AYNSLEY:
Gary, Eliza and I will be traveling to Seattle in a few weeks to celebrate Rosh Hashana with our left coast family and to commemorate Mom's first Yerzeit. It's unbelievable that it's been a year. It's unbelievable that Eliza's entire life has happened in the absence of hers. But we want to make Eliza's Spirit Grandma just as real as her other grandparents and so we are telling her concrete stories of Mom, showing her pictures, playing voicemails of her voice and planning to have a park bench refurbished in Mom's honor, where Eliza can sit, play and feel Mom's favorite place.
Seattle in the spring. Cherry blossoms in full bloom. A breeze off Lake Washington. Mom on her bike, enjoying Summer Streets.
This is how I remember her. This is exactly how I spent my last trip to Seattle before she got sick, except it was the end of summer instead of spring and the trees were bare.
We plan to refurbish a bench overlooking the water, under the cherry trees. Mom would have loved that we're recycling, that we're supporting the Parks Department, that this is the Seward Park memory we will have, not the days of the Kline. It will bear a plaque with her name and this year, the first full calendar year without her.
Will you help us make this a reality? The benches are a donation of $3,200 to the Seattle Parks and Recreation Department. We would love for this to be a community effort, as so much of her care was. That this bench will belong to everyone, in $5, $15 or $50 increments. We will post a photo and directions. It will be for all of us to enjoy-for all the hundreds of people she touched in her life. And it will serve as a restful place for hundreds more, who didn't know her, but who will still get to benefit from her life.
If you can make a donation of any amount, please send it to Dad:
Bob Kirshenbaum
4822 140th PL SE
Bellevue WA 98006
OR donate via PayPal:
And if not, we still hope that if you are in Seattle, you will visit this bench, enjoy the view and think of Mom zooming past on her bike, with a smile and with love.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
on anger
AYNSLEY:
Sometimes the anger comes. It bubbles up out of nowhere, catching me off guard. Sometimes it's a new comment, something inadvertent but so hurtful and insensitive that it will send me seething. Sometimes it's a memory, something I mishandled, something I said or did wrong. Sometimes it's hearing other new moms complain about their mothers. But it's always there, just behind the surface, like a constant flow of gas that's just waiting for a spark to ignite it and explode. And explode I do. I rage. Eliza takes a stroller nap almost every morning and each morning as she sleeps, I walk, quiet and alone with my thoughts. Sometimes I cry ugly, blubbering along the East River, sweat and tears and snot and god knows what else stuck to my face and shirt. More often I cry lightly, smiling through the tears at all the other people I pass along the way, nodding to other mamas pushing strollers, smiling at toddlers, allowing runners to pass me. Sometimes I don't cry, I just march forward, gripping the stroller so tightly my wrists ache, clenching my jaw so tightly that I feel my teeth in my ears.
I have always struggled with anger. I turn disappointment and frustration and pain in on myself. I am fighting this. I fight with those memories that I'm ashamed of: when I didn't tell the awful visitor to leave Mom's room, when I didn't stop the nurse from leaving Mom alone after a procedure, when I allowed people to be absent from my support team and then turn around and support them. I am trying to let these things go. I am trying to let myself off the hook.
But do I really deserve to be off the hook?
This is where the struggle is. Mom was such a nice person. I still receive stories from people sharing their memories of her and whether they knew her in high school, college or beyond, she stands out in their memories as the sweetest, nicest, prettiest person. She had a little light around her, always. Even at the end. I am not like that. I have an edge, a snap, the fuck-its, the fire, the rage. No one remembers me with a glow. Which is fine; in my angst-ridden teen years, I used to make fun of my perfect cheerleader Marcia Brady mom. And she used to chastise me-think about how other people feel, think about your words before you say them, think about how lucky you are to have a healthy body instead of hating the size of your thighs. I was raised to be grateful, forgiving and nice. I was reminded to be grateful, forgiving and nice. And now I'm not. Now I have free reign to be ungrateful, spiteful and mean. And sometimes I am.
I was raised better than that.
But!
But I was robbed of my mother in the sixth month of my first pregnancy! My mom, who couldn't wait to be a grandmother long before I was even thinking about having kids, never got to meet her grandchild. I was robbed of a celebratory wedding! Mom, who always picked out my clothes, couldn't see my wedding dress, let alone help me find one. I had to learn a whole new language: the culture of hospitals, cancer and insurance. I had to spend a very good chunk of my savings to fly cross country every month. I gave up my private practice. I slept on the floor to be near her.
Oh, but aren't these all first world problems? Aren't these the whinings of a spoiled, privileged brat? Isn't the world full of real tragedy and real heart break? Of course. Yes. Mom was taken too soon, but not tragically. She had cancer. Fifteen hundred people a day die of cancer in this country. Some of them are children. Some of them die alone, frightened and in pain. Some of them go completely broke, leaving their families in debt for the rest of their lives. Mom didn't have any of these problems. And these are still first world problems. To gain even more perspective, I think about our developing nations. Families destroyed by war, children kidnapped and forced into militia, violence as a way of life. And I'm angry about a wedding dress? Every time I feel myself slip too deep into self pity, I say "tsunami" out loud. Tsunami. Remember. Think about how other people feel. All other people. Think about your words before you say them. Before you commit them to paper or, even more permanent, the internet.
