Notes from the Mire

After Jill's latest post, I am posting a few thoughts of my own. We are not alone in the sense of delirium. We are not alone in knowing no other recourse than to charge in every direction all at once, or the desire to leap out a window not for ending life but for ending a moment -- to safely open parachute and calmly walk away from the frequent and unpredictable grief-bursts that leave one senseless, voiceless, and directionless. I've had those as I know Diane and Jill have, and I know it is common for those who've experienced loss.

 

Several from the vault...

 

Denver in October

 

It's late October now, and I've been running more errands alone. It's in those moments of being alone that I get a taste of what awaits in silence when no one is there to buffer or distract. This afternoon, I walked the short distance from what will soon be Craig's old apartment to the 16^th street mall-what will soon be the place I used to speed walk to for a quick bite as I gave Emily and Craig "couple time". I remember so vividly the temperature outside, the smell of the air, the concern pouring out of me. The air carries a different smell now-warm, stale and unwanted. Purposeless as if overstaying its welcome. I walked and felt purposeless. For a year, my sisters and I have dedicated every moment of our lives to Craig and Mom-seeking new treatment when tumors progressed, taking care of their every need or desire, lobbying for comfort for them when support grew weary. They're gone. Just like that. When asked of siblings, I'll now answer "I have two sisters". When asked of parents, I'll mention my dad. Mom and Craig will be part of the past tense for a lifetime ahead. Most have another 20-30 years to enjoy the company of their Mom's and even more with their brother or sibling. Why have we been robbed this love and experience so soon? I'm only 28 for crying out loud. There are at least 2 multiplications of that for knowing Craig and surely one more for Mom.

 

It was a soul-searching silence as I walked that short distance in a town that became my second home; I grew used to it faster than Silver Spring. To believe they actually DIED of CANCER. BOTH of them. Both. Losing either of them would bring a lifetime of sadness, but both... Some witness multiple deaths within years apart and it is earth shattering, but two deaths within 3 months? What is it called then? It doesn't make sense. Tears flooded my eyes and rolled down my face; so quickly I became that person quietly crying with her silent story, walking down a busy street. Tears like these reveal themselves as if dripping from a crack in the wall; in time the dam will break and the water will fall.

 

I believe it when they say this will hurt...

 

Silver Spring in November

 

I had a meeting yesterday; it was overwhelming and sad to say the least. Thoughts of them populated my mind. To say "I miss them" seems like an understatement as if they are just on a long trip and will be coming home soon. Sometimes that feeling is so palpable my heart flutters in anticipation as if I could just get through until the weekend, and then I'd see them, be with them. It's not rational; just another feeling to get used to. The "eternal" part of never seeing my mom or brother again and never hearing their voices is hard to take. Not a day passes that I don't want to call them. I think of what I'd say and imagine what their voices would sound like, what they'd say in return. Then I'm met with the letdown of never knowing.

 

Work is difficult at the moment. It's hard to move from an event as undoubtedly important and life-altering as watching my mom and brother slowly fade from life to finding importance in the "day to day" drivel of patient safety.  Not that my job is drivel per se, it is that everything is. What could possibly matter after witnessing your mom and brother take their last breaths?

 

I can't concentrate very well or produce new thoughts; it's impressive how quickly I space out and lose track of all thought like cobwebs blowing in the wind. What's more remarkable is that there is little to no will power to pull it back-once a thought has passed the 10 second threshold, it's gone forever. Poof. I lose track of sentences as I speak; I can't remember the sentence I've read; I second guess everything down to the right tense in speech. I can't remember details of the week quite like I should and that is unnerving.

 

It's somewhat humorous if not tragic. The acronym PTSD-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-has come up within "professional circles". Why not? We've witnessed a constant drip of tragedy and trauma, a drip that took a sense of permanency and innocence that existed just a year before. Just like that Mom and Craig were gone, and before our eyes.

 

At times there is a level of sheer panic and desperation, of loss and longing for the seemingly weightless and trivial times before cancer. That want can become so palpable that I can convince myself it can be so. Wait a moment, and it WILL be so.

 

I was reacquainting myself with the work I had left behind for 7 months. There, amidst manila folders for human factors, DMSB, analytical tools, FMEAs and the like was a folder labeled "Mom and Craig's folder". The latest notes were from my conversation with the Cleveland Clinic and validating treatment options for Craig, and discussion points with the Duke team after Mom's bout with sepsis. "The next 24 hours will be critical"....   Jesus. Man alive. I felt so sad. God, I could remember that moment. How I wish I could have done more...

