Tag: grief

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Slogging Through the Sludge of Life

Saturday I did my annual planting.  We live in a condo with a postage stamp sized front yard and lots of hosta.  No fuss, no muss.  Hosta fulfills my housewife mantra:  minimum imput, maximum output.  Hosta shows that you care, but you don’t want to spend a lot of time caring, except it looks like you care a lot.  Perfect.

So while I don’t really have to worry about the yard, I do have to actually think about my planters.  I have sixteen feet of containers to fill along my deck. The deck is right outside our dining room, so it features prominently in our home.  There is nothing more depressing than empty planters in July.  That’s not true.  Empty planters with last year’s dead plants would be worse.

So every year I plant.

Here’s the breakdown:  I like to shop for plants.  I like to design where they will go, and yes, what the theme of the planting season will be:  botanical, traditional, grassy.  Yes, I have planting themes.  Shut up.  I like to water them right after planting.  Job well done, and all.  I don’t like to do the actual planting.  It’s a little like torture.  More accurately, it’s like work.  Ugh.  I work enough, right?  Do I really want to make more work for myself?  NO.  Work defies that already stated housewife mantra:  minimum imput, maximum output.

This year was no exception.  The family went together to the nursery.  Mary Tyler Son behaved beautifully, fascinated by the sensitive plant.  Little Scientist in the making, that one.  We were back home by ten and unloaded the plants and soil.  Mary Tyler Dad took the little one to the park to give me some time to plant.  Hooray!  Yeah, not so much.

All those plants and soil and empty planters overwhelmed me.  I puttered a little, but within minutes I was sitting inside watching The Real World San Diego.  Ugh.  Insufferable, self-righteous, ignorant youth were somehow more palatable than planting.

I gave it another shot after one episode.  I brought music with me this time. It annoyed the neighbors two floors up, which thrilled me, as those neighbors are really annoying.  This time I had more fun dancing than planting.  I mean, how can you not have the moves like Jagger when you’re holding a trowel? And all apologies to the new next door neighbors whose dining room looks onto our deck.  My only hope is that when you look upon the lovely plants you aren’t scarred by the memory of me getting my groove on in a really unfortunate way.

I retreated back inside for more Real World, as my real world was too much for me in that instant.  It struck me that planting reminds me of the changing of the seasons, the passing of time.  This is three plantings since Donna died.  Seasons are how I often mark how long it has been since Donna left us.

Something about planting those plants was making me want to hide under the blankets, drowning my sorrow in Coke and chocolate.  A task that should have taken two hours ended up taking nine.  Nine hours to plant six containers.  Pathetic.

This is life in grief.  Not every day, but on some days, every single thing I do is work.  Showering = work.  Dressing = work.  Deciding what to eat for lunch = work.  Going to the bathroom = work.  Changing into pajamas = work.  It is so much easier to watch others struggle with their lives rather than struggle with my own.  The Real World and Real Housewives franchises were made for grieving mothers.

But what kind of life is that?

Not a good one.  Not a pleasant one.  Not a joyful one.

So I got my a$$ in line and planted those plants.  Mary Tyler Dad is patient with me.  He gives me the time and space I need.  The cost benefit ratio is an easy one.  Nine hours of slogging misery against four full months of light and life.  I look out my bedroom window and see life and growth.  I walk through the dining room and see color and hope.  Ugh.  I wish it weren’t so damn hard to get there, but it is.

Part of why I do what I do, plant those plants, and make those efforts is because of Mary Tyler Son.  He deserves no less than Donna.  He is no less worthy of a mom who does whatever she can to bring wonder and joy into his life.  He is a powerful motivator, my little one.  I refuse to let him grow up with an absent, depressed mother.  Some days I need more time to get it together, but I do get it together.

Grief sucks.  Just like cancer.  But just as cancer did not prevent me from mothering, grief is not going to get the best of me either.  I will plant those plants, and cook those meals, and fold that laundry.  I will fly that kite, and splash in that pool, and bake those cookies.

I am Grieving Mother, hear me roar.

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Sr. Iphielya: Oy Vey, Christmas Can Be Difficult

Sr. Iphielya
Hello, there.  I’m just getting the hang of this email and, oh my, there is a lot to learn.  So many buttons!

Well, it seems there are more than a few of you out there that could stand a little more empathy and understanding in your lives.  Sr. Iphielya is here and in the motherhouse, so let’s spend a few moments together, shall we?

I received many, many letters since I made my debut on Mary Tyler Mom last week.  I love her, don’t you?  Such a nice lady.  Where was I?  Oh, yes, the letters.  I do wish to respond to all of them, and I will, but it will take some time, please.  Single file will do nicely.