When I was in the fifth grade, we entered the Gulf War of 1991. I didn't much care, as a ten year old. But I remember vividly going up to my mom's sewing studio, where she was listening to the radio and crying. "They're bombing Israel," she told me. Trying to figure out why she was crying, I asked if we knew anyone there. "No, we don't know anyone personally there." It took me a long time to understand.
I still am.
I struggle with the anger. And then the guilt of being angry. And then the lack of chastising from Mom about it. Because, to paraphrase Tina Fey, she would not have this shit.
Sometimes the anger comes. It bubbles up out of nowhere, catching me off guard. Sometimes it's a new comment, something inadvertent but so hurtful and insensitive that it will send me seething. Sometimes it's a memory, something I mishandled, something I said or did wrong. Sometimes it's hearing other new moms complain about their mothers. But it's always there, just behind the surface, like a constant flow of gas that's just waiting for a spark to ignite it and explode. And explode I do. I rage. Eliza takes a stroller nap almost every morning and each morning as she sleeps, I walk, quiet and alone with my thoughts. Sometimes I cry ugly, blubbering along the East River, sweat and tears and snot and god knows what else stuck to my face and shirt. More often I cry lightly, smiling through the tears at all the other people I pass along the way, nodding to other mamas pushing strollers, smiling at toddlers, allowing runners to pass me. Sometimes I don't cry, I just march forward, gripping the stroller so tightly my wrists ache, clenching my jaw so tightly that I feel my teeth in my ears.
I have always struggled with anger. I turn disappointment and frustration and pain in on myself. I am fighting this. I fight with those memories that I'm ashamed of: when I didn't tell the awful visitor to leave Mom's room, when I didn't stop the nurse from leaving Mom alone after a procedure, when I allowed people to be absent from my support team and then turn around and support them. I am trying to let these things go. I am trying to let myself off the hook.
But do I really deserve to be off the hook?
This is where the struggle is. Mom was such a nice person. I still receive stories from people sharing their memories of her and whether they knew her in high school, college or beyond, she stands out in their memories as the sweetest, nicest, prettiest person. She had a little light around her, always. Even at the end. I am not like that. I have an edge, a snap, the fuck-its, the fire, the rage. No one remembers me with a glow. Which is fine; in my angst-ridden teen years, I used to make fun of my perfect cheerleader Marcia Brady mom. And she used to chastise me-think about how other people feel, think about your words before you say them, think about how lucky you are to have a healthy body instead of hating the size of your thighs. I was raised to be grateful, forgiving and nice. I was reminded to be grateful, forgiving and nice. And now I'm not. Now I have free reign to be ungrateful, spiteful and mean. And sometimes I am.
I was raised better than that.
But!
But I was robbed of my mother in the sixth month of my first pregnancy! My mom, who couldn't wait to be a grandmother long before I was even thinking about having kids, never got to meet her grandchild. I was robbed of a celebratory wedding! Mom, who always picked out my clothes, couldn't see my wedding dress, let alone help me find one. I had to learn a whole new language: the culture of hospitals, cancer and insurance. I had to spend a very good chunk of my savings to fly cross country every month. I gave up my private practice. I slept on the floor to be near her.
Oh, but aren't these all first world problems? Aren't these the whinings of a spoiled, privileged brat? Isn't the world full of real tragedy and real heart break? Of course. Yes. Mom was taken too soon, but not tragically. She had cancer. Fifteen hundred people a day die of cancer in this country. Some of them are children. Some of them die alone, frightened and in pain. Some of them go completely broke, leaving their families in debt for the rest of their lives. Mom didn't have any of these problems. And these are still first world problems. To gain even more perspective, I think about our developing nations. Families destroyed by war, children kidnapped and forced into militia, violence as a way of life. And I'm angry about a wedding dress? Every time I feel myself slip too deep into self pity, I say "tsunami" out loud. Tsunami. Remember. Think about how other people feel. All other people. Think about your words before you say them. Before you commit them to paper or, even more permanent, the internet.
When I was in the fifth grade, we entered the Gulf War of 1991. I didn't much care, as a ten year old. But I remember vividly going up to my mom's sewing studio, where she was listening to the radio and crying. "They're bombing Israel," she told me. Trying to figure out why she was crying, I asked if we knew anyone there. "No, we don't know anyone personally there." It took me a long time to understand.
I still am.
I struggle with the anger. And then the guilt of being angry. And then the lack of chastising from Mom about it. Because, to paraphrase Tina Fey, she would not have this shit.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Mother's Day
ROSS:
The modern mother's day celebration was inspired by American abolitionist, feminists, and poet, Julia Ward Howe (If you ever catch yourself singing: glory, glory hallelujah... you're singing her song). In response to the carnage of the civil war she wrote the mother's day proclamation in 1870:
Arise, then, women of this day!
