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.

Affiliate Friday: Mama-Face of Blog-Ignoramus on Losing a Friend and Breast Cancer Awareness

This is Mama-Face from Blog-Ignoramus. I remember when she first discovered our site here and she emailed me a comment saying she felt like she had found home. And that's the stuff that makes this community we've created so worthwhile to me. That through the white space we find each other and reach each other with our words. I am honored that Mama-Face agreed to guest post for us on an "Affiliate Friday" but I feel even more privileged that it was this story that she wanted to tell.




If you are like me you, won’t want to read this post.

If you are like me, pink is not your favorite color just now.

If you are like me, you have been approaching your blog reading a little differently the past couple of weeks.

Because, if you are like me, when you see the words “Breast Cancer Awareness” in the title or in the body of a post, you tell yourself you will have to pass and maybe read it later, when you feel stronger. You’re not quite ready to deal with emotions you have yet to come to terms with.

If you are like me you could be waiting in line in a crowded little gift shop; your gaze traveling around the store, when you see an entire display of Breast Cancer Awareness merchandise. Then you feel a tiny little stab in your heart and find that you must avert your eyes and look anywhere but there.

If you are like me, you want to be ever so careful when writing about this topic because there are so many people suffering in their own different ways from Breast Cancer; either as one with the diagnosis or as someone who loves this person.

Writing this post was much harder than I thought it would be. I struggled with it all day Tuesday; and I even have notes and a letters and plenty of memories to work with. I was fretting and I wondered if I could do it. But, I really felt that this was what I should write about; therefore I was baffled as to why it was turning out to be so difficult.

Then Tuesday night, as I was praying, it came to me what I should do. Instead of writing about Susan, I should write about me. I cannot tell Susan’s story and of her battle with breast cancer because that’s exactly what it was; HER story and HER battle with breast cancer.

I can only write about my battle with losing Susan.

*****

I met Susan when she and her family moved into the house across the street from ours about 13 years ago. I don’t remember when we became friends. I don’t remember when we were not friends. I took it for granted because it came so easily. A friendship comes from shared likenesses; a kindred spirit from shared hearts. Susan became a kindred spirit to me.

And I treasure a kindred spirit.

I liked Susan from the get go. I saw in her our similar interests and our differences.

We belonged to the same church;
thus our core beliefs and values were the same.
We were mothers.
Each of us had a passion for books.

BUT...

Susan was patient and calm.
I was not.
Susan’s hands could create works of art.
Mine could not.
Susan rarely complained.
I complained on a regular basis.
Susan was unique in a sea of ordinary.
I swam in the sea of ordinary.

Perhaps that’s what made my relationship with Susan morph from friend to kindred spirit. Strange as that may seem, our differences endeared her all the more to me.

Because the differences made no difference. We would talk for hours. She was kind to me. She listened. We laughed together. We cried together. Over the years she cried for me and I cried for her. In the past few years I’m pretty sure I trumped Susan in the ‘crying for her’ department. No, come to think of it...I was crying for me.

Most of the time our conversations involved books. Susan and I even had differences in our taste in books; she was well read but leaned towards fantasy and science fiction, she even taught me the difference between the two. I am somewhat well read and lean towards the classics and slice of life fiction. But we both loved reading for reading’s sake and during our ENTIRE friendship we spent hours catching up on what we’d read and what we were reading and what we had on our ‘to be read’ list.

Like a slide show, my memories of Susan flit by; snapshots of a normal friendship:

Her bubbly face...sitting with her on her driveway, talking, while her twins took their naps in the running car...making handmade Christmas cards together...lunch dates...our kids playing in her jungle gym basement...watching her hands deftly maneuver the tools used for making jewelry, creating beautiful bracelets, earrings and necklaces-never to sell-only to give away...her patience while attempting to teach me how to make jewelry...giggling and/or laughing until our sides hurt over the silliest things...watching her enjoy being a mom; something she excelled at...running back and forth from my house to hers...borrowing and loaning groceries...critiquing movies...the happy surprise of learning she was pregnant with twins...the terrible shock of learning she had been diagnosed with breast cancer...and so much more.

