Dead Mom Week

Let's not beat around the bush.  It's not my style.  I've been getting crankier and crankier over the past several weeks and it's not hard to figure out why.  If I was too dense to figure it out, then mom is invading my dreams almost nightly just to make sure I get it. 

I get it.  For those you just joining us--Thursday is the day she stopped breathing (and could've gone peacefully in her sleep, but that's another rant).  Friday is the day we unplugged her and the doctor said, "It'll probably only be an hour or two once we turn off the fluids (that were keeping her blood pressure up)."  She didn't know my mom so she can't be blamed for giving us false information.  And today--well, that's when nature won out over sheer stubbornness and she slipped out on us.  But oh boy, not without a fight.

The check in calls and emails are starting to trickle in. Only one was direct.  Most are shy, unobtrusive, hesitant. Should I say something? Should I not say something?  That's up to you. I can tell you that the pain will be there either way and I'm a pretty direct girl.  Can't hurt, might help.  I probably won't answer the phone anyway. I'm just glad I didn't break down in writing class this week, that would be awkward.  It's not like someone wrote a story about their mom either.  It's just dead mom week.  It's supposed to suck.

On the good news front, her house (I continue to think of, and refer to it as 'mom's house' is FINALLY clean.  I got the dressersthatwouldn'tdie_(TM) out of there last weekend and the cleaners came on Tuesday.  They were supposed to come last Tuesday but A) they were 40 minutes late and B) there was no hot water because I forgot we had turned off the tank and in fact, the pilot light had gone out.  So they rescheduled me without a penalty charge (I would've had thrown a fit--how 'bout I charge them $35 for making me late to class?).  And we tried again this week.  This time they showed up at my house as I was leaving to meet them. Luckily they were running a little early this time and I was running a little late.  I had them follow me over and left them to it.  It took six hours, instead of the four they told me and I had to leave drawing class to go pay them, but it was done.  Clean. Smelled like a house someone might want to live in, instead of a sad museum.

I've been feeling better the last couple of days, oddly.  Could be the biking (and getting used to biking again, cause I've been exhausted for the past two weeks).  Could be the yoga, or the sun.  At any rate, there's plenty to keep me busy and I've decided I'm not just going to sit around all weekend thinkingaboutwhatIwasdoingthistimelastyear.  I got a call from an aunt who said she's spending the day celebrating--reading, reading to kids, dancing.  Sounds like the way to go.

If you call today, don't be surprised if I don't answer.  I'll be on my bike.

Minding My Own Business

Last night, J & I went to the Bike Portland Social hour at Roots Brewing. I decided I wanted more RAM for my Mac and Macforce is just a few blocks from the bar. Dual purpose/double occupancy always makes me feel better about driving. And luckily, we weren't stoned for arriving at the bike party by car.

When the noise level exceeded tolerance, we headed up to Hoda's Mediterranean restaurant on 34th & Belmont, where a helpful, familiar-looking woman helped me park the car (we were deciding whether we had enough clearance from the driveway--she thought we did. It was very SE PDX).

I hadn't been to Hoda's since last year after the Pedalpalooza Parade, where I had the misfortune to discover that I had contracted food poisoning (NOT from Hoda's--Sushiland on Weidler if you care to avoid it). Jess ate and I spent the whole time in the bathroom being turned inside out like a shirt. It was good to go back and have a more positive experience.

I was facing away from the door so Jess reported any interesting people watching opportunities. There was a young interracial couple with the cutest little boy (has anyone ever seen an ugly interracial baby?). They were seated behind us and then a few minutes later, Jess said, "That women is smoking outside the door. Do you want to go have a chat with her?"

I chuckled, thinking she was just referring to a random person creating a smoke gauntlet for us to run through when we left the restaurant, but in fact she was talking about the mother of the little boy. That really did make me want to go talk to her. I probably would've said something like, "I guess you don't want to live to see your kid's 30th birthday huh?" I resisted, knowing how obnoxious it would sound and that there was a .00000001% chance of doing any good and a 99.999999999% chance of pissing her off.

Just one more of the side effects of being half-orphaned--the sudden urge to confront almost every smoker I see and make them understand the real consequences of their deeply ill-advised choice.

