As for the clouds, just let them roll away

August 25^th. To many, it was just August 25^th - just another day in the month of August, one more Monday to get through. To many more, it was also "Day 1" (as CNN astutely tracks) of the Democrat's largest pep rally, the DNC. But, to the Lawler family, August 25^th took on a different meaning; it marked the two month anniversary of our Mom's passing.

That night, Ted Kennedy ignited the DNC crowd when he courageously walked to the stage, stood at the podium, and delivered a moving speech with the same timbre and strength he always had. Not knowing what we know, not having experienced what we've experienced, that may have been all that resonated. But, it wasn't -- not on August 25^th, not on the day of the two month anniversary of Mom's passing away from that which ails Senator Kennedy. We are painfully aware just how much strength and energy it took for him to speak. The fight may assume different faces and forms, but the underlying tenacity and courage to face something that is almost "unbeatable" are nearly the same. Mom shared that strength -- a common defiance and determination to "beat this thing", as she would say. And, like Mom, there's that deeply personal back-story of a person fiercely fighting for life with the visible reminders of what's endured -- the thinning hair where he likely receives a similar high intensity radiation treatment as Mom, the shuffled gait.

I couldn't help but also see the differences. The disease manifests in a spectrum of grades and levels, and affects folks differently. Compare and despair. But, speaking honestly, seeing Ted Kennedy brought tears to my eyes not for the expected reaction of pride and hope (though those feelings were present), but for the painful reminder that mom received an abnormally horrific variation of an already ugly and cruel disease. Mom's cancer hit hard and kept hitting right out of the gate, taking a lot from her with the very first punch. This isn't to wish Mom's condition onto Kennedy or to belittle his fight; it's to say, man I sure wish she could have caught even half a break, and not be the damn outlier/"case study" in the group. (The same is true for Craig; I'd rather his disease fall within normal distribution).

The two months since her passing seem as short as they are long. It seems like yesterday when we were sleeping over at the hospital with her; then again, it feels like a lifetime ago. As much as I've written about it and we've talked about it, it has not yet become part of the fabric, but exists as some abstract patiently awaiting "cry until your stomach hurts" recognition and acceptance. Part of my consciousness recognizes that to fully grieve mom now, in the midst of Craig's own battle, would be too overwhelming and painful, as if to dive head first into a pool of thorny stems without the rose to cushion the stick.

I feel that it's impossible to look at what we've experienced directly; events, emotions, comprehension misalign just enough to remain out of reach from one another. One day, I may feel the emotions but lack the understanding. Another day, I may intellectualize the hell out of it and put it into a nice package void of any feeling. Other days, I find it difficult to remember the details I desperately hold near; the lack of recall is more terrifying than absence of emotion or understanding. Still, I know these defense mechanisms serve to buffer the enormity and gravity of our experiences, allowing only the briefest oblique glances at what was and what awaits us after the dust settles.

I think back to the days in the hospital, sitting by her side holding her hand and noticing the moment she no longer was squeezing back. It's a moment I know really happened, but it doesn't feel real. Part of me says, "Annnnd, scene. Great acting everyone. Really convincing. Let's take 5". I want to yell, "Hey, Mom. Football's on!", and hear her say, "I'm coming", with a bowl of carrot sticks in hand. I'd listen to her armchair quarterbacking that was generally off the mark but said with a whole lotta gusto. Knowing her, she'd inevitably drop food on "the ladies" and say, "Oh, good shot Mary!!...I did it again, didn't I?" We'd laugh and then carry on as if routine.

These images/memories and many others softly and suddenly appear more frequently, I've found, but not with any level of predictability or duration.

In those brief moments, I can see her at the dinner table staring intently at the TV with a subtle grin while her fingers mindlessly caress the table's edge. I can hear her say "Parung!" as she either nailed a joke or made a gaffe. I can hear the shuffle of her slippers on the hall carpet and the flip of the hall light on her way to her bedroom at night. I can see her open our bedroom door to gently say "shower-time girls" as she would in the morning when Jill and I were young. I can smell her perfume and see the heart-shape drop she'd wear when I'd lay on her lap as a child; she'd buzz my back until I'd fall asleep. I can feel her body sway as we slowly danced in the handicap bathroom stall at a local Denver restaurant back in May. I can hear her whisper, "I love you too, sweetheart."

They never linger too long, just long enough to give pause and briefly remember what she felt like, what she sounded like, what she looked like, who she was and still is to me. As quickly as they surface, they fade from view -- still too painful to let in fully.

I'm sure it will take a lifetime to get used to the knowledge that there will be no new memories to create with her, no pictures to take with her, no more phone calls to hear her voice no matter how weak or how distant it had become. But, I'm grateful to have 28 years worth of memories to help me get there. ~E