I think it's important to understand the roots of mother's day in American society. This is a holiday started by a women's movement for peace. It is a day to honor the women who raised us, sacrificed for us and who love us.
Although I thought today would be a difficult day, instead I am overwhelmed by a sense of appreciation and comfort. I am filled with the great spirit of my mother today, who provided me with an incredibly rich, love-filled life.
I am also filled with so much joy to be honoring my sister today, her first mother's day as a mother. It is truly wonderful watching Aynsley taking on this role with such confidence, instict and love. Little Eliza is in wonderful hands.
Happy Mother's Day.
The modern mother's day celebration was inspired by American abolitionist, feminists, and poet, Julia Ward Howe (If you ever catch yourself singing: glory, glory hallelujah... you're singing her song). In response to the carnage of the civil war she wrote the mother's day proclamation in 1870:
Arise, then, women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts, Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly: "We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies, Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We, the women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."
From the bosom of the devastated Earth a voice goes up with our own. It says: "Disarm! Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice." Blood does not wipe out dishonor, nor violence indicate possession. As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war, Let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead. Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means Whereby the great human family can live in peace, Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, But of God.
In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask That a general congress of women without limit of nationality May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient And at the earliest period consistent with its objects, To promote the alliance of the different nationalities, The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.I think it's important to understand the roots of mother's day in American society. This is a holiday started by a women's movement for peace. It is a day to honor the women who raised us, sacrificed for us and who love us.
Although I thought today would be a difficult day, instead I am overwhelmed by a sense of appreciation and comfort. I am filled with the great spirit of my mother today, who provided me with an incredibly rich, love-filled life.
I am also filled with so much joy to be honoring my sister today, her first mother's day as a mother. It is truly wonderful watching Aynsley taking on this role with such confidence, instict and love. Little Eliza is in wonderful hands.
Happy Mother's Day.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Three generations at three months old
AYNSLEY:
At my parent's house, there's a photo of Mom at 3 months. And one of me at three months right next to it. We look alike, sort of. Not exactly, but similar. Now that Eliza is three months, I wanted to add her to the mix.
I feel so connected to Mom when I am with Eliza, which is all the time. We even have a "game" I play, where I tell Eliza all of the things I would have told Mom that day. "If my Mom were alive, I would have told her how delicious this spring is. How all of the trees are in bloom and how the cherry blossoms in particular make me think of her. And then I would rub it in that it's 70 degrees here and 50 there." By saying it out loud, maybe I give Mom the opportunity to hear it anyway.
At my parent's house, there's a photo of Mom at 3 months. And one of me at three months right next to it. We look alike, sort of. Not exactly, but similar. Now that Eliza is three months, I wanted to add her to the mix.
Me
Eliza
Mom
I think you'll agree, something skipped a generation.
I feel so connected to Mom when I am with Eliza, which is all the time. We even have a "game" I play, where I tell Eliza all of the things I would have told Mom that day. "If my Mom were alive, I would have told her how delicious this spring is. How all of the trees are in bloom and how the cherry blossoms in particular make me think of her. And then I would rub it in that it's 70 degrees here and 50 there." By saying it out loud, maybe I give Mom the opportunity to hear it anyway.
Friday, March 23, 2012
6 months later
AYNSLEY:
It is spring. We recently celebrated the vernal equinox, the time of year of new beginnings, fresh sprouts and an abundance of green. Gary and I will be celebrating our first anniversary in a few days and our Pea's three month mark a few days after that. And today marks half a year that Mom has been gone.
She died on a day of balance, and here we are on the flip side. We survived some of the roughest firsts: Thanksgiving, the holiday season, her birthday. Dad's 60th was rough. Valentine's Day, too. We still have their anniversary, Ross and my birthdays and her favorite season Seattle to get through. And Mother's Day. I don't know how I will get through Mother's Day.
The day to day for me isn't hard. It's the moments in between. It's when I have a question about parenting, or want to share, or ask advice. It's shopping for Eliza's clothes. I haven't been able to bring myself to buy her clothes yet-that's the thing I always imagined us doing together. I have zero fashion sense and Mom would have dressed her so ridiculously perfectly.
Our Pea is growing and thriving. She still looks more like Mom's baby picture than anyone else. But she doesn't remind me of Mom. When I am in full on parenting mode, when she's awake, I don't think about anything else. But when we're walking and she's sleeping, I always want to call Mom. I used to call her all the time when I was walking somewhere. To buy lunch, to the train, to and from hockey. It's been a difficult habit to break. Eliza naps when I walk. I always want to fill the silence but I don't. I force myself not to call anyone. I just sit with the silence, looking at Eliza's sleeping body snuggled close to mine, checking every few minutes to make sure she's breathing.
I sometimes think that this was all a test, that now that I've realized what's important to me and my family, that I got to know my mother in a different way and I've made peace with some of my own demons, Mom can be alive. She can meet her grandchild and be part of our lives again. It doesn't seem possible that this really happened. Even now, six months later, I still can't quite believe it.