Therapy

I walked out of my therapy session this morning. As I came down the stairs there was a Fedex guy staring intently at the office directory. He looked up at me and I expected him to say, "Do you know where ____'s office is?" but instead he said, "You look just like your mom."

SUCKER PUNCH!

Can I go in and ask for another hour? Probably not. I smiled and said, "How do you know my mom?" Stupid. Slow thinking. The correct question would have been "How did you know my mom?" because I couldn't tell if he actually knew that she died, especially with that big smile on his face. (Aside-as politically correct as it may be, I consciously avoid using terms like 'passed away.' in reference to my mom. She certainly didn't do anything remotely passive in regards to her dying, unless you count the ever present denial...). Turned out he knew her from Jefferson, from around, from one of her ex boyfriends.

"Do you work here?"

No, I'm in therapy because my mom's dead.

"No, I just had an appointment."

I could've dropped the bomb, but I wasn't up to it and why ruin his day? More importantly, why ruin the $65 dollars I just spent trying to stay sane? I wished him a good day and took my girlfriend's car to the carwash.

Grief 1, Me 0

OK, so I'm not really fine.

My mom has been dead for five months, two weeks and two days. If there's one constant thread in the things people tell me about this journey, it's that there is no time line for when my brain might successfully process the knowledge that I'll never get to see her again. E.V.E.R. Or when I will stop having the ocassional crushing grief spell, crying so hard my head hurts and I can barely breath. I've been trying to think of a good analogy for what it feels like. I know there's know way I could've understood what it was like before. The nearest I can come is, imagine if someone put your hand to a hot burner--and held it there. And your skin is burning up and turning black and peeling off, and all you want in life is to lift your hand up and get some relief...but someone or something is just holding it down. It's sort of like that, only instead of a burning sensation, I just feel like my heart might break right in half from missing her so much.

I'm not trying to be melodramatic. It really does suck that bad. Only much worse.

They say time heals all wounds and I'm sure I'll feel better eventually. But it's going to take longer than five months, two weeks and two days.

No Regrets

Joe Kurmaskie, AKA the Metal Cowboy put up a great post today about his bike trip across Canada with his wife and three kids in tow. I complained about my 40 pounds of panniers in Idaho, but Joe is pulling a tandem bike with tag-along and trailer, "400 pounds of flesh and metal" through hail and high water. My grandmother thinks I'm quite the adventurer, but Joe makes me look like the laziest of couch potatoes.

Still, I do what I can, and this morning I headed out on the roadie, after removing the Bessie seat post rack. Two water bottles and a bottle of Gu and I was off. Though I cut down on the physical weight, emotionally, I had plenty to bog me down. This ride wasn't just a ride but an experiment in alternative therapy.

I gave in and started therapy last month. Amazing how you can have a lifetime of good memories and a few months of horror can over shadow everything. It's getting better, but slowly. There's purgatory between the time I get in bed and the time I fall asleep where my brain has too much time to go down some pretty dark paths. My therapist suggested I could do a version of EMDR on myself while biking. It turns out maybe you really can pedal your pain away. Or something like that. At any rate, biking is cheap and therapy is expensive so I thought I'd give it a try.

My instructions were to find someplace where I wouldn't get run over and then, while pedaling, deliberately bring up the traumatic event for a few minutes, then 'come back' to the present and examine my mental state. Repetitions of this supposedly help to process the traumatic events so you can move past them. Oh how I really want to move past the trauma.

I headed for the Marine Drive path, just 5.3 miles from home. I wasn't anxious to get started, figured I'd wait till crossed Columbia so as not to be interrupted. Just then a biker passed me going the other way and I just made out, "The road's closed!" before the wind whipped her voice away. Sure enough I crossed Marine Dr and a truck was making it's way along the path--part of a repaving project.

Great. But the point was not to wallow in misery for hours after all so I decided the 3/4 mile strip between 33rd and 42nd would do just fine. I re-crossed the road, sank down into my aero bars and descended into hell. Six trips back and forth reliving the ambulance ride, the ER, the doctors asking how much they should do when we shouldn't even have been there in the first place. The last words she said to me, "You are the best care taker." that's when I remembered one really should bring tissues to bike therapy... Turning off the oxygen and waiting and waiting and waiting... Prayers around the bedside, playing Mahalia Jackson and Sweet Honey in the Rock and singing to her. That whiny sound she made every breath that cut through me like nails on a chalk board. Sleeping on the hard bench in the church chapel with the bright lights above. And that last van ride home where she slipped out on us as soon as she had a quiet moment. Just me and her in the van, and me worried I'd get in trouble for showing up with an empty shell instead of a daughter, sister, mother...