 

Being back feels like throwing confetti in the air, like a game of pick up sticks-a mess of bits and pieces to work through and make sense of. Where do you begin? Where does it end? How the hell do you fit in with confetti in your hair? I feel like the melodrama of snaking near the walls and ducking into my office would be a better fit for how it feels-exposed, vulnerable, "that girl" with "those losses". I get the sense that people don't know what to do or say. I don't blame them. I treasure the times that folks actually say just that. My response, "neither do I". We'll figure out the dance together; sure beats doing it alone. Some days I'll want to talk, others I won't. It simply comes down to being there to ask the question, "do you want to talk?", and receiving an answer. I hope people will stick around to ask the question and hear the answer...

 

The question of fitting in permeates social quarters, as well. Most of my peers have not experienced loss (thank god). Sadly, that means they may not relate to my circumstances. I'm already finding that to be true. The fear of fitting in-with others and the self I know to be-is profound. But, I'll take it one day at a time and things will work out.

 

Bringing out the crazy (December)

 

Well, they say that any and every emotion is true to form when you are grieving the loss of those so significant as Mom and Craig-for anyone really. Sunday-not the first Sunday, sure not to be the last-I felt utterly, certifiably crazy. Short of the catatonic body positioning, you would have thought I had an absolute psychotic break. If you ever wondered what zero gravity feels like for the body, I had achieved that in mind. Nothingness coursed through me with horrid recognition. I have been there before and could tell what was happening. I could only feel my heartbeat, not my limbs nor my mind. Nothingness. It's as hard to explain as it is to feel. I wanted to bolt out of my skin in all directions; I wanted to chomp my jaw or flick something over and over in repetition as if that would bring relief. Throw something, yell, run into the wall. But, instead, I just laid there staring at the blinds slightly swaying with the wind current that had escaped the seal of my patio door. Swish swash, swish swash. Still nothing. Eyes fixed, heart pumping-nothing. Time passed, still nothing. No thought connection. No feeling. Absolutely nothing coursed through my brain as if I had fallen into a coma on a sidewalk. It would be immensely easier if I could connect an emotion to thought, but I couldn't feel anything. I had no direct idea or memory why I was upset. Just nothing. It was too hard. Too something. A purposeful disconnect from mind and body.

 

A friend came over; the notion of having this friend see me like that brought me out and into something more functional, the other persona that can interact despite the challenges these losses bring. Just like that, I was out of it. Thank god.

 

The stick of it is, it's all normal. The sense of feeling crazy, the grief-bursts, the juxtaposition of life and self, the feeling of running away, and the donning a persona that can get you through; it's all a part of grieving, or so says the literature and resources. The unequivocal truth is that we are handling the loss of Mom and Craig exceptionally well and "well" is defined by embracing it all-the sadness, the happiness, the utter disconnect and panic, the silliness -- the everything. It isn't all roses and daises, nor is it all horseflies and cow patties. There's a mix and a balance to grieving, and we're wading through that gracefully.

 

So, to Jill, who can share it all and not bottle it in even in the face of appearing like a toilet paper throwing, suicidal lunatic--well done sister. I'm a fantasy window-jumping, jaw-chomping, stare at my reflection for minutes without thought, space cadet right there with you (on my off days, of course). On days, I'm a spitfire something fierce and I know you are too. This isn't easy and will not be for quite some time despite the world moving on. Yet, there ARE coping mechanisms to grappling with losing Mom and losing Craig. They may not make sense, they may not be pleasant but they sure beat drugs, not being able to function, self-destructive patterns, or permanently rocking in a corner somewhere, right?

 

To all those who are grieving Mom and Craig, do as you need to get through another day, and be proud of yourself for making it.

 

~E

Kamikaze

Some days I feel like I’m going just a bit crazy.  This feeling is ‘common’ or so they say in the grief literature.  Still, when one is experiencing said crazy spell, it can be a tad disconcerting.  Take tonight (really week) for instance.  I started a new job on Monday, which for the most part looks promising.  Back in the day when Craig and Mom were still around, I’d fill their ears with all the little tidbits and out-there personalities, but, as I wrap up my first Friday on the job, I find myself at home watching Music and Lyrics for the second time this week.  The details, funny stories, and frustrating moments remain locked inside for them to be eventually forgotten, or fodder for angry moments in the days to come.  (Fodder would look something like this:  I have a running one liner prepared for when someone asks me how I’m doing.  “Uh, not well, and I’ll tell you why:  it’s because my Mom and brother are dead.”  Harsh, but it gets the point across.  (On most days, I think the whole Mom and brother gone thing is completely lost on people, but that’s another rant altogether.)

Suffice it to say that dealing with simultaneous losses alone leaves much to be desired.  On most nights, I cry myself to sleep, which takes awhile since I haven’t been sleeping.  On others, I find myself blankly staring at the mirror.  I can hold a stare for minutes without a single thought passing.  Amazing.  Then there are the moments when I want to scream, run away, toss myself off a building, or throw something -- anything.  Tonight, I succombed to the urge and resorted to throwing a used cardboard toilet roll, which I thought was a nice, harmless compromise.  Thankfully, the crazy tantrums tend to be confined to the bathroom where there’s a mirror.  Maybe I secretly need the company, but it’s nice to at least see someone -- even if it’s me. 

