even come close to such grace. And as difficult as it will be to enter into parenthood without her, and as sad as it makes me that she never experienced being a grandmother, my not having any real responsibilities allowed us more time together. I was able to fly to Seattle at a moments' notice, I didn't care about spending ridiculous amounts of money on airfare; things were easy in a way that they never will be again. So that's been my most recent discovery and most recent source of comfort. This mourning is what it is. I know that it has changed me forever. But at least I never have to lose her again.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
11.27.11
AYNSLEY:
Somehow, we made it through Thanksgiving. Luckily, no one at my table insisted that we share the things we're thankful for, as I am having trouble piecing together feelings of gratitude. Surely I must be thankful for all of the many blessings in my life right now; there are so so many and I don't want to appear ungrateful. But I can't honestly sit down and say "I am grateful for..."
When Mom first passed away, I felt a sense of relief. I didn't have to worry about her feeling worse and worse, about her pain, about letting her down again and again. I didn't have to sleep with the phone next to my pillow or check flight prices or availability every day. In the last couple of weeks, all of that relief has dissipated. My body has accepted the end of the frenetic pace, the end of crisis mode management and I am left with only the overwhelming absence of Mom.
Now the feelings of injustice and anger surface more readily, the reality that she won't get to know her grandchildren, that she won't see Ross graduate, that she is missing out on many years that she had planned to enjoy. I am angry that she won't be here to help me when the Pea arrives, that any questions I have now remain unanswered, that any bumps in our relationship that were waiting to be healed will never be healed. I get furious when well meaning people say there is no greater joy than being a grandparent; that I didn't manage to pull my life together in time and I robbed her of that.
Living across the country, it's sometimes easy to pretend that life is still normal. I didn't talk to Mom every day when she was healthy. The day that Gary and I got engaged, I had already spoken with her during the day before he proposed and when I called again, she was confused that I would call twice in one day. But when there were things I wanted to share, I would call. If events were happening, I would call. If I needed clothes advice (which is frequent), I would call. And now, it's been so long since I've been able to call and share something or ask for advice. Day to day it's okay, but the compound effect is hard. There's so much lately that I want to share with her. There are so many questions I want to ask, so much advice I still need, so much I don't know. And the road ahead is just so much more of that.
Somehow, we made it through Thanksgiving. Luckily, no one at my table insisted that we share the things we're thankful for, as I am having trouble piecing together feelings of gratitude. Surely I must be thankful for all of the many blessings in my life right now; there are so so many and I don't want to appear ungrateful. But I can't honestly sit down and say "I am grateful for..."
When Mom first passed away, I felt a sense of relief. I didn't have to worry about her feeling worse and worse, about her pain, about letting her down again and again. I didn't have to sleep with the phone next to my pillow or check flight prices or availability every day. In the last couple of weeks, all of that relief has dissipated. My body has accepted the end of the frenetic pace, the end of crisis mode management and I am left with only the overwhelming absence of Mom.
Now the feelings of injustice and anger surface more readily, the reality that she won't get to know her grandchildren, that she won't see Ross graduate, that she is missing out on many years that she had planned to enjoy. I am angry that she won't be here to help me when the Pea arrives, that any questions I have now remain unanswered, that any bumps in our relationship that were waiting to be healed will never be healed. I get furious when well meaning people say there is no greater joy than being a grandparent; that I didn't manage to pull my life together in time and I robbed her of that.
Living across the country, it's sometimes easy to pretend that life is still normal. I didn't talk to Mom every day when she was healthy. The day that Gary and I got engaged, I had already spoken with her during the day before he proposed and when I called again, she was confused that I would call twice in one day. But when there were things I wanted to share, I would call. If events were happening, I would call. If I needed clothes advice (which is frequent), I would call. And now, it's been so long since I've been able to call and share something or ask for advice. Day to day it's okay, but the compound effect is hard. There's so much lately that I want to share with her. There are so many questions I want to ask, so much advice I still need, so much I don't know. And the road ahead is just so much more of that.
Monday, November 14, 2011
11.16.11
AYNSLEY:
The infrequency of my posts since Mom's passing is a good lesson in discipline. I am so glad that I made the intention to write every day during her illness; we now have an invaluable, accurate record. But without her to talk to, and without a defined purpose of these updates anymore, I find that I slack.
In the past week, I have received a wedding gift, several baby gifts and a few notices of donations made in Mom's name. Surely this is bizarre. To have such major life changing events all together like this, to be using the same thank you stationary to thank people for onsies as memorials.
Or maybe not. There's no dependable timeline, nothing that we can count on to say that this is the natural order of life and you don't lose your mom as you prepare to become a mom.
