too, too much

 We all reach times when we suddenly feel that we have more to bear than we can handle. Thank goodness I've lived long enough to know this is fact, because for many years, I thought I was all alone, that I was the only one who ever felt inadequate, or selfish, or so overwhelmed that all I could do was crawl under the covers and pray that morning would be a long time coming.

Tonight is one of those times. I tell myself I am being silly, as I sit here typing away next to our Christmas tree. I remember every single ornament: who gave it to us, or where we bought it and where and why. There were presents under the tree, until Fiona started trying to unwrap them. (They now repose in an undisclosed location until Christmas morning.) Every day more Christmas cards from friends and family arrive in the mail, reminding me that George and I are part of a whole community of friends and family.

Yet all I can do is cry. Last Friday, as we all know, a very sick young man killed 20 children and 7 teachers at an elementary school in Newtown, CT. I've been immersed in discussions/disputes about gun laws, treatment of the seriously mentally ill, grief for the parents and families left behind, as well as for those little darlings who will never graduate, not even from grade school, never travel, go to college, get married.

And for some reason I am having an even harder time than usual dealing with the absence of my own parents this year. My dad was like such a little kid about Christmas; he and I always had so much fun together, decorating the the tree (always the day after Thanksgiving), going downtown to see all of the Christmas lights and the mechanized displays in the department store windows, especially Dayton's. Caroling with mom and other parishioners from Incarnation. And every year, until I was 24, sitting between mom and dad at Midnight Mass, hearing the ancient words "For behold I bring you tidings of great joy..." Going up to the Creche afterwards to see the Baby Jesus lying in the manger, and in later years the Choir always sang the Hallelujah Chorus from Messiah immediately after the conclusion of Mass. Holding hands with mom and dad as we prayed in the "words our Savior taught us, Our Father who art in heaven..." and most of all, singing the old, familiar carols, especially my favorite, Silent Night, Stille Nacht, written in Germany so long ago. Now there is new family, warm, loving, caring family. I have a husband, whom I love very much. But I haven't been able to go to Midnight Mass since I lost my mom.

This is, without a doubt, the hardest time of year to be childless. We keep running into one roadblock after another, until I have to shut myself alone in our bedroom so George doesn't have to listen to me crying in hysteric despair. Yes, I feel selfish bringing up our loneliness for a child when I know parents out in Newtown are grieving their lost babies. But grief is grief, and it deserves to be honored and spoken of, regardless of the circumstances, or who is doing the grieving, or why.

I'm particularly overwhelmed by my upcoming neck surgery. Less than two days to go now. And I feel so alone, I guess everyone does when they are facing surgery or something similar. Because no one can experience it with you. George is spending the day with me; Friday he's taking me over to  my Aunt Jo and cousin Melinda's house, so they can fuss over me, and Sunday my birthmom is coming over to baby me. Plus, I am receiving the Catholic Sacrament of the Sick from one of my favorite priests tomorrow. So I have all of my ducks in a row, so to speak. but I still feel sick to my stomach every time I think about it. Part of my issue here is, yet again (this question has been popping up everywhere the last few days) is WHY. Damn it all, I am sick of being in pain every single blasted day of my life. Why do I have to endure more? Yes, I know other people have it worse. but I have have never understood why that is supposed to make me feel better. I'm supposed to be happy and grateful that at least I'm not suffering the way other people I love are? I don't think so. 

I guess this is one of those times of, maybe not doubt, so much as feeling so desperately alone. This is why I ask for prayers, because right now I've lost the ability to form the words myself. I guess my tears and my writing tonight will have to be my prayers.

I guess a partial answer lies in something I told a friend the night of the tragedy at Sandy Hook, when we were struggling with the question of why, of how, an event so hideously, cosmically wrong could happen:

 You just sound upset, that's all, hon. Don't apologize for that. As to why this happened...can there possibly be a satisfactory answer? We live in a violent society. We can work for peace and justice. But does that help right now, at this very moment? All we know for sure is that God weeps with us, and that in the end God will wipe away all of our tears, and we will all be together again. And I always remember that Jesus wept when Lazarus died. He understands our feelings of grief and loss, because He experienced it too.

Amen.

seventeen years??????

My dad's funeral was 17 years ago today. It's amazing to think so much time has passed, when I thought I could never live without him. But I discovered that I can, because he is now a part of me and I am never alone, never without him, and I know that he will never be truly lost to me. St. Leonard, a member of the communion of saints. It's not that I don't still grieve, and sometimes I miss him so much my heart, literally, aches, but the grief has changed; gradually, the comfort of my memories and my sense of his presence has finally outweighed the pain. Most of the time...