It is spring. We recently celebrated the vernal equinox, the time of year of new beginnings, fresh sprouts and an abundance of green. Gary and I will be celebrating our first anniversary in a few days and our Pea's three month mark a few days after that. And today marks half a year that Mom has been gone.
She died on a day of balance, and here we are on the flip side. We survived some of the roughest firsts: Thanksgiving, the holiday season, her birthday. Dad's 60th was rough. Valentine's Day, too. We still have their anniversary, Ross and my birthdays and her favorite season Seattle to get through. And Mother's Day. I don't know how I will get through Mother's Day.
The day to day for me isn't hard. It's the moments in between. It's when I have a question about parenting, or want to share, or ask advice. It's shopping for Eliza's clothes. I haven't been able to bring myself to buy her clothes yet-that's the thing I always imagined us doing together. I have zero fashion sense and Mom would have dressed her so ridiculously perfectly.
Our Pea is growing and thriving. She still looks more like Mom's baby picture than anyone else. But she doesn't remind me of Mom. When I am in full on parenting mode, when she's awake, I don't think about anything else. But when we're walking and she's sleeping, I always want to call Mom. I used to call her all the time when I was walking somewhere. To buy lunch, to the train, to and from hockey. It's been a difficult habit to break. Eliza naps when I walk. I always want to fill the silence but I don't. I force myself not to call anyone. I just sit with the silence, looking at Eliza's sleeping body snuggled close to mine, checking every few minutes to make sure she's breathing.
I sometimes think that this was all a test, that now that I've realized what's important to me and my family, that I got to know my mother in a different way and I've made peace with some of my own demons, Mom can be alive. She can meet her grandchild and be part of our lives again. It doesn't seem possible that this really happened. Even now, six months later, I still can't quite believe it.
Monday, January 30, 2012
1.30.12
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.
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 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.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
10.30.11
AYNSLEY:
Samhain. The beginning of the dark half of the year, the time to honor our ancestors and departed loved ones, when the veil separating the spirit world and the living world is thinnest, when we face our ghosts. Halloween has always been a favorite holiday of mine and why not? Dressing up and candy: two of the best things ever. But as awesome as chocolate is, I think there's more to it. I have always loved ghost stories, always believed in spirits and little snippets of magic.
Last night I went to the circle of women again to celebrate Samhain. We all dressed in black, as that's the color of the season, and brought candles and pictures of the dead we wanted to honor. And we shared our stories of them. I was incoherent, my loss seemed the freshest and I couldn't even piece together what I wanted to say. Instead of talking about Mom, I talked about me. How last Samhain, everything was normal. How the cancer was so aggressive and came out of nowhere and how difficult is was to get a flight to Seattle on December 23rd...and this is not what I wanted to say, it wasn't supposed to be about that, but I'm clearly still trying to wrap my head around how this happened. How was she fine a year ago? How did we hike last Thanksgiving and shop for a wedding dress and how was that the last time she saw me? How did she have a clear mammogram last August and every August for the fifteen years before that? How is she gone?
But what I told all of these wonderful women who sat there and held space for me was that Mom has been out visiting the people she needs to visit. (And it's true, I've gotten emails and notes from people who have walked into rooms in their house and found old letters from her, people who have just uncovered a photo they forgot they had, a memory triggered that they had to share with me.) Once she's done making the rounds and bringing some peace, she'll come to me. I somehow knew as soon as I found out that I was pregnant that I wouldn't get to have both my mother and daughter. And Gary, Mom, Dad, Ross, me...we all knew well before the sonogram confirmed it that we were having a girl. In that same sense, I know that Mom knows she has a couple more months of visiting that she can do, but then she'll be at the birth with us. And, knowing her, she'll stick with the Pea as much as she can.
It's not actually Samhain yet-that's tomorrow night and Tuesday morning. So, if you want to celebrate the season, take some photos down of the people you want to honor, light a candle for them and share a fond memory. And as the dust fades tomorrow night, listen for them. They'll be there.
Samhain. The beginning of the dark half of the year, the time to honor our ancestors and departed loved ones, when the veil separating the spirit world and the living world is thinnest, when we face our ghosts. Halloween has always been a favorite holiday of mine and why not? Dressing up and candy: two of the best things ever. But as awesome as chocolate is, I think there's more to it. I have always loved ghost stories, always believed in spirits and little snippets of magic.
Last night I went to the circle of women again to celebrate Samhain. We all dressed in black, as that's the color of the season, and brought candles and pictures of the dead we wanted to honor. And we shared our stories of them. I was incoherent, my loss seemed the freshest and I couldn't even piece together what I wanted to say. Instead of talking about Mom, I talked about me. How last Samhain, everything was normal. How the cancer was so aggressive and came out of nowhere and how difficult is was to get a flight to Seattle on December 23rd...and this is not what I wanted to say, it wasn't supposed to be about that, but I'm clearly still trying to wrap my head around how this happened. How was she fine a year ago? How did we hike last Thanksgiving and shop for a wedding dress and how was that the last time she saw me? How did she have a clear mammogram last August and every August for the fifteen years before that? How is she gone?
