Strength.........you have it.

Written by Annie, a mom without a blog

A year ago this week on my now retired blog I wrote about a story of a family tragedy. It was hard to write and I literally felt not only like crying, which I was doing, but also very much like retching as I wrote. You see, a year ago, a cousin I'm close to lost her 37-year-old husband to a very freak accident.

My cousin, newly pregnant with her third child, left for work as a teacher and thought nothing of sending her husband off to a routine outpatient rotator cuff surgery with his father. What she didn't expect was a phone call minutes after the surgery informing her that there had been a grave accident. You see, when they began the block of drugs to numb his shoulder, the needle did not go into his muscle, it went directly into his bloodstream pretty much killing him instantly. Although for hours they kept him on bypass and attempted to revive him, he was gone.

And she was left alone. With two little girls under the age of 5 and another on the way.

This post is not about the sadness, the heartache, or the explaining you do to two little girls who do nothing short of idolizing their Dad. This is not the story of how wonderful he was, or how his funeral commanded two thousand people to attend, or how his employer (Budweiser) had a highway banner with his name on it for weeks in honor because he was THAT guy, the one who everyone loved, everyone adored, everyone wanted to be friend with and like. Yes, he was that wonderful, but this is not about him today.

This is about her. About a 37-year-old woman, who although deeply heartbroken and extremely lost, did it when I am not sure I could. I think of her in awe every day. And I wonder where she gets it.

The strength.

I think about her when she comes up with amazing ideas to include her children in his life, even after he has left us physically. How she lets her now first grader write him love notes and puts them in a balloon to send to heaven. How she gave birth without the aid of drugs so no other freak accidents would happen in her family leaving her children orphaned.

This is a story of how she runs and pounds out her grief and anger and lays it all on the pavement in a Nike streak of healing. It is also a story of hand holding and how she gently allows you in to aid her in her need for understanding and healing. It is also the story of how she is not letting anger and revenge, nor all the lawyers knocking on her door, to overrule her right to grieve.

It is a glance into a life of a woman who teaches her children to remember their father every day, so when they age they won't forget because they are so young. About how her daughter says "I feel my Daddy every day, he is all around me. He even helps me when I put on my jammies."

How she just does it. Even though full understanding is not there, and the grief is still so raw.

This is a post about women. About how women just do. They do what they need to do, even when they don't know why or don't know how. Women like her. Women who persevere and keep moving. It is about the strength women have, that she has even though she may not know it. Today I honor her.

Holidays + Grief = Lunatic Mom

It's Monday and I'm so psyched that MWOB is getting back to its roots by welcoming back my oldest and dearest friend, Kath, as a MWOB guest blogger.  Our friendship began in 4th grade and will last to the end of time.  I wish every woman a friend like Kath.

Kath is a mom to three kids, a wife, a pediatric cancer nurse (aka "a saint"), and a mom without a blog.  Really.  I begged her to write her first post when MWOB was just an itty-bitty newborn blog and I had to beg her again to write this story. Okay, maybe not beg. But insist.  

So in the spirit of what MWOB is all about (that even without a blog, we all have a story to tell), I give you a story from Kath:   

My mom passed away a little over a year ago. The one thing I’ve learned about grief is that it’s a real bastard. It does NOT get better with time. The pain does NOT fade gradually. It’s not linear; it’s more like a process, a sea of waves alternating with calm waters. I can be cruising along, doing well when something (fairly “routine”) happens, and I’m racked with the grief all over. It’s like being sucker-punched right in the gut. The wind is knocked out of you, the scab ripped off and you’re vulnerable and hurting all over again. 

My mom is buried at a large Catholic cemetery here in Phoenix. Four times a year, they have a “clean up week” where all decorations are removed from the gravesites to keep things tidy. These dates are clearly posted at every entrance. You must remove all flowers, etc. for the week and then you’re free to place them back on when the week is over. I understand the need for such a clean up every few months. It keeps the cemetery from looking trashy, and really, who wants to be buried in a trashy cemetery?

Last Christmas (the first Christmas without my mom) my family bought a nice large wreath on a metal stand for my mom’s grave. It’s strange, but it’s really important to me that she has something on her site. I know she’s not really THERE, I believe she’s in a much better place, but I want her final resting place to look nice. We bought an artificial wreath so we could use it for several years. Before the cemetery clean up last year, I brought the wreath home, wrapped it up, and put it in my attic. This past Thanksgiving, I cleaned it up and placed it back on her grave for the holidays.

Which leads me to last Monday. My boys, ages 10 and 7, were off from school and we had to take my dad to his chemotherapy appointment. (My dad was diagnosed with lung cancer 6 months ago. Pretty sucky). While at his appointment, it dawned on me that it was clean up week at the cemetery and I had to get that wreath. After settling my dad in for his treatment, my boys and I headed down to what I thought would be a quick trip to the cemetery. 