At each end of the path, I came up for air, clawed my way back to now, hanging into the hum of tires, the flowers by the side of the road, the feel of the wind, planes soaring over head. In small chunks it still SUCKED, but it was a little less...present.

Coming home, I pedaled extra hard. Pedaled against the wind and pain and anger. Pedaled against the time when I can't pedal anymore. And took some comfort in knowing that I cherished her for all the time we had her.

While we were cleaning out her room, we found a letter I wrote to her that she kept her whole life:

Sunday June 27th, 1999 6:55am:

Dear Mom,

This is the first day in weeks that I've been able to sleep in and here I am up before 7am. I even turned off all the phone ringers in case anyone called...so why am I up?

I had this horrible, completely vivid dream that you were dead. I didn't know it was a dream. I hate when that happens. It was some freak accident (not even a car accident, freakier than that..like you were bitten by some dealy insect or came down with some really fast disease). In my dream I was spending the night somewhere else and people tried to call but I had decided I didn't want to be reached for a day so all the ringers, pagers and cell phones were off. So I found out from a voicemail the next day, when it was too late to say goodbye even.

Then I was running all over the city trying to find the hospital you were at. I stopped by home, looking for Traci and found her and then we were both wandering together. Dad was at the hospital with you but he was no help (some thing snever chance I guess) and we never did find you. I finally woke up just a few minutes ago, feeling terribly sad, terribly relieve and really pissed that I could even have such a horrible dream. And worried. It's early, but perhaps I'll call Liz's place when I'm done with this letter and make sure you're really alright.

There is a good part though and it is this: When I was dreaming and I thought you were dead, I was thinking to myself, "Well, at least I didn't waste any time. We had great times together and we liked each other and I have more good memories than I can count."

Hopefully, you already know how much I love and appreciate you and like spending time with you but, after a dream like that, I figured it wouldn't hurt to say so, and write it down so you won't forget (the mind is the first thing to go... :-) Years ago, I saw a movie once about a little boy who was dying of AIDS and his mother would say, that every time a really special moment came, 'her heart took a picture.' I loved that idea and I've been doing it ever since. And I have so many 'rolls of film' I've lost count. I take them when we're playing around trying to give belated birthday spankings, during the nightly zrrbt, when we're all sitting around playing Taboo, when Traci is trying to stall to avoid going to bed. You guys may have stolen my camera, but I have all the best shots anyway.

I feel so lucky every day. Even though things suck sometimes and we're still getting it together in a lot of ways, there's really too much to be grateful for to complain. I think that most people I know couldn't live with their parents for a week without killing them. But we don't just get along or tolerate each other...we have fun. the more time we spend together, the more I like hanging out with you. I brag about you to all my friends you know, and most of them are jealous that I have such a cool mom. We've got it pretty good.

And that dream, which I'm still getting over, must've just been a reminder to let you know. So there it is. Drive safe on the way home and I'll see you when you get here.

Love,
K

Anniversary

One year ago today, mom was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. This fact just hit me a few hours ago. No wonder I feel so craptastic today.

She lived 10 months, 12 days out of sheer stubborness mostly. She's probably still as pissed off about her dying as I am.

Irony and Anger

When Jess and I went to the beach last month, we visited the little bookstore on Nye beach. While I was cruising the self help section, I found a book called, "Death Without Denial, Grief Without Apology."

"Well, isn't that 6 months too late," I said. It sat there on the shelf, mocking me, so I bought it.

It's a really good book, written by the former Governer of Oregon Barbara Roberts, about the things she learned during the illness and death from cancer of her husband Frank. It's basically a primer of everything we could have done, but didn't, thanks to something we like to call "The Bubble."

Here's a few relevant quotes:

We are so afraid of death in this culture, so geared toward "medical miracles," we seem to have lost all sense of perspective. There is nothing wrong wiht a patient wanting a medical miracle. owever we have come to a place where families are demanding miracles when death is imminent and doctors often play the Wizard of Oz trying to orchestrate false hope and deny reality.