But what I told all of these wonderful women who sat there and held space for me was that Mom has been out visiting the people she needs to visit. (And it's true, I've gotten emails and notes from people who have walked into rooms in their house and found old letters from her, people who have just uncovered a photo they forgot they had, a memory triggered that they had to share with me.) Once she's done making the rounds and bringing some peace, she'll come to me. I somehow knew as soon as I found out that I was pregnant that I wouldn't get to have both my mother and daughter. And Gary, Mom, Dad, Ross, me...we all knew well before the sonogram confirmed it that we were having a girl. In that same sense, I know that Mom knows she has a couple more months of visiting that she can do, but then she'll be at the birth with us. And, knowing her, she'll stick with the Pea as much as she can.
It's not actually Samhain yet-that's tomorrow night and Tuesday morning. So, if you want to celebrate the season, take some photos down of the people you want to honor, light a candle for them and share a fond memory. And as the dust fades tomorrow night, listen for them. They'll be there.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
10.26.11
AYNSLEY:
Gary and I arrived home this evening. Not gonna lie, it was very difficult to leave Florida today. Like, full on uncontrollable sob fest on the beach difficult. As is so often the situation, Gary just pulled me in close and gently asked why I was crying. I couldn't articulate it well, but this vacation felt like the last vacation we'll ever take. It was the end of something that I had been looking forward to and maybe clinging too much to: a last hurrah before baby, something easy and mindless to focus on in the wake of Mom's death, no responsibilities for a few days...But in a classic example of "World's Worst Thing to Say When You're Expecting a Baby in Two Months" I just said that I felt like I didn't have anything else to look forward to again.
Which of course isn't true. I am ridiculously excited to meet the Pea and to watch us begin the transformation into parents. I am excited to go into fall and winter in NYC, to not be traveling for a few months, to buy a monthly Metrocard for the first time in 2011, to see friends, to start our childbirth classes and on and on. But I do feel like we'll never take a vacation again. And I'm fully aware that the next big thing that we're anticipating and looking forward to will holler at all hours of night and day. I'm afraid of the hormone fallout of delivery and newborn care and mourning the biggest loss of my life all rolled into one.
Even though Mom was only receiving hospice benefits for less than 24 hours, we get benefits for 13 months after hospice ends. This is truly amazing. I can't say enough good things about the Group Health hospice care: the family receives social work benefits (nationwide) for a full 13 months after the last day of hospice. The social worker wanted to make sure that I knew that and took advantage of therapy or bereavement groups or anything that might help me in NYC. And while I don't think I have any need for anything right now, I am very happy to have those resources in my back pocket post-partum.
Gary and I arrived home this evening. Not gonna lie, it was very difficult to leave Florida today. Like, full on uncontrollable sob fest on the beach difficult. As is so often the situation, Gary just pulled me in close and gently asked why I was crying. I couldn't articulate it well, but this vacation felt like the last vacation we'll ever take. It was the end of something that I had been looking forward to and maybe clinging too much to: a last hurrah before baby, something easy and mindless to focus on in the wake of Mom's death, no responsibilities for a few days...But in a classic example of "World's Worst Thing to Say When You're Expecting a Baby in Two Months" I just said that I felt like I didn't have anything else to look forward to again.
Which of course isn't true. I am ridiculously excited to meet the Pea and to watch us begin the transformation into parents. I am excited to go into fall and winter in NYC, to not be traveling for a few months, to buy a monthly Metrocard for the first time in 2011, to see friends, to start our childbirth classes and on and on. But I do feel like we'll never take a vacation again. And I'm fully aware that the next big thing that we're anticipating and looking forward to will holler at all hours of night and day. I'm afraid of the hormone fallout of delivery and newborn care and mourning the biggest loss of my life all rolled into one.
Even though Mom was only receiving hospice benefits for less than 24 hours, we get benefits for 13 months after hospice ends. This is truly amazing. I can't say enough good things about the Group Health hospice care: the family receives social work benefits (nationwide) for a full 13 months after the last day of hospice. The social worker wanted to make sure that I knew that and took advantage of therapy or bereavement groups or anything that might help me in NYC. And while I don't think I have any need for anything right now, I am very happy to have those resources in my back pocket post-partum.
Monday, October 24, 2011
10.24.11
AYNSLEY:
I bring Mom up in conversation all the time. I don't know if I always have done it and I'm only more aware of it now, or if it's new and it's my way of hanging on. Just little anecdotes or agreements with someone else who is talking about their family. The people who don't know the story wouldn't know.
I am trying to take Ross's advice and bring her presence into my life. I don't know yet if I agree with him, but I'd like to. I'd like to fill the voids and feel her with me instead of simply not.