Certain smells, certain moments when I feel unloved, certain aspects of the Christmas rituals, and hundreds of other ordinary details of life, will reopen the wound. But at least now I can let it bleed for a while and go on. At least now I can be open, not only to those painful moments, but also to the many joys of my life.
--Joyce Barrington

the day he died

He died face down in the cold, wet, new-fallen snow sixteen years ago on a shivery, white, mid-January Minnesota day. A day exactly like today. He was a husband and a father, a brother, an uncle, a nephew, a cousin, and a friend. And although Tom Brokaw hadn't coined the phrase yet, he was one of the "Greatest Generation" the United States of America ever has known.

He was born in 1919, the third of eleven children in a large, exuberant German-Catholic farming family. He was forced to leave school after fifth grade, at the age of ten, to go work and help support the family. That was the year he and his older brother Leo shared one pair of shoes; one day Leo would wear them, the next day, Leo's little brother got to wear them. In his teens he worked in the CCC--the Civilian Conservation Corps--sent all of his pay home to his folks, and remained a New Deal Democrat until the day he died.

He was sitting at the kitchen table filling out his card for the Selective Service (i.e. the draft) the afternoon he heard over the radio that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. Within a few years, he would take part in the bloodiest nightmares World War II had to offer: landing in the third assault wave on Omaha Beach, spending Christmas Day 1944 in some of the fiercest fighting the Ardennnes saw during the Battle of the Bulge, helping liberate one of the sub-camps of Buchenwald in the Hartz mountains of Germany (a work camp, not a death camp, was all he would ever tell me, adding a moment later that there wasn't any difference).

When he finally came home in September of 1945 and discovered that his mother had saved all of his combat pay (which he'd sent home for the family to use) in a bank account for him, he used the money to buy the place where the family had been tenant farmers. He, his dad, and brothers founded a construction company too, and built many of the barns and houses in the Rush City-Pine City area of Minnesota, a number of which still stand today. He was the son who stayed home to farm and look after his mom and dad, putting off marriage and family until his parents decided to move into Rush City to live with his sister Julie. He was always the doting older brother and uncle, though, the tease, the one who made sure every niece and nephew had a Christmas present. He was the reason his little sister Jo refused to let her boyfriends come visit her at home--she knew she'd NEVER hear the end of it once her big brother found out a boy liked her! (Funny, his daughter had the same problem many years later...)

But in 1963 he married the girl he'd had his eye on for more than a decade and they settled down together in Minneapolis. They adopted a tiny daughter of five weeks in 1968. He almost died five years later, when he suffered his first heart attack, but luckily, it was mild and he lived another nineteen years. He lived to stick by his wife through two separate bouts of breast cancer, to take care of his daughter when she had three back surgeries for scoliosis at the age of seventeen. He lived to teach his little girl to fish, to show her by example that nothing in the whole world ever comes before the people you love. He took her to the Shrine Circus (unaware that she was terrified of clowns), the State Fair, and, every year, to see the Christmas lights in downtown Minneapolis. He stayed up with her all night when, at eighteen, the boy she thought she loved stood her up to go out with the campus floozy.

He was my father. His name was Leonard Henry Resch, and I adored him beyond reason, beyond words. And sixteen years to the day he returned home to God, I still do. I always will. And it's one of the greatest gifts I've ever been given. Thanks, God, you may have him now--as long as you promise that some day, I'll see that twinkle in his eye again, and I'll get to kiss him on the forehead once more. That we'll all be home again. Together, at last.

for emilie

Emilie darling,
I loved you like a sister. I asked you to be my matron of honor because you were one of the closest, dearest friends I've ever had--and probably ever will. I feel somehow as though part of my soul is missing now that you are gone; a void has opened that, I know, will never close. All of our other friends have written so eloquently about what you meant to them, about how you will be missed. But for all that you encouraged me to become a writer (nagged, occasionally!) I cannot seem to do likewise. My heart feels like lead, my eyes continually fill with tears, and my mind is a mushy fog. I flounder, helplessly, to find words adequate to express my feelings. So, instead, I am copying the words of a writer far more able than I:

We Remember Them

In the rising of the sun and in its going down,
we remember them.
In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,
we remember them.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,
we remember them.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer,
we remember them.
In the rustling of leaves and the beauty of autumn,
we remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends,
we remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength,
we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart,
we remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,
we remember them.
So long as we live, they too shall live,
for they are now a part of us, as we remember them.
--Jewish prayer

I loved you, Emilie. I only pray that you knew just how much. May God bless and keep you, now and forever.

a thought for the day...