Traditionally, doctors are trained to sustain life, not plan for death. However, if the doctor would say "dying" to a patient, the pretense of recovery would be gone. If a spouse of life partner says, "dying" to a loved one they are then free to plan, share, and say goodbye over days or weeks or months. The dying person could then speak the truth to old friends, thank parents, prepare children. Conversations could be real. Expectations would be expressed. Fears could be shared. Memories could be made that would sustain and comfort those left to grieve once death arrives.

What a dying person needs is comfort, closeness, dignity, and in some cases, pain control.

Accepting that he was dying gave Frank more space for creating good times.

Kindess is helping dying patients accept the diagnosis and then give them support and services to live the rest of their lives with as much dignity, as many choices, and as little physical pain as possible.

Denial is not your friend. Truth offers you more freedom and broader options. Denial is also costly. It uses up financial resources your family may need when you're gone. Denial uses up chances to share your feelngs with your closest loved ones. Denial wastes the life ingredient you can least afford to squander--time.

The bubble pretty much robbed us of any of the positive aspects that might have come from our situation. I have a great deal of anger towards specific people who perpetuated the bubble. Everyone who insisted that we just had to "think positively," everyone who convinced mom that pain medicine was the enemy, everyone who said all she needed was more milk thistle, more blueberries, more vitamin c, more oxygen... The list goes on and on, and the crazy making power of the bubble is inexplicable in mere words.

The result of all this is that our (mine and Traci's) time was stolen and we can NEVER. GET. IT. BACK. We can't ask about the gumbo recipe, Traci's future wedding, what to do if ______ happens, reminisce about long drives up and down the I-5 corridor...NOTHING. All because we were forced to pretend that we had the next 20 years to do all these things because no one, including mom, could just deal with reality.

And did I mention the suffering? She was miserable for the last month or more of her life because "pain medicine was too hard on her liver" (it's failing anyway, why not be comfortable?) or "pain medicine causes constipation" (we have ways to deal with that, but you won't follow them).

"Mom, what's your pain at now?"

"Two," she'd say, while the grimace on her face said, "eight" every time she moved. It took a full day to convince her that adjusting pillows every 10 minutes wasn't going to help her, before she finally agreed to one drop of morphine.

Most days I'm able to function with this anger. Some days I go to my old house and chop wood. And other times, when I can't get the horrors of the (totally unneccesary!) trip to the emergency room out of my head, I just wail and scream and wish I could yell at everyone responsible. She was finally sleeping, peacefully, and she just stopped breathing. If only they had let her go, it could have ended like that. I would've been sad that I wasn't there, but it would've been better than the two days of hell that followed. All so that other people could get here, other people could see her, other people could say goodbye. Nobody seemed able to forget about themselves long enough to care about her suffering. We're kinder to animals.

The beginning of the end

We're continuing to work on clearing things out of the house. And I use the words "continuing" and "work" very loosely. As always, just walking in the door is exhausting and I don't usually get very much done. I'm better at jobs that take me away from the house, like Goodwill trips and selling/delivering things.

So far the books netted us $42. The four garbage bags of clothes and 40 or so boxes of nice dress shoes yielded just over $30. And that was Buffalo Exchange and Redlight *combined.* I hate those places. I don't know where they get all the crap they sell because I have yet to meet anyone who's had a successful time trying to sell them stuff. Whatever. We Goodwilled all the clothes and the shoes will go to a consignment shop. They're nice shoes. Traci continues to weep that her feet are not size 9. Ironically mine are, but the majority are not things I would willingly put on my feet. I did take a few of the less tortuous shoes for dress up emergencies, such as my upcoming interview.

Today we got a storage space which means that Traci will be putting everything she wants to take to D.C. into it. It's the beginning of the end, because without most of the furniture, beds, art, pictures etc, it really won't be mom's house anymore.

Every time she comes over, Jess asks if I want to take home the canvas print of the three of us that I got mom for Xmas a few years ago. And every time I say, "No, not yet." I think it's become the last signal of "home' in that house for me. I'll probably wait till the last minute.

Today we took the big change jar to the bank which was much more lucrative than the clothes selling. And I took a bike jacket mom bought and never used back to the Bike Gallery and had them order me a Showers Pass rain jacket that I've needed for months now.