Gary and I are in St. Petersburg, Florida until Wednesday. We came last Friday for a friends wedding and decided that we needed a vacation badly, so we rolled our honeymoon, babymoon and any relaxation time owed to us for the last year and the coming year into these five days. And it couldn't be better. I was worried about how I would be with the wedding (I have been having a very hard time with weddings since Mom got sick two months into my engagement and wasn't able to see ours, to name a few reasons) but I was able to get over myself and enjoy the weekend festivities. I have been able to sleep, I have been able to unplug, I have been able to sit on the beach or by the pool for hours at a time and be okay. The families staying here make me happy, not miserable. Today a woman about Mom's age was laying out with her daughter, chewing gum the way Mom chewed gum (with air bubbles that pop-no idea how that would always happen) and I made the connection and tried to feel her presence. I am sunburned and remember the stories of Mom's family trips to Florida when she was a kid and how sunburned she would get; silly that something like a sunburn would make me feel connected. But I think that was Ross's point. I could just have a sunburn. Or I could smile about it, knowing I share both my fair skin and my inability to stay away from the water's edge with Mom and we'll just deal with the consequences.
I bring Mom up in conversation all the time. I don't know if I always have done it and I'm only more aware of it now, or if it's new and it's my way of hanging on. Just little anecdotes or agreements with someone else who is talking about their family. The people who don't know the story wouldn't know.
I am trying to take Ross's advice and bring her presence into my life. I don't know yet if I agree with him, but I'd like to. I'd like to fill the voids and feel her with me instead of simply not.
Gary and I are in St. Petersburg, Florida until Wednesday. We came last Friday for a friends wedding and decided that we needed a vacation badly, so we rolled our honeymoon, babymoon and any relaxation time owed to us for the last year and the coming year into these five days. And it couldn't be better. I was worried about how I would be with the wedding (I have been having a very hard time with weddings since Mom got sick two months into my engagement and wasn't able to see ours, to name a few reasons) but I was able to get over myself and enjoy the weekend festivities. I have been able to sleep, I have been able to unplug, I have been able to sit on the beach or by the pool for hours at a time and be okay. The families staying here make me happy, not miserable. Today a woman about Mom's age was laying out with her daughter, chewing gum the way Mom chewed gum (with air bubbles that pop-no idea how that would always happen) and I made the connection and tried to feel her presence. I am sunburned and remember the stories of Mom's family trips to Florida when she was a kid and how sunburned she would get; silly that something like a sunburn would make me feel connected. But I think that was Ross's point. I could just have a sunburn. Or I could smile about it, knowing I share both my fair skin and my inability to stay away from the water's edge with Mom and we'll just deal with the consequences.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
10.16.11
AYNSLEY:
This weekend was hard. Gary was away, and it was the first time I was really alone for any extended amount of time since Mom passed. And today was the first day I didn't have a packed agenda for myself. I did that intentionally, knowing I needed the downtime. But it was hard.
Lately I find myself tearing up constantly, triggered by anything that strikes me as beautiful. I think this is quite normal in most pregnancies and it's compounded by the fact that I am finally able to read pregnancy related books. I have absolutely no interest in What to Expect, the pregnancy advice books, the fetal development charts, etc. Once I got home to NY, I picked up Spiritual Midwifery and devoured the birth stories. I cried at every one. But since I do most of my reading on the subway, the crying is limited to what I can blink away and still go to work. It's not just birth stories; today walking through Soho, I watched a woman in her mid forties with her mom. They were window shopping and admiring the many tables of jewelry on the streets and it reminded me of me and my mom and how much she would have loved a day like today in Soho. Tear up, blink rapidly, go on with my day.
The thing that is most salient to me is that she's gone. Everyone has been telling me how she'll always be with me, how I'll feel her presence every day. And that is such bullshit. I feel her absence every day. I see what I'm missing, what she's missing. And that's all I can see sometimes.
This weekend was hard. Gary was away, and it was the first time I was really alone for any extended amount of time since Mom passed. And today was the first day I didn't have a packed agenda for myself. I did that intentionally, knowing I needed the downtime. But it was hard.
Lately I find myself tearing up constantly, triggered by anything that strikes me as beautiful. I think this is quite normal in most pregnancies and it's compounded by the fact that I am finally able to read pregnancy related books. I have absolutely no interest in What to Expect, the pregnancy advice books, the fetal development charts, etc. Once I got home to NY, I picked up Spiritual Midwifery and devoured the birth stories. I cried at every one. But since I do most of my reading on the subway, the crying is limited to what I can blink away and still go to work. It's not just birth stories; today walking through Soho, I watched a woman in her mid forties with her mom. They were window shopping and admiring the many tables of jewelry on the streets and it reminded me of me and my mom and how much she would have loved a day like today in Soho. Tear up, blink rapidly, go on with my day.
The thing that is most salient to me is that she's gone. Everyone has been telling me how she'll always be with me, how I'll feel her presence every day. And that is such bullshit. I feel her absence every day. I see what I'm missing, what she's missing. And that's all I can see sometimes.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
10.12.11
AYNSLEY:
I have received so many beautiful cards, letters and emails from such far-flung well wishers. I am nowhere near caught up in even reading them all, let alone responding. But so many of them share stories I haven't heard, memories that other people are cherishing.
