Still

So it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything in the blog. Part of it is busyness. Part of it is an attempt to escape.

I have often thought of things I wanted to say in this medium. There is a stack of ideas in my head. They are not yet on paper. Every time I’ve thought of something I wanted to write about, I’ve gotten myself involved in some other activity and put the ideas out of my mind. They recede into the shadows but reemerge shortly, in vague feelings of melancholy or overwhelming waves of grief. They are always with me because thoughts of Mom are always with me.

In August, I went in to see my doctor for my yearly physical. She always chats with me a bit before getting to the exam. As usual she asked me, “So how are you doing?” I responded, “Well, it’s been a tough few months. My mom died last November.” And the tears started. When she was able to wipe the stunned look off her face, she recommended antidepressants, and I didn’t argue.

In recent months, I have moved home to a coastal city where Mom and I lived when I was little. I had wanted desperately to move back here while she was alive, as it would put me within two hours of her house. The move away from here just three years ago seemed so right at the time; I sincerely thought that an extra hour in the commute to her house would not be all that significant. I was so wrong. It was a terrible, horrible decision. That extra hour made an easy day trip impossible, and I was no longer able to be the kind of help she desperately needed. I am absolutely convinced that the absence of my frequent help contributed to her death. That is hard to take but take it I must. So here I am again, “home,” and I’m glad to be here. Nevertheless, it is bittersweet. Reminders of her are all around, and knowing I managed to get back here too late is a dagger in my soul.

My doctor said something to me as she was discussing the antidepressants: “I want you to feel sad when you think of your mother. I just don’t want it to stop you from living your life.” I think Mom would agree with that, frankly. I can go on. I can live my life, spend time with friends, even laugh and have fun. Nevertheless, the ache is always there, the knowing that she is not here with me, and yes, the wishing I had made different choices. I feel her presence and her absence at the same time, and sometimes it invades my whole being. Medicine may help, but there is no remedy for this, except maybe for time, doing its work, little by little. 

In the Wilderness

One of the devotionals that I often read, Streams in the Desert, was compiled by an American missionary named L.B. Cowman, who served in the early 20^th century with her husband in the Far East. As its name implies, it is intended to minister to those going through difficult times, what we Christians often call “wilderness seasons.” I’ve been reading this one for a very long time.

This present wilderness began in Spring 2006, when a very important companion animal died. I had a bond with this particular cat that was unusual, even for me, an avowed “animal person;” he was as much a child to me as I can imagine, never having had a child of my own. I mourned him hard. Follow that in Summer 2006 with the death of my marriage, then the death of my work in 2007, then in 2008 a move away from ALL of my friends, and the restarting of a former career. In 2010, I began to think I was coming out of the wilderness: I was rekindling some lovely old friendships, was in my element at work, had traveled twice to Spain, the land that has my heart, and was enjoying an interesting relationship with a guy I was undoubtedly falling in love with. His insulting rejection of me in August of that year proved to me that I was not out of the woods yet, as it were. A few months later, the dénouement: the death of my mother. I plunged deeper in the wilderness than I had ever gone before.

Recently I had lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in more than a year. This friend and I have both gone through some pretty deep wilderness seasons. I was happy to hear that she seems to be coming out of hers. She has a new job, one that seems to suit her perfectly, is living in a city she loves, three minutes from her parents and less than an hour from her brother, she just joined a church she’s excited about, she’s content in her singleness, and she is happier than she’s been in years. It was good to see her that way! She is coming out of her wilderness and I am beyond happy for her.

This friend had met my mom a time or two. Naturally, she asked about her death, saying “All I know is she was here one day and the next she was gone.” I said, “That’s pretty much all I know, too.” It seems I don’t know anything except that I hurt for the absence of her; I continue to feel more alone than ever.

I don’t often subject people to my sadness. I just try to be happy when I’m with people, and I usually am. When I’m alone, though, all bets are off. I still cry regularly; songs or something I read may set me off. When I get in my car, if the drive is more than an hour or so, sadness will usually overtake me at some point along the journey. This heaviness has become a part of me that I can’t shake. I don’t want to stay in this place, but I can’t seem to come out of it, and maybe I’m not supposed to, at least not for a while longer. It scares me a little though because I don’t want to make this wilderness my home. You’re supposed to go THROUGH a wilderness, not set up permanent residence there.

Most of my friends who’ve lost their moms attest to the lasting quality of the loss. One, a 72 year old woman, told me, “Sometimes I still think of my mama and just boo hoo.” Another friend lost her mother probably thirty years ago now and the last time she mentioned her to me, her eyes filled with tears. Apparently this is normal. So I am coming to terms with the fact that I will probably be in a similar state when I am much older, years from now, and that is okay; she was far too important for me to think I will ever stop missing her. I will not accept that this wilderness is my destiny, though. I will come out from here, when it is time, because my Father will bring me out. He will not leave me here forever.

Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? I awakened you under the apple tree. There your mother brought you forth; there she who bore you brought you forth. Song of Solomon 8:5 Holy Bible, New King James Version

Therefore, behold, I will allure her, will bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfort to her. Hosea 2:14  Holy Bible, New King James Version

The Importance of Hearing

A few days ago, a caring friend asked me what I missed most about my mom. I thought for only a second or two before I responded, “Her voice.” Suddenly I felt the tears and before they could overflow, I said, “Stop, enough. I can’t talk about it.” My friend felt terrible as he tried to change the subject for me and move on from my unexpected reaction. I realized later that, strangely, I hadn’t thought before of this horrible truth: the familiar voice that I loved so much is slowly fading from memory and becoming harder to recall. This disturbs and saddens me.

It is said that of blindness and deafness, deafness is worse. Most hearing, seeing people seem to disagree with that, but I can totally understand it. I am a language geek, dialect mimic, music lover and dilettante maker of same. Sounds of nature fascinate me; one of my favorite CDs is music interspersed with nature sounds and wildlife calls. I so love the ocean partly because of the sounds of the waves pounding the shore and the seagulls calling to each other. When I study, I must have quiet; music only distracts me, draws me in. Often in the car, I turn the radio off so I can think. When I’m doing housework, however, I want music playing, loud enough for me to really hear it. And when I go to a concert, I want it LOUD, really loud, so nothing distracts from the entire experience of the music. Sounds comfort me, excite me, fascinate, disturb or distract me. Whether lovely or loud, sound is of vital importance to me.

Right now, just over seven months since her death, I can still hear the rich, velvetiness of my mother’s voice. For most of my life, she had a soft North Carolina accent that made her a delight for employers in Colorado, California and Germany; they were thrilled to have her as one of the “voices” of their organizations. During the last years of her life, her accent was made more pronounced as she shared her home with her sister, who rarely left the Southern Appalachian Mountains; I teased her sometimes about sounding like a hillbilly. Her singing voice was deep in the alto range; treasured are my memories of singing with her. She took the harmony as we sang together, until I learned from her to harmonize as she did -- a third below the melody; we favored Gospel and Country songs as our repertoire. After years of smoking, she lost much of her range but the notes she retained were still strong and full.

Hearing her voice in my head makes me smile. Bits of our conversations sound as real as the times I actually heard her speaking. Several specific things she would say are fixed in my memory. When anyone said something nice about me or my sister, she would affect this silly and unidentifiable accent and say, “Well, of course; she only takes aftah her mothah!” When she would call me and leave a message for me to call her, she would usually begin with, “Now, nothin’s wrong…” because she knew I worried about her. And her usual greeting to me: “Hey, Baby Girl.”  Her laugh is there, too, uninhibited, throaty, filled with abandon and absolutely contagious.

It scares me, though, that already some of her words are starting to fade from my memory; I have to think really hard to bring them to mind. She loved to watch “Dog the Bounty Hunter,” and she would tell me about it sometimes. I can’t hear her voice saying the word, “dog,” though. I can’t hear the accent exactly right. She would greet loved ones with a happy, “Hey!” but I can’t remember which word she favored with people she didn’t know very well, whether it was “hi,” “hello,” or something else. This forgetfulness is disturbing; I want to remember her voice!  I want to remember how she sounded as we sang together, and the sound of her laugh. Most of all, I want to remember her calling my name or calling me “Baby Girl.”

I realize how blessed I am to have been “Baby Girl” to her for so long; she called me that for fifty years! How lucky I am! It doesn’t do to feel sorry for myself; there are so many who don’t have their moms for nearly that long. I really do hope, though, that the memory of the sound of her voice stays with me for many more years yet; I dread the thought of saying goodbye to her voice, even though it lives with me only in my head.

Bitter and Sweet

How can one day contain this much emotion?

Yesterday, the Saturday before Father’s Day, I spent several hours with two people I haven’t seen in years, people who were two of my best friends throughout the 1990’s. One was my roommate and sharer of clothing, my shoulder to cry on, partner in prayer, and the melody to my harmony as we careened through the NC Mountains in my little white pickup truck or gripped microphones at church. The other was my concert-going, head-bangin' buddy, my “little brother,” with whom I was honored to walk as he loved and supported his first wife through her valiant fight against cancer, and then while he grieved in agony for her when she left him, much too young, to be with the Lord. These two remarkable people helped make me the person I am today; few others have shared such influence on me. We enjoyed a wonderful time together at his home, talking and laughing and feeling the years fall away.