Christmas is just around the corner.  Seven days and counting, my friends!  This time of year is difficult for many of us.  So much to do, so little $ to do it with, so many dramas with the family, and lots and lots of deep seated feelings of grief and loss bubbling up to the surface.  In the convent, I learned that efficiency is a virtue, so I am going to try and address two letters with one post!

During this season of joy, merriment, family and office gatherings, many of our hearts hang heavy with the things we don’t have, but wish we did.  For some, it is toys for the little ones.  For others it is that little one — the little baby we wish to hold and call our own.  And for others still, it is the one who held us when we were babies.

The holiday season often means we spend lots and lots of time with cookies and cousins.  There is small talk and good cheer, but there is also forced cheer.  You know what I mean, don’t you?  That gathering where all together are doing their level best to ignore the sadness that is shared, but so often not discussed.  One of my letter writers wrote to me in hopes of finding another mother, as she had lost her own this past summer.  Oh, dear.  Losing a mother is hard.  I know this myself.  For those of us lucky ones, our mothers were all they should be.  They loved and cared for us, cheered us up, prodded us, poked us when needed, and held us when things weren’t going too well.  There is no other soul that does quite what a mother does for us, is there?

If you’ve lost your mom, these holidays of family and cheer can be difficult.  And as hard as Christmas Day will be, Mother’s Day will hurt you, too.  I like to think that the holidays turn up the volume of our hearts.  All that we feel is just a little more intense this time of year.  And that first year?  That first year when your mother won’t be baking the cookies, wrapping the gifts, encouraging her flock to behave as they should — that is one of the hardest of all.

I’ve some words of advice for you.  Nuns always do, you know, have words of advice.  I do hope you will consider them in the spirit in which they are offered — with love and empathy.  Consider remembering your Mom that day.  Be it with the green and radish Jell-o mold you told me about, or with a toast before the feast.  Talk about her.  Mention her name.  Acknowledge that she is missed.  If tears are shed, offer a Kleenex.  There is no shame in a tear being shed for a loved one gone before us.  We miss them.  It’s okay to talk about that.

Other gatherings may include a loss that is more personal.  Like for the reader who shared the difficulty of infertility.  Unlike losing a mom, a grown adult who all recognize and miss when gone, the loss of a child through miscarriage, or even the idea of a child, the desire of a child, is not always as well recognized.  People don’t understand it, do they?  There is no great way to grieve that loss publicly, or even with others you may be close to.  I might suggest, when the well intentioned (one hopes) comments come about, as they most certainly will, you act as a duck and let that water roll off your back.  Talk to your partner about your pain.  He, or she (it is the 21st century, even for us nuns), will understand in a way others will not.  Or, at least, I hope they will.  I suppose even your partners don’t always understand that pain.

My point is, dear one, is that the insensitive comments you receive are uneducated, but not malicious.  They want for you what you want, these folks free with the advice, and think their comments might just help.  You know and I know they do not.  This week of celebrations will no doubt provide ample opportunity for the “well intentioned” in your life to trot out their advice for you.  They don’t want to know of your medical difficulty.  They just don’t.  They want you to have a child, because they know you want one.  It is sad, to be sure, but I believe it is true.

Harsh, perhaps.  I am sorry for that.  I know from experience the holidays can be brutal.  Sr. Iphielya wants to prepare you for that brutality.  Arm you with some coping skills that will help you get through the day.  Some years, that is the best we can hope for, right?  Get though the day.  I assure you that come January, that volume on your feelings will eek down just a bit.  You will feel a little more yourself and less vulnerable.  I do hope so for you.

Alrighty, dear ones!  Sr. Iphielya is being called to mediate a squabble over who will peel the potatoes and who will mash the potatoes for Sunday dinner.  Please do take care of yourself this holiday season.  And remember, the motherhouse is just an email away!  sriphielya@gmail.com

 

 

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Truth or Dare? I pick truth.

I started blogging way back in March of 2007, three days after my dear daughter was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor, and have been at it ever since.  Writing became a lifeline for Mr. Mary Tyler Mom and I, an almost daily, or more often nightly, ritual that helped us make sense of the hell we found ourselves in so very unexpectedly.  When you move to Cancerville and aren’t religious and the only thing you have faith in is one another and the love you share, the immediacy of the internet is intoxicating.

