Hey there, 49

Growing up, birthdays were a big honkin’ deal in my home. My mom’s birthday was just after Christmas, and as a child, her special day was always combined with the holiday. As a parent, she determined that each child’s birthday would be an event for celebration! As an adult, I held on to that belief, sometimes enjoying the benefits for days. A day all about ME!

Then in 2018, Mom died … 8 days before my birthday.

It just doesn’t seem that big a deal anymore.

This year, my kids, grandchildren, and husband made it a big deal. And I love them for trying. I do. Even if my heart just wasn’t in it.

Oh, Mom. I miss you, and the ache of your absence is heavy. But I think you’d like to see the outpouring of love I received …

Validation

Tears stung my eyes as I hung up the phone.  One 30-minute call was like a gentle embrace without secret motives.  The voice of reassurance that all of these thoughts and emotions and behaviors are not contrived or imagined.  Confirmation that my mental health is a priority, not something to be ignored as I trudge through the swamp where creatures are clawing at me from every direction, demanding I give more and more.  Validation feels … good.

Podcast

Warning: this podcast discusses childhood sexual abuse and suicidal behavior.  Listener discretion is advised.

 

via Podcast

Shroud

I’m holding on to that pinpoint of Light,

Because, try as I might,

This cloud seems dark as night.

Climbing My Literal and Figurative Mountains

This post comes from my daughter, who is bravely chronicling her battle with mental illness. Take a moment to share in her life!

https://wp.me/paKLCi-n

Tinnitus

The Scream, 1893 by Edvard Munch

Mosquito?

Cicada?

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee … to infinity(eeeeeeeeeeee)?

Can you hear that?

Why? Why can’t you hear that?

What do you mean, it’s not real?

I can hear it, all day, every day!

Why is my brain screaming at me?

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee … it mocks me(eeeeeeeeeeee).

What’s the cure? (There is no cure.)

Make it stop! (It will not stop.)

But you can mask it! (Thanks a lot.)

If it gets worse … (WORSE THAN THIS?!)

Why am I yelling? To drown out the noise!

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee … just let me be(eeeeeeeeeeee)!

Cover my ears; it’s there.

Turn up the music; it’s there.

White noise, violet noise, brown noise; it’s there.

I don’t want a mask, a cover, a distraction.

I want silence.

Shh. Just … shh.

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

April 6th marks one year since we hugged, kissed, and said, “I love you.” I walked out of your room, out of that nursing home, with a glimmer of hope that I would see you again. Here. In this life.

Nope.

Our last days together were spent talking about the girls, about the babies, about Steve, about Dad. I reassured you that you were an amazing mom when we were younger – and that you still were.

We cried.

We prayed that if God wasn’t going to heal you on this earth, that He would take you Home.

We cried some more. Or maybe it was just my tears that fell. So many tears.

I fed you, only to find out from Colleen that you were perfectly capable of feeding yourself!

You sang and got frustrated because it didn’t sound like singing, but I could still hear the music, Mom.

You begged the attendant not to roll you onto your other side. I witnessed the pain in your eyes and heard the scream from your lips, yet I was helpless. Words of comfort seem futile in the face of agony.

You, Dad and I listened to the words of your doctor. He showed compassion and kindness in the face of a harsh reality. He spoke of your faith. Dad spoke of seeing first hand the suffering that had become your new normal. You missed your parents. You wanted to see Jesus. This mere existence was not living. And you were fading …

In our final moments together, you shared something with me that will forever burned into my heart. You said, “I’m afraid to go to Heaven without you.” I gently squeezed your hand and replied, “You don’t have to be afraid. I will be there before you know it.” And there was peace on your face.

That peace was still there when we said goodbye. You looked so peaceful and had such happiness in your eyes that I really believed somehow, I would have another chance to see you.

That Steve could come with me next time.

That there might still be time.

That I wouldn’t get that phone call from Tina one week later saying the doctor didn’t expect you to live through the weekend.

That I would carry my phone everywhere, waiting for the call.

That T.P. would tell me of your beautiful last “I love you” and kiss with Dad.

That you would close your eyes afterward, never to open them again.

That Monday, April 16, 2018, my phone would ring close to 4:30 in the morning. And I knew. My brother’s voice: “Mom’s gone.”

Your last breath on earth. Your first breath in Heaven.

I’ve not spoken to you since that afternoon in your room. I wanted to. But I wanted to pick up the phone and talk to YOU. Not the memory of you. Not the idea of you. I wanted to hear your voice. The one person who would have helped me through your death is you, Mom.

So here we are, and a year has flown by. The anniversary of your passing is coming soon. I don’t know how that day will hit me. There are moments, out of nowhere, I am reduced to tears. There are moments when I come across your picture, a card, a recipe … and I smile. Finally. Again.

A lot has happened this year that made me long to hear your voice so desperately I could barely stand it. I talk to Dad a whole lot more now. I know that makes you glad. I cry to God in those times of pain, and I often ask Jesus to hug you for me. I’m going to write to you about this past year, and so much more, but not right now.

For now, I love you. I miss you. And I think about you every day. I am forever thankful that you are my mom. No matter what.

Love, Tookie