A dear friend wrote to me sharing the fears of new motherhood and showed me how she coped with those last weeks of her own pregnancy and uncertainty. She made lists. She took control over what she could. A year ago, I would have done exactly the same thing; I was always trying to control every situation. I had a Plan B, C and D for every scenario. Now I don't. I can't be comforted by the lists anymore, by playing out what I imagine to be the possible scenarios. I know that no matter what I think could happen, life can have other plans and surprise you. And not only in the unfair, senseless randomness of Mom's illness. In amazing, beautiful ways, too. And despite that old truism "those who fail to plan plan to fail," I don't plan things anymore. At least not the way I did. In childbirth class, we talk about birth plans-people write out how they want their births to go and what their intentions are. I can't even fathom this without laughing.
We spent countless hours setting intentions for Mom's healing, praying, massaging love and tenderness into her ankles and shoulders. We cycled through disbelief, anger, sadness, and hope so many times it was dizzying. We celebrated small victories and mourned small defeats and learned again and again that we are not in control. We learned to let go of the disbelief. We let go of the hope. I'm trying to let go of the anger. Of the sadness. But I suspect it is too ingrained in me now to ever lose. So instead I'm trying to work with it, to let it teach me why it has taken up permanent residence in my heart. I think so that in moments of uncertainty, I can let go of control. I can see things as they are, not as how they should be or how I can fix them. I can look at situations from a place of wonder and simply be present on the journey.
The infrequency of my posts since Mom's passing is a good lesson in discipline. I am so glad that I made the intention to write every day during her illness; we now have an invaluable, accurate record. But without her to talk to, and without a defined purpose of these updates anymore, I find that I slack.
In the past week, I have received a wedding gift, several baby gifts and a few notices of donations made in Mom's name. Surely this is bizarre. To have such major life changing events all together like this, to be using the same thank you stationary to thank people for onsies as memorials.
Or maybe not. There's no dependable timeline, nothing that we can count on to say that this is the natural order of life and you don't lose your mom as you prepare to become a mom.
A dear friend wrote to me sharing the fears of new motherhood and showed me how she coped with those last weeks of her own pregnancy and uncertainty. She made lists. She took control over what she could. A year ago, I would have done exactly the same thing; I was always trying to control every situation. I had a Plan B, C and D for every scenario. Now I don't. I can't be comforted by the lists anymore, by playing out what I imagine to be the possible scenarios. I know that no matter what I think could happen, life can have other plans and surprise you. And not only in the unfair, senseless randomness of Mom's illness. In amazing, beautiful ways, too. And despite that old truism "those who fail to plan plan to fail," I don't plan things anymore. At least not the way I did. In childbirth class, we talk about birth plans-people write out how they want their births to go and what their intentions are. I can't even fathom this without laughing.
We spent countless hours setting intentions for Mom's healing, praying, massaging love and tenderness into her ankles and shoulders. We cycled through disbelief, anger, sadness, and hope so many times it was dizzying. We celebrated small victories and mourned small defeats and learned again and again that we are not in control. We learned to let go of the disbelief. We let go of the hope. I'm trying to let go of the anger. Of the sadness. But I suspect it is too ingrained in me now to ever lose. So instead I'm trying to work with it, to let it teach me why it has taken up permanent residence in my heart. I think so that in moments of uncertainty, I can let go of control. I can see things as they are, not as how they should be or how I can fix them. I can look at situations from a place of wonder and simply be present on the journey.
Monday, November 7, 2011
11.7.11
AYNSLEY:
In terms of my grief, the past week or so has been better. Fewer crying jags and more sleep. Gary and I have zoomed into baby planning mode-we are T minus 7 weeks (or so, really it could be anywhere from 5 to 10 weeks out) and I am feeling completely unprepared. I have also have a resurgence of morning sickness in the last trimester that our midwife thinks is grief-related. It's not such a rare thing for late pregnancy and it doesn't worry her, but it can be difficult at times to eat, despite being hungry. It's something I would love to talk to Mom about-she passed away right at the cusp of my third trimester and I didn't even think to ask her what symptoms she had late in pregnancy.
Today I started exploring newborn rituals and thinking about how we want to welcome the Pea into our community. I wasn't prepared for how emotional that would make me. So many prayers for mothers to say for their children, so many hopes and dreams and so much family continuation. Some of the rituals include passing the baby from grandparents to parents, or the grandparents offering blessings, and my heart just hardened. I have a hard time separating what I want for my child and what Mom wanted for me. I don't yet feel comfortable with the mother title, so when the websites reference "mother" I think of Mom and not myself. Surely this will be an evolution. Surely no one feels like a mother until they have mothered for some time. Just as I still fumble over referring to Gary as my husband (just the other day, I slipped and said "my boyfriend" which technically hasn't been correct for over a year), I will fumble with "my child."