Nearly all of the people I grew up with had interactions with Mom where she listened to them, entertained them, did arts and crafts, offered advice, offered open ears and a shoulder to cry on or some combination of the above. I had no idea that most of these scenes had occurred. And I feel so lucky to find out about them now. It's like she's sending me messages still. How to love children, how to connect with people, how to make someone feel special. That 10, 15 or 20 years later, these adults remember with such clarity how good she made them feel as a child or a teenager. How honest and safe they could be around her.
Many people have shared their experiences with losing their mothers too young. Again, it's like I'm getting reassurance that I can survive this. That somehow I will manage to build my own family, raise my own daughter and be okay. It doesn't seem possible sometimes. How does one become a mother without a mother? But so many people do it all the time. Many mothers that I admire and respect have done it, are doing it. And I will do it. Imperfectly and clumsily and missing my mother the whole way. But there isn't a choice here.
When I was reading The Council of Dads (Bruce Feiler, amazing, highly recommended) it occurred to me that Mom had set up a Council of Moms for Ross and me, maybe without realizing it, or maybe intentionally. For example, when planning our wedding, Mom recommended specific people to help me with my wedding dress, who were different people than who threw the bridal shower who were different still than who helped arrange specific details like music and programs. Now, all of these women have become the Pea's "aunties" and I know that I will lean on them all the way I would have constantly leaned on Mom to get me through the new days of parenting. Already they have created a book of parenting advice, gathered from themselves and Gary and my friends with kids; the book is a cute keepsake, the real value is knowing that I (or Gary) can call any one of those contributors at our wits end and they will happily talk us down. And babysit. Ross, too, has all of these surrogate moms to help him through school, navigate his future and love him unconditionally. The best part of this council is that they all have known and loved Mom for many years; they can be a version of her voice now that her voice is silent.
And then there are the people who write who don't know Mom, or her knew her in college, or who knew her from when their kids were in preschool, or who met her a couple of times when she visited me, but have grown to know her through the blog. And this outreach is astounding, too. The reach and depth of her spirit and tenacity and the hope and love she inspired has been humbling. So many people have felt it. I wonder if that's another reason that I have not fallen apart and the rest of my family has not fallen apart: there are so many sharing in our grief that it's being held for us. We don't have to hold it all. People want to hold it.
As I was writing this post, Dad called to read me two letters that he received today. One was from a former coworker and old friend that was beautiful and meant so much to him. The other was a long letter from Dr. H, Mom's doctor at the Kline, which brought me to tears. She spoke of how Mom changed her as a doctor, how our family inspired her, how Mom is so missed. She spoke of growing professionally from having cared for Mom and what an honor it was. This was so humbling to me. That this brilliant, busy physician not only felt these things but took the time to write them and send sympathy...we feel so fortunate that Mom had such loving care throughout her illness.
As I work out my grief process in my head (and out loud to anyone who is near enough to listen), I talk about this blog and how it needs to have an end. When discussing the idea of reworking all of this into a memoir, Gary gets very protective and doesn't want anyone to edit anything I've written, fearing it would equate my emotions being edited. Dad ruefully said that he loves the idea, but that no one will believe it. No one could believe Mom's attitude in the face of everything. I think that may be true. I promise that I haven't taken creative license with it, and that's part of what made her so damn special, but it's almost an anomaly of human nature. To have all of the things you love about life taken away from you and still love life.
I have received so many beautiful cards, letters and emails from such far-flung well wishers. I am nowhere near caught up in even reading them all, let alone responding. But so many of them share stories I haven't heard, memories that other people are cherishing.
Nearly all of the people I grew up with had interactions with Mom where she listened to them, entertained them, did arts and crafts, offered advice, offered open ears and a shoulder to cry on or some combination of the above. I had no idea that most of these scenes had occurred. And I feel so lucky to find out about them now. It's like she's sending me messages still. How to love children, how to connect with people, how to make someone feel special. That 10, 15 or 20 years later, these adults remember with such clarity how good she made them feel as a child or a teenager. How honest and safe they could be around her.
Many people have shared their experiences with losing their mothers too young. Again, it's like I'm getting reassurance that I can survive this. That somehow I will manage to build my own family, raise my own daughter and be okay. It doesn't seem possible sometimes. How does one become a mother without a mother? But so many people do it all the time. Many mothers that I admire and respect have done it, are doing it. And I will do it. Imperfectly and clumsily and missing my mother the whole way. But there isn't a choice here.
When I was reading The Council of Dads (Bruce Feiler, amazing, highly recommended) it occurred to me that Mom had set up a Council of Moms for Ross and me, maybe without realizing it, or maybe intentionally. For example, when planning our wedding, Mom recommended specific people to help me with my wedding dress, who were different people than who threw the bridal shower who were different still than who helped arrange specific details like music and programs. Now, all of these women have become the Pea's "aunties" and I know that I will lean on them all the way I would have constantly leaned on Mom to get me through the new days of parenting. Already they have created a book of parenting advice, gathered from themselves and Gary and my friends with kids; the book is a cute keepsake, the real value is knowing that I (or Gary) can call any one of those contributors at our wits end and they will happily talk us down. And babysit. Ross, too, has all of these surrogate moms to help him through school, navigate his future and love him unconditionally. The best part of this council is that they all have known and loved Mom for many years; they can be a version of her voice now that her voice is silent.