"For life is eternal, and love is immortal, and death is only an horizon, and an horizon is nothing save the limitation of our sight."
--Rossiter Worthington Raymond

i'll see you in my dreams

"I never knew grief felt so much like fear."
--C.S. Lewis

Lewis was right on target: grief does feel like fear. The same breathless, sickening sensation of a sharp kick smack in the middle of the gut; the trembly, disoriented, foggy feeling in the brain; the same clenching, harsh pain around the heart.

All summer--strangely, ever since my headaches started easing up--I've been dreaming about my parents, especially my mom. The dreams always follow the same pattern. I'm reunited with either or both of my folks, only to have them die right in front of me. Almost every morning I wake up, crying, to face another day of fresh, raw grief, as though they died only yesterday. It's as though I'm haunted. It's made me depressed and weepy as of late; I'm extra sensitive, so every perceived slight hurts all the more, and my self-esteem is swimming around in the depths of the toilet.

Obviously, I haven't processed my mom's death. As I look back over the past year, I realize I've dealt with my grief, in many instances, by not dealing with it. By focusing on having a baby, partly to fill the void left by her absence. (Yeah, my head knows that won't work, but I suspect my gut feels differently. I should point out that I've desperately wanted a baby for a long time; it's just that losing my mom makes my grief over not conceiving even more intense.) By distracting myself with the TV and books. By telling myself that hey, I'm forty years old now, it's time to grow up and stop yearning for my mommy. The constant migraines, I now think, were in part, my grief coming out sideways.

Oscar Romero once said, "As a Christian, I do not believe in death without Resurrection." And I do, it's the hope I cling to. But I can't bear the thought that I will never again in this life feel my mom's arms around me, or be able to rest my head on her shoulder. That she's not there to soothe my hurt feelings when I feel rejected or like a failure at something. That there's no one left to reminisce with about the things the three of us did as a family together. I want to get past the grief, to get on with my life, to focus on enjoying my wonderful memories of my mom and dad; I just don't know how to, I guess.

endless winter

The Topamax isn't helping yet, so my doctor has increased my dosage. The pain in my neck, shoulders, and upper back, combined with my daily migraines, is so bad that I'm on vicodin (sp?) every day now. All I do is sit in the house with the shades drawn (the light hurts my eyes), desperately wanting relief from the endless waves of pain, aching for a baby to hold, longing for my mom.

I wish spring would come, in the worst way.

still here

Yeah, I'm still alive. I've been having a lot of migraines lately, which is the main reason I haven't been posting. I have one right now, in fact, so I'll just post a brief update:

1. I'm having a rough time coping with my mom's death; I've been really isolating myself and immersing myself in books and TV to avoid dealing with my grief. Not healthy, I know, and of course I'm missing her more desperately than ever now that Christmas is coming.
2. No, I'm not pregnant yet.
3. I'm also having a major identity crisis since filling for disability with my student loan provider. How do I rise above my illness(es)? I refuse to allow my sense of self to be equated with my disabilities--I'm just not sure how I can define myself anymore. And it's painful to accept the loss of so many of my dreams. There are many days (like today) when I feel basically worthless, that life is passing me by and I'm not really living, that because I'm not bringing home a paycheck I'm not an equal partner in my marriage (although George never makes me feel this way), that I'm not contributing anything to the world around me.
4. I am doing one thing, though--George and I are participating in the Basilica's JustFaith program. Actually I'm a co-facilitator. More on this later.
5. Well, two things. I'm singing with the St. Paul Seminary School of Divinity Chorale again this year. When I manage to make it to practice, anyway. Our big holiday concert (Lessons and Carols for the Baptism of the Lord) is on January 6; we're also doing a hymnfest in April and singing at the Archdiocesan diaconate ordination in May.