But there's also an element of the surreal to the past year. I still don't quite believed it all happened. Mom's illness, her death, my marriage, the Pea, that we are all irreversibly changed. I think that may be a reason I fumble with calling Gary my husband. I think that as soon as I heard Mom's diagnosis, I detached from something and began operating on a perfunctory level. I knew the facts, responded to the facts, dealt with the facts. We all did what we needed to do. People would make comments about my family: how amazing we all are, how much we rallied and supported Mom and each other. It wasn't a choice. It was a need. We all reacted in the only way we knew how. But somewhere along the way, I needed to lock up my heart to keep it from breaking. And now, embarking on this parenting journey, I need to access it again. Though I wholeheartedly believe that we are choosing the safest and healthiest birth option for both me and the Pea by having her at home, part of that choice is the appeal of forcing myself to be present. I don't have the option to tune out, to medicate, to detach. I've been doing that all year. I've been saying Mom wasn't going to get better without really feeling the impact of that truth. Maybe that's a necessary side effect of knowing a disease is incurable. Maybe that's a flaw in me.
In any case, I suspect that other members of my family are coming to the truth that she's gone in fits and starts also. That some days the reality is so heavy and true that functioning on any level requires great concentration and force of will. And some days are okay. I don't know, I am not there, which is another difficult thing. I miss the frequent trips, I miss seeing all of my Seattle family. And worst of all, Dad's birthday is coming up and I can't fly to spend it with him. Though all the travel was difficult and costly and though my trips were never relaxing, it was always fulfilling and comforting to be there.
In terms of my grief, the past week or so has been better. Fewer crying jags and more sleep. Gary and I have zoomed into baby planning mode-we are T minus 7 weeks (or so, really it could be anywhere from 5 to 10 weeks out) and I am feeling completely unprepared. I have also have a resurgence of morning sickness in the last trimester that our midwife thinks is grief-related. It's not such a rare thing for late pregnancy and it doesn't worry her, but it can be difficult at times to eat, despite being hungry. It's something I would love to talk to Mom about-she passed away right at the cusp of my third trimester and I didn't even think to ask her what symptoms she had late in pregnancy.
Today I started exploring newborn rituals and thinking about how we want to welcome the Pea into our community. I wasn't prepared for how emotional that would make me. So many prayers for mothers to say for their children, so many hopes and dreams and so much family continuation. Some of the rituals include passing the baby from grandparents to parents, or the grandparents offering blessings, and my heart just hardened. I have a hard time separating what I want for my child and what Mom wanted for me. I don't yet feel comfortable with the mother title, so when the websites reference "mother" I think of Mom and not myself. Surely this will be an evolution. Surely no one feels like a mother until they have mothered for some time. Just as I still fumble over referring to Gary as my husband (just the other day, I slipped and said "my boyfriend" which technically hasn't been correct for over a year), I will fumble with "my child."
But there's also an element of the surreal to the past year. I still don't quite believed it all happened. Mom's illness, her death, my marriage, the Pea, that we are all irreversibly changed. I think that may be a reason I fumble with calling Gary my husband. I think that as soon as I heard Mom's diagnosis, I detached from something and began operating on a perfunctory level. I knew the facts, responded to the facts, dealt with the facts. We all did what we needed to do. People would make comments about my family: how amazing we all are, how much we rallied and supported Mom and each other. It wasn't a choice. It was a need. We all reacted in the only way we knew how. But somewhere along the way, I needed to lock up my heart to keep it from breaking. And now, embarking on this parenting journey, I need to access it again. Though I wholeheartedly believe that we are choosing the safest and healthiest birth option for both me and the Pea by having her at home, part of that choice is the appeal of forcing myself to be present. I don't have the option to tune out, to medicate, to detach. I've been doing that all year. I've been saying Mom wasn't going to get better without really feeling the impact of that truth. Maybe that's a necessary side effect of knowing a disease is incurable. Maybe that's a flaw in me.
In any case, I suspect that other members of my family are coming to the truth that she's gone in fits and starts also. That some days the reality is so heavy and true that functioning on any level requires great concentration and force of will. And some days are okay. I don't know, I am not there, which is another difficult thing. I miss the frequent trips, I miss seeing all of my Seattle family. And worst of all, Dad's birthday is coming up and I can't fly to spend it with him. Though all the travel was difficult and costly and though my trips were never relaxing, it was always fulfilling and comforting to be there.
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