A few hours later, I was standing over my mother’s grave, stricken again by her name on the stone and feeling intensely the loss. You see, in the misty and secluded southern Appalachian Mountains that my parents’ families have called home for generations, we have a tradition called Decoration Day. It generally falls on Father’s Day, and consists of family reunions and some sort of memorial for those who’ve preceded us in death. So the early evening found me helping my father’s sister carry and place flowers on the earthly resting places of my paternal grandparents at the family cemetery. A half hour later, quite alone now, I was tending my mother’s grave, as well as her mother’s and father’s, carefully placing flowers and preparing them for tomorrow’s visitors to the cemetery. Performing this task by myself was difficult, highly emotional, and left me feeling very lonely and very alone. I drove away with a heavy heart, experiencing her absence afresh.

A few hours later still, finally back home, I signed into Facebook and learned what I had missed when I couldn’t answer my phone when it rang in the early afternoon. My lovely friend in Chicago had called me but she didn’t leave a message. I guess she figured that telling me she’d gotten engaged was too much for a voicemail! I would have to agree. My happiness for her overflowed; she has patiently waited for God’s perfect choice for her, and He has proven Himself faithful once again. 

Throughout the day I alternately laughed and cried, and I welcomed the tears: tears of happiness, of missed years regained and friendships renewed, of joyful milestones, and of continued grieving. God is sovereign and He is good. He gave me precious friends, people who love me as much as I love them, and he gave me a mom who for 50 years made me feel as if I were the most special person in her world and who treated me as both her daughter and her friend. I am grateful to Him for all of these incomparable people who have enriched my life.

A current song by Wes King is playing in my mind: “Life is precious, life is sweet.” Sometimes it is bittersweet. And sometimes it is just bitter. But it is always precious.

Youtube video of Life is Precious by Wes King

Regrets

Frequently over the past months, I’ve heard people talking about regrets. Mainly they talk about not having any, not regretting anything you’ve done because it’s helped shape who you are today. It’s a good argument, at first glance, but it doesn’t hold up under pressure, at least not for the serious believer in Christ, and I would venture not very well for anyone with a conscience.

I regret a lot of what I’ve done over the years, from the time I was a little girl until now. Some things I’d do over if I could for my own benefit, like ignoring the outside influences that ruined the piano lessons I loved with all my heart, causing me to finally stop playing altogether. I would love to go back and change that; I am so musical, but it has very little way to manifest itself outside of singing, and I’m only a fair singer. Others are choices that caused a lot of pain for me and often for others. Two failed marriages scream to the top of that list. If I had married wisely, or not married at all, how very different my life would be now. I might be working in Spain or NYC, or I might even have children, for goodness sakes!

Some regrets are more painful, mainly because of the way my actions have hurt others. When my mom’s mother, my beloved Mimi, died in 1994, I immediately regretted not having spent as much time with her over the course of the preceding year as I had prior to that. It was all because of a stupid romantic entanglement that stole my attention away from her when she needed me. She had been so incredibly important to me, even living with us until I was about five years old, and when she died I deeply regretted having spent so little time with her over that year. Those choices haunt me still.

You would think, with that experience behind me, I would’ve made different choices with my mom. For a long while, I did. Then my career began to fail, and I finally had to take a job that moved me farther away from her. As a result, I didn’t get down to see her as often as I had before. When my aunt, her sister who lived with her, died last June, Mom started simply refusing to let me come. I think it was partly because she was depressed but also because when I came, I worked rather than just visited with her. She had so many things around the house that needed doing, and I wanted to clean out my aunt’s room.  Mom really didn’t want me to do that; it hurt her too much to even consider, so she simply wouldn’t let me come. The last six months of Mom’s life, I spent almost NO TIME with her.

Finally, last Thanksgiving, I decided to go see friends in New England instead of seeing Mom. I don’t usually do “family things” on that particular holiday. You see, I love the concept of Thanksgiving; I am very grateful for all the myriad of blessings I enjoy. But Thanksgiving has been marked in my life by unhappy events, from my paternal grandfather’s death in the 80’s, which resulted in my dad’s family’s relative denial of the holiday, to my mother’s drinking in the 80’s and 90’s that ruined several Thanksgiving celebrations on the maternal side of the family. So when Mom began getting sick, I was in Massachusetts. I returned just in time to fuss at her over the phone, try to get her to go to the emergency room, make her promise to go to the doctor on Monday, and then get the call, at school, that she had died at 6:00 in the morning, just hours before she would’ve seen her doctor.

I don’t know how to process all of that without regrets. It seems a hard-heartedness would be required, and it just isn’t in me. My heart is soft. I feel everything keenly. And so I live with a profound regret over having neglected Mom in the last months of her life. I wish I had coaxed her to let me come down by promising to just visit, or take her to lunch, or go with her to the doctor. I wish I had chosen to spend Thanksgiving, her last Thanksgiving, with her. I wish, I wish, I wish.

You can’t go back. You have to go forward. So I face front and lean into my future, but not without regrets.