I can't get past the irony that I now have money to get all this stuff I've been 'needing' but every time I hand over my credit card, I just think how much I'd rather be broke and have my mom back.

To top it all off, Traci found a mug in the cupboards today that says, "Mom- without you, I go all to pieces!" Yeah, I don't think we'll be keeping that one.

Whiplash

Even though I know better, I find myself feeling as if whatever I'm feeling at this moment, is how I'm going to feel for, well, if not forever, at least the foreseeable future.

That means, if I'm having a good day, I think, 'cool, this grief thing isn't so bad.' And if I'm having a bad day I think, 'OMG, I can't believe how much this sucks, I'm never going to survive it.' OK, maybe slightly less dramatic than that, but you get the general idea.

So it's not surprising really, that the speed with which I can go from 'having a good day' to 'uncontrollable crying' leaves me stunned every time.

Today I went to a conference on women's health put on by OHSU. A fellow Jefferson HS grad who spoke at mom's funeral offered me free tickets so I called up Danette and Maureen and off we went.

I'm not sure how much we learned, but we certainly had a good time and enjoyed most of the speakers. For me it was more validation than anything. It's not like D, M & I really need to be told about the power & health benefits of women's friendships (our first workshop session), cause we definitely already know. But the speaker was entertaining and fun.

Likewise, I know how to use laughter in times of stress. While mom was in the ER, confused and replying "Uh huh! OK!" to everything anyone said to her, I thought it might be a good time to ask for a pony. If I can make jokes in the ER as my mom's life is beginning to end, I think I can pretty much handle anything.

Three people during the day came up to offer condolences. This is a new wrinkle, I hadn't considered, but I'm sure will be happening for a while now. Four people if you count the woman who was unlocking her bike at the same time as us and asked about my "I Hate Tumors" T-shirt. She asked how long ago mom died and when I said, "two weeks," she got 'the look' and came over to hug me. She lost her mom to lung cancer many years ago. It was such a Portland moment.

I had to call two people this week and tell them that mom died. One was her old boyfriend, a musician from the band Confunktion that she talked about several times over the years. I found his business card while going through her stuff and the number was still good. He had no idea of course and it was really a bummer to have to make the call. At first I thought he didn't remember her and then I remembered to say her maiden name, at which point he lit up (which only made the end message harder to say).

And today I called someone who knew mom from bringing her books at SEI. She'd left a recent message on the home phone, saying she was just checking in.

I hate making those calls.

Another weird thing when I'm having a pretty good day and I run into people who already know, but that I haven't seen since. They get that universal, 'yourmomdiedthatssoawful!' look and want to hug me. And sometimes I want to say, "Thanks but I'm having a pretty good day today, so let's not go there OK?" Of course I don't. And besides, good days can go so very bad, so very quickly.

Just more fun on this wacky grief trip I'm on.

Tonight I was feeling pretty good and offered to make Jess dinner since she worked a 12 hours shift and is always tired when she gets home. Nothing epic, just putting in the frozen pizza and sauteing a little spinach. Easy right?

Well, she came downstairs and found out the pizza was on a cookie sheet and wanted to take it off so the crust would get crispy. So we did that and she set the cookie sheet on the counter, then said, "Honey, don't touch that, it's hot." In normal times, I may have felt the comment to be a little condescending, but now, it's pretty much a good precautionary measure.

And it didn't even work. Not 2 minutes later, I put my hand right on the cookie sheet. I jerked it back immediately, even before the heat could register on my hand. Jess, concerned (and probably apalled) asked if I was OK.

"Yes, I'm not burned, I'm just stupid."

At that point, she kicked me out of the kitchen and said she'd finish cooking.

It was of course, the right call, but I immediately felt angry, upset, sad pathetic. I thought I was having a good day. I thought I could finally do one small thing to take care of my girlfriend, who has been supporting me unwaveringly for months now. But no, I'm just a danger to myself and others (and pizza).

Hello tears, where have been all this week?

And then I felt bad that her pizza was getting cold while she was busy comforting me. It's astonishing how much bad feeling there is to be found at every turn!

I also take the time to note how much work it is not to apologize all the time. It's one of my pet peeves, people who apologize when it's not warranted. And crying over your dead mother definitely falls into the category of things that don't require an apology. And yet I'm just so ingrained and trained that I have to actively stop myself from saying things like, "Sorry I'm such a basket case." DUH! Of course I'm a basket case.