However, regarding my mom, I came across a quote about grief today that gives me some hope:

Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow. But this same necessity of loving serves to counteract the grief and heals them.
--Tolstoy


If mom's death has taught me anything, it's that broken hearts never completely mend, but at the same time they become infinitely expandable and more capable of love and gratitude than ever.

august update

I'm trying to keep busy. Our social life has taken off somewhat (well, compared to before anyway) and recently we've been getting together with friends and family more, and even went to a wedding yesterday (congratulations Meg and Joe!!!!!!!). A couple of weeks ago I took a four-day class at The Loft about writing the short personal essay, and I have two pieces I'm working on: one about my mother's rosary and her legacy, and another about my first trip out to Fort Snelling to visit my mom's grave. It is MUCH harder to write short than to write long! I've been journaling quite a bit too, which helps me deal with my grief, a little, although of course it's not enough.

Last Sunday I finally went to Mass at the Basilica for the first time since mom's funeral. It was as emotionally wrenching as I had expected, although I'm still glad I went, despite the buckets of tears I wept. Ah well. It wasn't the first time I've cried at Mass, and I imagine it won't be the last.

And I need to thank everyone who responded to my post earlier this summer, when I was feeling awfully desperate. Your messages of friendship and caring made me feel that I was not alone and were SO comforting; grief is mighty lonely and such a long hard agonizing slog it's sometimes hard for me to believe I might actually live through it.

There is a poem I can't stop thinking about that I first read not long after my dad died; it's even more poignant now that mom is gone too. It captures all my aching loneliness, my anger over what is gone from me forever, my sense of despair and crushing loss. And my broken heart. By Edna St. Vincent Millay, this particular poem keeps reverberating in my mind, day after day:

Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind.
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew.
A formula, a phrase remains.--but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love--
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses.
Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know.
But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave.
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind.
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

My parents on their wedding day in 1963

They are now buried together in the same grave at Fort Snelling National Cemetery

dirty little secret

The dirty little secret about death that no one ever seems to talk about is that the funeral is the easy part. The hardest part is learning to live without the person you loved so much. And by then everyone else has gone on with their busy lives and either don't care or want to hear about it or maybe just don't want to take the time and effort to pick up the phone for ten minutes a couple of times a month and just ask, "How are you doing? Would you like to have lunch, or maybe go to a matinee, or just talk awhile?" With a very few exceptions, everyone--family, friends--I thought I could count on are just...gone. And when I do try to reach out, it's very awkward, as though they don't really want to talk anyway.

It's just unbearable, the loneliness. I would like to die, I really would, and be with mom and dad again. I don't feel as though I have much here left to live for. George would remarry. I don't have any children who would miss (nor will I ever). Apparently none of my extended family would miss me too much. My biggest stumbling block is that I don't know who I would leave my family mementos too, because I can't think of any of my cousins who would cherish my dad's things the way I do. And since barely any of them bothered to show up for my mom's funeral or even send a card, I know no one would treasure her pictures and writings as I do. And I don't have any life insurance, so I don't know how George could afford to bury me.

Anyway, I made an emergency appointment with my therapist for tomorrow. She's paid to care, after all, so maybe that will help. It would be nice to not cry myself to sleep every night.

life these days

• I am a teary, sweaty, fat little ball of grief these days, mostly huddled on the couch watching CNN (or the Twins but sometimes, like most of their recent road trip, that just intensifies the grief) or flipping through magazines
• Everything reminds me of my mom. which, of course, makes me cry.
• Every time I try to tackle the mountain of thank you notes staring me in the face I cry and cry until I make myself sick. Something about doing them makes the loss so real or so final, or something. I'd be lying if I said I understood it.
• I'd sell my soul for one more phone call, or even more, just one more hug.
  
• I finally brought flowers out to Fort Snelling on Memorial day. Mom and dad are buried in the same plot and share the same headstone, dad on the front, mom on the back. Ever since going out there I feel as though I've lost him all over again, too.
  
• A couple of weeks ago mom's nursing home called to inform me that we owe them $1600. (A long story that involves mom's social worker repeatedly giving me the wrong information over the past few months and reassuring the mom's Medical Assistance was covering everything. It wasn't. The social worker is now in Fargo, however, and out of my reach and of course the billing office doesn't care.)
• The next day a hail storm visited us and inflicted thousands of dollars in damage to our roof, siding, screens, window frames, and George's car.
• The next day I started shaking uncontrollably. This was on a Thursday. I didn't stop until George brought me to Urgent Care on Saturday and the doctor prescribed Xanax (a tranquilizer). She should have just shot me with a tranquilizer dart and be done with it instead of giving me pills.
• I started shaking when we were discussing how I could go to graduate school while we were trying to pay back the $7,000 we borrowed for mom's funeral plus all of the above. Obviously, we did not come up with an answer.
• I keep having horrible nightmares that mom is angry with me and I don't know why. I wake up sobbing and drenched--soaked--in sweat.
• All I want to eat are cinnamon rolls. Mom always had them for me when I went to visit her, so they are now my sweet gooey comfort food of choice. Hardly any of my clothes fit.
• My rosacea is terrrible. I keep getting pustules on my forehead and cheeks, which has never ever happened before. It started right after the funeral.
• I've had an ulcer since I found out mom wasn't going to get better. That was around mid-January. It HURTS and I'm on medication twice a day.
• I now have a bad sinus infection too.
  