We wrote of our fear, our joy, our family, our love, our terror, our routine, our beautiful Donna.  Weirdly, people cared.  They wrote back.  They held onto everything we put out there and asked for more.  Even when Donna died, people read.  Even when Mr. Mary Tyler Mom stopped writing – – he is funnier and smarter than I am – – they still read.  Even when I spoke the truth about grief and pain and sadness that is unending, people still read.   For that I remain grateful.

In January, a few weeks after returning to work after four years of caregiving and grieving, Mary Tyler Mom came into being.  I wanted to write, but not only about grief, not only about Donna.  I wanted to write about working and mothering.  I wanted to be clever and sassy.  I wanted to be separate and distinct from my grief.  I wanted a new voice.  I wanted anonymity.  Voila!  Mary Tyler Mom was born.  She was witty and sassy and clever and hated Gwyneth Paltrow!  You know what?  Mary Tyler Mom was still sad, a little bitter, burdened with loss. 

It is what it is, folks.  Mary Tyler Mom is both sassy and sad, silly and mournful, snarky and sentimental.  I am her.  She is me.  We are one in the same. 

When you don’t see a post from me in a while it’s because I feel too sad to be sparkly and clever.  I’ve not wanted to burden this audience with the depth of what I feel and I’ve not wanted to disillusion my daughter’s journal’s audience with my swears and snark.  Quite honestly, it’s not unlike the Madonna-Whore paradigm. 

In Donna’s journal (www.caringbridge.org/visit/donnaquirkehornik), I am kind of a saint to a lot of folks.  Many of the readers I don’t know.  They tell me, often, that I am courageous, brave, a beacon of motherhood, and never with irony.  It’s a lot to measure up to, folks, I’ve got to say.  I mean, our daughter got cancer.  You do what you need to do.  I mothered her the best I could, but I made mistakes.  Lots of them.  Geez, I still hold my head in shame over the apple juice incident and how much my mothering sucked in those moments.  (Forgive me dear, Donna, I still struggle.) 

Mary Tyler Mom gave me the freedom to not be a saint.  To not be an inspiration.  To not be so freaking strong all the time.  She lets me bitch and moan just for the sake of bitchin’ and moanin’.  She let’s me judge under the guise of that aforementioned anonymity.  It felt good, but always a bit inauthentic.  The truth is, I’m Donna’s Mom and I’m Mary Tyler Mom, too.  I am strong.  I am inspiring, that’s right, I said it.  I am brave and courageous.  But I’m also small, and petty, and insecure.  I like a little gossip and a lot of snark. 

Today is my dear Donna’s would be, should be 6th birthday.  It’s been kind of a collision of my worlds for me.  When Donna died, Mr. Mary Tyler Mom and I started a charity to honor her memory and do good works in her name.  (You can find it here:  www.donnasgoodthings.org.)  Founding and growing Donna’s Good Things has been one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done.  I mean, since when does having a child die qualify you as a philanthropist?  For cripes sake.  Another cancer mom friend of mine who lost her son joked once, long ago, that when your kid dies of cancer, you’ve got no other option but to start a charity and start running 5Ks.  Guilty.  As.  Charged. 

But that’s part of me, too.  Anyways.  Today was Donna’s birthday.  At her memorial service I talked about how Mr. Mary Tyler Mom and Mary Tyler Son and I had to go home and start figuring out how to live our lives without Donna.  I’m still working on that.  Birthdays, for instance.  How on God’s green earth are you supposed to celebrate the birthday of a child you’ve buried?  A child you, yourself, personally, lowered into the ground?  Last year we tried a pizza party with friends and that sucked.  Super sucked. 

This year we decided to scale back:  A small cake for just the three of us.  A trip to the zoo.  A stop at Children’s Memorial to drop off some donations from Donna’s Good Things.  We also asked the facebook fans of Donna’s Good Things, all 592 of them, to post a photo of themselves wearing black to honor Donna’s memory – – black was Donna’s favorite color.  Seriously, how many four year old girls choose black as their favorite color?  Imma telling you, Donna was amazing. 

And the amazing thing is that people did.  People we know and people we don’t know took the trouble to wear black today, photograph themselves, then post that bad boy on facebook.  For a techonophobe like me, that’s asking a lot.  And people did it.  It started early – – the first one came in at 4:30 this morning.  The last one just a few minutes ago. 

There is something incredibly humbling and inspiring about the Donna’s Good Things facebook page today.  It makes me want to be better.  It makes me want to shout out to the world, “THANK YOU, WORLD!  WE ARE SAD AND GRIEVING, BUT YOU CARE!”  It makes me want to out Mary Tyler Mom. 

So I just did.  For reals.