On the way there, it dawned on me that the clean up may have already begun. But I knew the property was enormous, and the chances of my mom’s grave being cleaned (she’s buried on a far end of the cemetery) were slim. I was reassured as we drove up, because there was a blanket of red/green/silver decorations on graves as far as the eye could see. 

As we pull in the gate, my 10-year-old, B, speaks:

B:  “Mom, it’s gone.”

Me:  “What???? What do you mean?” 

Although, I know exactly what he means because his 10-year-old eyes are way better than my 41-year-old ones.

B: “Meema’s wreath is gone. They took it off.”

I tried to process what I was actually seeing. The 2-acre area where my mom is buried was picked clean. Not a flower. Not a wreath. Not a bow. Absolutely deserted. It was the only area of the entire cemetery that was clean. 

Then…the sucker-punch right in my gut. I vividly pictured in my brain the worker standing on my mom’s grave, grabbing her wreath, stuffing it in the trash. HER wreath. MY MOM. Tears welled in my eyes for yet another loss. How could I have let this happen? 

I scanned the property and saw several men cleaning up the adjacent area. I floored my car towards them and slammed on the breaks.

“Stay in the car!” I barked to my boys.

The cemetery worker heard me before he actually saw me.

“WHERE. IS. MY. MOM’S. WREATH???” Then the sobs came as I blubbered. “I had to take my dad for chemo today. I couldn’t get here in time. How could you have thrown it out……?” I’m really not sure exactly what I said, only that I was hysterical and crying. 

The older Hispanic man looked at me with the kindest eyes you can imagine. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he said it again. And again. And again. He pointed to another area of the property and told me the decorations had all been taken there for disposal. I was welcome to go and look through the items to try and find it. He hoped I did. I apologized, too. After all, this guy was just doing his job.

So my boys and I headed over to the area behind the Mausoleum and started dumpster diving for my mom’s wreath. We found three large piles of sad, discarded Christmas items. The whole area smelled like rotten flowers and old Christmas trees. The center pile had some sort of music box or toy playing music from way down at the bottom. It was playing the melody of the “Happy Birthday” song, but the batteries were clearly drained so it sounded off-key and sickly and creepy - "Waaa waaaa waaaa waaa waa waaa...."

After five minutes or so, it became apparent that we were looking for a needle in a haystack. And in all likelihood, my mom’s wreath was at the bottom of the heap, crushed and soiled. Would I really want it if I found it? 

And that’s when it caught my eye. I spotted one fine looking wreath towards the back of the pile. It had pristine, green leaves. It had gorgeous pinecones. It had a perfect stand. It had a crisp, velvet bow. Oh yeah, and it had someone else's name on it. Yep, it was addressed to a person at a lot number/grave number at the cemetery’s address. My 10-year-old caught my eye at just that moment.

B: “Is that one Meema’s?”

Me: (lengthy pause….) "Um, no. This one has someone’s name on it. Keep looking.”

Man, what was I thinking? I couldn’t take someone else’s wreath. But, dammit, I came for a wreath and I wasn’t leaving without one. I mean, it was just going to be thrown away anyway, right? RIGHT? 

So, I subtly removed the tag and after a couple more minutes nonchalantly said, “I think I found it.”

B: “Isn’t that the one we just saw with someone else’s name on it?”

Me: “I don’t think so. I don’t see a name.”  What the hell was I doing??

My sweet boy just looked at me with the most sincere eyes. He knew which wreath it was. This lie was going nowhere.

Me: “Look, honey. In the next two hours, this beautiful wreath is going to be smashed and discarded with all this other stuff. It was just like the one Meema had, so it’s okay if we save it from being thrown out.”  Yeah, we’re SAVING the wreath….we’re regular saints!

But you know what? That was enough for both my boys. They didn’t need any more explanation. If I said it was okay, they were cool with that. Then my 7-year-old picked up a poinsettia and says, “What about this pretty plant?’ And his brother grabs a small decorated Christmas tree and says, “This is cute.” Suddenly our wreath rescue mission has turned into bargain hunting at the after-Christmas sales. At a CEMETERY.

But, trying not to shirk my parenting duties completely, I became all indignant.

Me: “We can’t take those things! They don’t belong to us. That would be wrong. We are taking the wreath and that’s IT!”  We loaded up the wreath and took off. 

As I reflected on the roller-coaster of emotions that I experienced and inflicted upon my poor kids, two thoughts occurred to me:

First, I am making a deposit into both boys’ savings accounts. They’ll need it for therapy one day. 

And second, I’m pretty sure my dear old Irish mother just rolled over in her grave.