• I keep remembering something my both of my parents used to tell me: Tough times don't last, but tough people do. But I feel so lost without them, like I'm only partially a person now, as though something crucial died with them.
  

you've got the cutest little baby face

My mom would be 79 years old today (Liz, thanks for remembering~!). I discovered this photo in my Grandma Baach's things last January and I still laugh every time I look at it. She looks so cuddly! And the expression on her face--and the dimple in her chin--are totally priceless.

I was planning to go out to the cemetery today for the first time but I don't think I'm quite ready to face the whole visiting the grave thing. And mom would be the last person to push me to do it if it doesn't feel right. "It's okay sweetie," she'd tell me. "You can find another way to remember me today." (Actually, this sounds crazy, but I actually heard her say this this earlier today. It wasn't the first time I've heard her, either. It happens all the time. And she's always right...she did promise me that she'd never leave me...) So George and I are going to see Hot Fuzz or rent Borat tonight.

Mom always did love hearing me laugh.

the fog begins to lift

The presence of that absence is everywhere
--Edna St. Vincent Millay

In a few hours it will be exactly three weeks since my mom died. For some reason, I can't get the memory of reaching over and closing her eyes after she quit breathing out of my head.

The last three weeks I have been mostly numb, stumbling around in some sort of fog. But the last couple of days, the fog has begun to lift, and I have to say that I really, REALLY miss it, now that the realization that she's gone, forever, that I'll never see that warm and beautiful smile, or hear her voice on the telephone, or give her a hug ever again is starting to set in. It's beyond belief, the pain is. My heart hurts, literally, actually hurts, like it is breaking and shattering into a million pieces, my eyes are red and sore and puffy (my whole face is for that matter) because I can't stop crying, and I feel like I can't breathe. I can't concentrate, can't sleep, can't function very much if at all.

I am dreading the next week. She would have been 79 years old on Thursday. And now I have another reason to dread Mother's Day.

I'm sure that someday I will be able to feel grateful that I had the chance to say goodbye, to be with her when she died--I've been haunted for years by the fact that my dad died so suddenly, always wondering if he really knew just how much I loved him. Adored him. That someday I will find pleasure and comfort in my memories, that the pain will recede, and I will be able to feel her presence. I know this, intellectually. But it's the kind of knowledge that hasn't found its way into my heart yet. All I know is that I've not only lost my mother; I've lost my best friend too.

I want to thank all of you who have been so supportive and thoughtful during all of this, and ask you to please be patient with me now. Your friendship means more to me than you'll ever know.

funeral today

I'm too exhausted to write about the funeral today...but I did want to write something in honor of the occasion. So here are the quotes I used in my eulogy:

"Life is eternal, and love is immortal, and death is only a horizon, and a horizon is nothing save the limitation of our sight."
--Rossiter Worthington Raymond

"We do best homage to our dead by living our lives fully even in the shadow of our loss."
--Jewish proverb

And mom's favorite prayer, the Prayer of St. Francis:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love,
Where there is injury, pardon,
Where there is doubt, faith:
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
--St. Francis of Assisi

she's gone

Mildred Elaine Resch
Born May 10, 1928
Died April 15, 2007

Mom died at 12:40 am Sunday morning. George and I were both with her, and I held her hand all evening, until she drew her last breath. She suffered tremendously the last few days--I was praying that God would speed things up--but her last few hours were peaceful. I sang to her, kept talking to her and telling her I was there, it wouldn't be much longer until she would be home, with daddy and grandma and everyone she's missed for so long. The last several hours she was nonresponsive, so at one point, probably about 45 minutes before she died, I asked her to squeeze my hand if she knew I was there. And she squeezed.

George and I said the rosary and in her last hour, I prayed the Commendation for the Dying for her:

Go forth, Christian soul, from this world
in the name of God the almighty Father
who created you,
in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God,
who suffered for you,
in the name of the Holy Spirit,
who was poured out upon you,
go forth, faithful Christian.