During the last 18 months or so of Susan’s life here on earth, I was able to spend some time with her, which I will forever cherish. She never asked for a thing other than that we not talk about cancer. She just wanted our time to be like old times. She told me that she had plenty of people to talk about cancer with; that’s all some people wanted to talk about. I was perfectly fine with pretending.

So, up until the last time I saw her, we tried our upmost to keep things as ‘normal’ as possible. I watched her go from a fair amount of mobility to being completely bed ridden.

The cancer spread from her breast to her bones and ultimately to her brain. I rarely heard her complain. Her husband went to such extreme lengths to make her comfortable, hospice nurses came and went, housekeepers were there at times, neighbors brought in food. What I did was nothing. Just talk and try to giggle and laugh like the old days.

During this time is when she tried her very best to teach me how to make jewelry; I failed miserably. And I could care less. For me it was never about making jewelry. It was about keeping things on as normal a level as we could. Most of the time I just sat or laid down on the floor by her chair; then bed. I haven’t moved the big tote bag of jewelry supplies since the last time I brought it home from her house. I took a catalog out of the bag a week or so ago, and it surprised me that I cried. So, that bag will remain where it is for a while yet.

The last time I saw Susan, two weeks before she passed away, she was pretty out of it. She so very much wanted to not be given morphine, because it knocked her out and she hated missing out on anything; especially time with the children and husband. That day though, morphine wasn’t anywhere near strong enough. She would drift in and out; she was very agitated and fearful. I held her hand while she slept fitfully. I laid my head on her bed. I stroked her hair, it was only a couple of inches long as it had just begun to grow back since the very last round of radiation. I put my face close to hers and gave her a kiss or two. It was very hard to understand what she was saying; but for reasons I can’t say, (simply because they are too private to me), I know that for at least a moment or two she was aware of my being there.

The hospice nurse came during the time I was there that day, and I was in the room when the decision was made to start the drugs that would make Susan comfortable and most importantly, ease her mind. The brain cancer was causing paranoia. One of the drugs that was added was an anti-psychotic. If I had been there even one day later she would not had recognized me. This I treasure for my sake; not hers. I consider every moment I spent with Susan a gift.

A few weeks after Susan’s funeral I was still grieving more than I even expected to. I was so preoccupied with memories that I wasn’t sleeping well, and I was thinking of her more than I did while she was alive. I relived memories like those I’ve shared and so many more, over and over. It’s not like I didn’t know it was inevitable; it wasn’t if, it was when. I think that all of us in these kinds of situations, (and this is probably a good thing), keep hoping that the inevitable won’t happen this time. So, I put my feelings on the back burner, you know, believing that I could wait and think about it later. I thought I was prepared. I wasn’t.

It was then that I made the decision to stop dwelling on Susan and my memories. That sounds so heartless; but I had to do it. I felt a weight lift and I felt lighter than I had in weeks; maybe months.

That is why seeing reminders of Breast Cancer Awareness Month everywhere I look has been so unsettling. Pink ribbons, pink t-shirts, pink jewelry, pink magnets, pink everything; all of it breaks my heart right now. Once again I am surprised by my reaction. Please, I want you to know that I believe that Breast Cancer Awareness is extremely important and that I KNOW there are far too many people dealing with Breast Cancer, as well as other forms of cancer, whether it be themselves or a loved one. Maybe you have a friend and you are trying your very best to support her. My story isn’t unique.

But Susan is.

*****

Susan passed away on August 5, 2009. If you would like to read more about her story and the incredible legacy she left behind, you can find it on her husband’s blog, Fatcyclist. Just search ‘Susan’.

Her Hands

Our Mother's Day Week extravaganza continues today with a post from one of the original moms without a blog here at MWOB, Kath.  I have known Kath since we were 9 years old and we are blessed with a rare and lasting friendship. Her words today hit me to the core and my heart aches for her as she approaches her second mother's day without her mom.  I knew her mom.  I ate lots of her mom's food at a green formica countertop surrounded by the love and humor and hospitality of an Irish family I am proud to know.  Kath's mom simply ruled.  And she is so missed.