And then there are the people who write who don't know Mom, or her knew her in college, or who knew her from when their kids were in preschool, or who met her a couple of times when she visited me, but have grown to know her through the blog. And this outreach is astounding, too. The reach and depth of her spirit and tenacity and the hope and love she inspired has been humbling. So many people have felt it. I wonder if that's another reason that I have not fallen apart and the rest of my family has not fallen apart: there are so many sharing in our grief that it's being held for us. We don't have to hold it all. People want to hold it.
As I was writing this post, Dad called to read me two letters that he received today. One was from a former coworker and old friend that was beautiful and meant so much to him. The other was a long letter from Dr. H, Mom's doctor at the Kline, which brought me to tears. She spoke of how Mom changed her as a doctor, how our family inspired her, how Mom is so missed. She spoke of growing professionally from having cared for Mom and what an honor it was. This was so humbling to me. That this brilliant, busy physician not only felt these things but took the time to write them and send sympathy...we feel so fortunate that Mom had such loving care throughout her illness.
As I work out my grief process in my head (and out loud to anyone who is near enough to listen), I talk about this blog and how it needs to have an end. When discussing the idea of reworking all of this into a memoir, Gary gets very protective and doesn't want anyone to edit anything I've written, fearing it would equate my emotions being edited. Dad ruefully said that he loves the idea, but that no one will believe it. No one could believe Mom's attitude in the face of everything. I think that may be true. I promise that I haven't taken creative license with it, and that's part of what made her so damn special, but it's almost an anomaly of human nature. To have all of the things you love about life taken away from you and still love life.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
10.8.11
AYNSLEY:
Yom Kippur. I did not fast, I did not go to services, I did not even listen to streaming services as I pretended I might do earlier in the week. I am ritual-ed out. Or maybe just more interested in creating my own new ones.
One thing is clear: I am ready to loosen my grip on the nightly writing. I am thinking of dropping down to a few times a week, or even once a week. But I won't write tomorrow. I need more time right now to collect my thoughts and need to create more space for the Pea. I need to put more energy into our lives changing drastically and think about what that will mean and how we will manage it. Last night all my dreams were baby dreams, for the first time in almost my entire pregnancy. Clearly, my mind is shifting and I need to honor that.
I just finished an amazing book, Spiritual Midwifery, by Ina May Gaskin. I recommend this to anyone who is expecting, or just wants to be reaffirmed in all the beauty and miracles of life. The first half is all birth stories, just tales of ordinary people bringing their children into the world. But every birth is magical and every new baby changes the course of the universe. She finishes the stories with a small section "what to do if your child dies." Now, losing a parent is nowhere near as heart wrenching, tragic or impossible to deal with as losing a child. But she has some beautiful and practical words about grief that spoke to me:
Grief has its own dignity. To feel it makes you telepathic with everyone else who has ever mourned, and it makes you more compassionate of others. Hold on tight to your family. Losing someone dear to you is one of the risks you take in loving anyone at all. If you keep your heart open, the rawness of the hurt will go away in time. This is how healing happens.
Yom Kippur. I did not fast, I did not go to services, I did not even listen to streaming services as I pretended I might do earlier in the week. I am ritual-ed out. Or maybe just more interested in creating my own new ones.
One thing is clear: I am ready to loosen my grip on the nightly writing. I am thinking of dropping down to a few times a week, or even once a week. But I won't write tomorrow. I need more time right now to collect my thoughts and need to create more space for the Pea. I need to put more energy into our lives changing drastically and think about what that will mean and how we will manage it. Last night all my dreams were baby dreams, for the first time in almost my entire pregnancy. Clearly, my mind is shifting and I need to honor that.
I just finished an amazing book, Spiritual Midwifery, by Ina May Gaskin. I recommend this to anyone who is expecting, or just wants to be reaffirmed in all the beauty and miracles of life. The first half is all birth stories, just tales of ordinary people bringing their children into the world. But every birth is magical and every new baby changes the course of the universe. She finishes the stories with a small section "what to do if your child dies." Now, losing a parent is nowhere near as heart wrenching, tragic or impossible to deal with as losing a child. But she has some beautiful and practical words about grief that spoke to me:
Grief has its own dignity. To feel it makes you telepathic with everyone else who has ever mourned, and it makes you more compassionate of others. Hold on tight to your family. Losing someone dear to you is one of the risks you take in loving anyone at all. If you keep your heart open, the rawness of the hurt will go away in time. This is how healing happens.
So, to everyone reading this still, to anyone mourning this loss or any other in their life, take heart. To be heartbroken at all is a sure sign that you are capable of love beyond measure.
Friday, October 7, 2011
10.7.11
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.
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.
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.
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