May you live in peace this day,
may your home be with God in Zion,
with Mary, the virgin Mother of God,
with Joseph, and all the angels and saints.

I commend you to almighty God,
and entrust you to your creator.
May you return to him
who formed you from the dust of the earth.
May holy Mary, the the angels, and all the saints
come to meet you as you go forth from this life.
may Christ who was crucified for you
bring you freedom and peace.
May Christ who died for you,
admit you into his garden of paradise.
May Christ, the true Shepherd,
acknowledge you as one of his flock.
May he forgive all your sins,
and set you among those he has chosen.
May you see your Redeemer face to face,
and enjoy the vision of God forever.

Her obituary is in the StarTribune today.

Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,
and may perpetual light shine upon her.
May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed
rest in peace.
Amen.

looks like this is it

Mom has been declining rapidly this week and was diagnosed with pneumonia today. She has elected not to treat it with anitbiotics. Her nurse practitioner told me that she will probably die within the week, possibly within the next few days.

hospice

Mom has officially been in hospice for over a week now. She got pneumonia (which can be very deadly with emphysema) a couple of weeks ago (that's why she was listed in the intercessions, Emilie) but has apparetnly pulled through okay. The doctors tell me she has multi-systemic organ failure, all related to the emphysema of course, but this includes not only her lungs (pulmonary hypertension)but right-sided heart failure, atrial fibrillation, and her kidneys are starting to shut down a bit.

Now that she's in hospice she's a lot more comfortable because of the new medications they've added. So that is a huge comfort, anyway. I'm so grateful that she's able to still enjoy life. And most of our family has really rallied around her, too.

But I've been having panic attacks and constant nightmares, despite the wonderful support I've been receiving from some people. I'm seeing my doctor tomorrow, so hopefully she'll have some ideas.

Please keep all of us in your prayers.

And Liz, I'm wearing my prayer shawl at this very moment!

There is also the possibility that what they saw on her chest x-ray wasn't pneumonia at all, but a malignancy. it doesn't really matter, because the emphysema would likely kill her before the cancer did.

the last valentine's day

I've finally started to let go and cry when I feel like it instead of holding it in which, I am informed by my doctor, is much healthier and may even help my ulcer. But now my face is blotchy all the time, and sore. My darling friend Liz (of Random Thoughts of a Lutheran Geek) sent me a prayer shawl last month which I keep wrapped around me constantly, and I keep Fiona close by (or I should say she refuses to leave me side). I need to find other ways to take care of myself, though, so I can be there for mom.

At mom's care conference Tuesday, the staff said that her condition is stablilized, mostly, in my opinion, because she's up to her eyeballs in meds--she gets nebulizer treatments every four hours and now has liquid morphine on order for when she needs it, etc. Her doctor, nurse practitioner, and hospice nurse and social worker are meeting later this month to further discuss "end of life" issues, hospice evaluation, etc.

We are moving her things from her apartment this weekend, and I'm really dreading it. I bawled and bawled last night when I realized that it was our last Valentine's Day together. I'm already losing the mom I've always known due to her declining condition, and there are times (i.e. right now) I just feel that...I...can't...bear it.

Sorry my blog has been so depressing lately. I'm sure reading about all of this is a drag, and I'd love to be inspirational and optimistic and seeing the best of everything. But you know, I try to do that everyday with my mom, and most of the time I don't have anything else left in me. I just DREAD mornings because it's time to face another day.

Francie

My mom called to ask me if Francie, the little russet-colored woolly puppy I brought her when she first went in the hospital before Christmas, could be buried with her.

Do broken hearts really mend?

Life is eternal, and love is immortal, and death is a horizon, and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
--Rossiter Worthington Raymond

down again

Last Friday, mom's new nurse practitioner called with a few questions, and to set up a care conference for Feb. 13. Apparently mom was never evaluated for hospice at the last place despite promises that she would be. So I think they are finally going to begin doing the necessary lung function tests, etc., that Medicare requires for hospice placement. Regardless, the nurse warned me that mom's lung tissues are so damaged she doesn't have much time left.

I'm too tired to write anymore. But Jane and Missy, if you're reading this, thank you so much for your comments. I've read them over and over again. God bless you both--and the same to Liz, Liz, Emilie, and everyone else for your caring comments and prayers. Some days it's the only thing that keeps me going.