Written by Kath, a mom without a blog

For me, Mother’s Day is really about my own mom. I know it’s supposed to be the day that we, as mothers, are showered with flowers, gifts and some much needed “me” time by those we love (good luck with that everyone). But for this gal, it’s a day I reflect on and give thanks for my own mother.

My mom was definitely the most hard-working, giving woman I have ever met. If you look up “selfless” in the dictionary, I’m pretty sure my mom’s name would be there. She was the oldest of seven children and, as such, was a born care-taker. Her whole life was truly dedicated to the service and loving-care of others.

In her early 20’s, my mom emigrated from Ireland to New York. Now, I know the mere mention of the word “immigrant” opens a can of worms big enough to supply fishermen until the next century. I’m not going to go there today. Suffice it to say, my mom did things by the book. She had each and every paper in order and was properly sponsored by a distant aunt. (Back then, an immigrant had to have a “sponsor” who was completely responsible for the individual and was held accountable if the immigrant did anything illegal while in America).

On the boat over from Ireland, my mom contracted tuberculosis. She subsequently had to spend months in a sanatorium for her recovery. She endured lung surgery and isolation (her aunt would visit every few weeks or so), completely away from her family in Ireland. I can’t begin to imagine how difficult that was for her. I’m sure I wouldn’t have the strength to endure what she endured. But when she spoke of that time later in her life, she did so without anger, bitterness, or sadness. She simply did what “she had to do” and was grateful to be in her new country. That was my mom.

I think it’s her hands that I will remember the most. My mom did not have pretty hands. Her nails were not manicured (I never remember them even painted). She worked hard each and every day and her hands took a beating. Her skin was rough, dry and calloused.

But I loved those hands.

When I was sick, those hands would gently touch my forehead. I remember their cool abrasiveness. It was soothing. My mom was there. Her very presence provided the security I needed to get better. I just knew that everything was going to be okay.

In church, those hands would often grab mine to hold. They felt strong and protective. I felt safe and loved.

Those hands made the best meals ever. My mom could seriously cook, and anyone who ever entered my home growing up could attest to this fact. Food was always prepared for any guest who came over. You just HAD to eat when you came to my house. And, boy was it good. I remember, in college, after a weekend home, she would send me back with loads of yummy goodness. I’d have stuffed Cornish game hens, homemade spaghetti sauce, and baked chicken. When I heated that food up in my dorm room, I’d soon have a steady stream of neighbors dropping by “just to say Hi”. Yeah.

Those hands skillfully and lovingly sewed and knitted through the years. There were graduation dresses, prom dresses, play costumes, and even items for good friends. When I brought my first born home from the hospital, he was warmly wrapped in a beautiful white blanket painstakingly knitted by those very hands.

In the last few years, those hands would shake periodically due to her illness and the curse of those dreaded seizures. My mom HATED having to be taken care of. She always wanted to provide the care for others, not be on the receiving end. But she accepted her illness with the dignity and grace that only my mother could.

I held those very hands 19 short months ago when she peacefully left this world guided by the abundant love and thankfulness of her family. 

I miss those beautiful hands…

Last Friday, my boys had a “Mom’s Morning” at their Catholic school. My daughter was at preschool and my oldest sings in the choir, so during the school mass, I sat next to my middle child. He’s my little affectionate guy, and loves to snuggle up close--anytime, anywhere. 

He held (no, squeezed) my hand throughout the church service. At one point, I looked down and gazed at his hand in mine. I do not have pretty hands. They look weathered; scratched and scarred from bumps over the years. The skin is dry and cracked from washing them. A lot. 

But I realized something. 

My hands are beginning to look just like my mom’s.

I couldn’t be more proud.

My mom in her element

My mom also in her element - holding one of her precious grandbabies.