It cracks me up that my brain finds the time to note these kinds of details in the middle of total trauma, but once a multitasker, always a multitasker I guess.

Tomorrow, I spend my first full day going through the house. No telling what shape I'll be in by the end of it...and it's only the beginning. If you have kids, do them a favor and don't be a pack rat.

Back to life

I got to help make breakfast today. Hashbrowns and scrambled eggs with veggies. Got frustrated with all the interruptions while trying to finish my last announcement email. Took Traci to the airport. Went to Extracto Coffee where I finally finished the email and put up some pictures from the memorial reception.

Aquaintances are a real problem in situations like these. I'm grateful that I'm able to function in public and don't feel the need to unburden onto everyone with a familiar face (or grocery clerks who ask "How's life treating you?" But it's still hard. I ran into someone I've known since my Eugene days at New Seasons last night and at the coffee shop today. I envision them slowly walking towards a trap door over a deep hole as they wave and then get close enough for conversation:

"Hey, how's it going?"
"Crappy, my mom died last week, how are you?"

Yeah, see how that doesn't really go over? I have enough outlets for processing, I've decided to just refrain unless things are actually steered in that direction. Seems better for everyone that way.

It's probably worse for the people who already know, but I haven't seen them since. They feel awkward, want to say something but don't know what...worse for them than for me really.

I went to Moms' (that's my grandmother on my dad's side, not to be confused with mom, the departed) house for a little ice cream n cake celebration of her birthday today. Ironically, this will be the first year I've actually remembered her birthday and gotten a card on time. I heard some great stories while I was there including one about me and my great grandmother that I can neither confirm nor deny.

Apparently when I was little, I went to stay with Granana and in an impatient moment had the great folly to choose to hit her. Naturally she tanned my hide to within and inch of my life. The next day when I arrived, I said, "Hi Granana." She said, "Hi K." And then I said, "Now, we're not going to hit each other today, are we?" She had to go in the other room and laugh. But like I said, I don't remember this, so we just have my grandmother's word on it. :)

Tonight I went to my first fun outing in the new world, a Dirty Martini show at the Doug Fir. I couldn't think of a nicer way to reenter the 'real world.' A nice group of friends showed up, and we had a great time. McKinley dedicated a song for me, which was totally sweet. A little rockin' out and head banging is good for the soul.

Tomorrow, we're off to the beach.

Hidden disability

I've decided that grieving is like having a hidden disability. Except it's not just hidden from the public, it's hidden from the person grieving too. I can go hours (not yet days, not even close) without any 'symptoms' and then without warning it'll just strike.

Today was a really good day. We got up early because Roxanne came over at 8am with baked treats. Jess made coffee and we dished about real estate clients and stuff.

After she left, we eventually got ourselves together and headed out on our bikes for a bunch of errands. It was a gorgeous sunny day, a little chilly but we had a great time biking about 20 miles around town for errands. Since I got my financial aid money today, I indulged in a rare bit of retail therapy at REI. Got a new helmet (long overdue), some socks, and a couple of bras, also long overdue.

Then over to see Traci and visit with my cousin and lastly to the grocery store and home with our loaded bags.

After all the driving I've been doing the last several months, it was great to work my muscles again. And work, they did. Although I'm usually the stronger biker, Jess was feeling good and she made me work. When she knew she had me on the ropes, we turned the corner from Skidmore to Grand and she cut to the inside and powered up the hill. I had to put my foot down on that though--I do have a reputation to maintain. :)

When we got home, I took my new helmet to the table to make some final adjustments and put the new light I bought on the back of it. (And yes, it's the same helmet that Jess has and the same light and we already have the same bikes, making us officially the biggest dorks of all time).

The last thing I did was fill out the sticker that goes inside the helmet with my personal information, blood type and emergency contact.

I paused. Mom was always my emergency contact. Now I've got an emergency all right--my mom is dead and I can't call her to tell her about it. "Honey, you're my new emergency contact." I said, right before I totally lost it. Probably jinxed myself putting the box of tissues back in the bathroom.

When the wave comes, there's nothing to do but ride it out. After a while Jess distracted me with embarrassing pictures from her childhood and the wave passed. Till the next one.

Grief sucks.