At least I was laugh-crying when the moment occurred.  I’ve been feeling, well, frustrated for the past days.  Being here in Bangkok alone, and twelve hours away from my usual sounding boards, leaves a nice garbage pile of moments for the mind to wander.  For the most part, I do a fair job keeping it all in, but then there are those wacko moments when I need immediate release of the thoughts, waking dreams, and profound sadness that seem to follow me each day.  I’m sure people experiencing loss can relate.  It’s hard to explain, but I feel at once angry, sad, content, and scattered.  It’s as close to schizophrenic as I can imagine, and the associated feelings are just as troublesome. 

Going to the gym helps.  I haven’t been this fit since our Stillwater swim team won the State Championship.  But there are only so many hours one can spend hitting the weights and treadmill before sustaining a serious injury.  And if that were to occur, I’d be out my only escape.  So, used toilet paper rolls it is.  What a relief it is to throw something two feet…towards a mirror...and at myself.  It’s strange and a tad simple, but incredibly effective all the same, especially when the alternative is more hours in the gym.  Plus, it made me laugh. 

Aw, the little things …  -- J

Roses in the morning

Valentine’s Day.  For many, this is the day to reestablish old commitments; celebrate romance and companionship; and dust off last year’s lingerie.  For the unattached, Valentine’s Day is a day to brazenly call in a reservation for one at a swanky restaurant, and/or hoover vast amounts of chocolate at fairly quick intervals.  For the Lawlers, V-day has come to mean something different altogether.  Today is significant in that it marks another day of firsts:  the first Valentine’s Day without Mom and Craig.  After spending a memorable Valentine's Day together just one year ago, two people -- Emily and Dad -- are missing their partners.  For Dad, in particular, today marks his first Valentine's Day in 36 years without Mom.  So though it may be a romantic day for the rest of the world, for me, today is an opportunity to recall memories of a less romantic sort -- of Mom’s secret valentines, and Craig’s creative lyrics.  Today is a somewhat solemn affair, especially as it signifies a period of time just before our life turned hard. 

As I celebrate Valentine’s Day here in Bangkok, my mind wanders between two poles of sadness and comfort, heavy reflection and fragile hope.  In these times, I find myself overwhelmed by memories of the past.  Indeed, last year’s Valentine’s Day stands out vividly for me.  Just like she had all the years before, Mom – my constant Valentine -- sent me red roses with a simple wish: to have a happy Valentine’s Day.  And I did, for the most part.  I took myself out for a bowl of spaghetti at a local cafeteria.  I remember laughing as I texted Mom the details of my so-so romantic night. 

The next morning, I awoke with a heavy heart, with the knowledge that, as I prepared for work, Mom and Dad were celebrating their last Valentine’s Day together.  Though Mom was responding well to treatment, she was beginning to decline, and we knew the prospects of her surviving another year were slim.  Trying to make the most of it, they booked themselves a room at one of Stillwater’s better hotels, and celebrated the evening with dinner, a movie, and a rousing game of scrabble like they had so many years before (scrabble was a new activity last year).  They focused on the moment, and though the 'date' was simple in display, it signified much more, as if they were first-time lovers dating all over again, with similar anxieties over the future and the wish for the moment to never end.  For them, the evening signified a recommitment of love between two friends, whose 36 year journey together would soon end.  This was their special night. 

Miles away, Craig was preparing for his own special night by cutting hearts out of construction paper, and brushing up on his vocals for his first one-on-one concert with Emily.  Craig had prepared an original anti-V-Day song for her, along with a hand-crafted card.  Craig always poured himself into his special projects, and knowing that Emily wasn't much into the commercial side of Valentine's Day, he crafted a song criticizing the banality of the holiday.  The song and card combination most likely took the better part of the week to finish. 

Craig and Mom were fortunate in that they were still relatively healthy and could participate in all the wonders of Valentine's Day.  Had the holiday been one month later, Craig, at the very least, would have been too sick to participate. This time last year, we were still crawling slowly to the top of our rollercoaster, with only the tracks as our guide.  By March, the rest of the ride would come into focus, revealing the complicated and twisted tracks of metal waiting to be tested.   We are approaching the period of time when things turned hard and unbelievable. 

Valentine's Day signifies more than last dates; it also represents the last week before Craig and Mom's health declined.  In fact, a few days after V-day, Craig flew to Oklahoma to join Erin, Diane and the family for President’s Day.  It was in Oklahoma where his symptoms worsened, beginning with cold flashes and general nausea.  Soon after, he began experiencing the intractable vomiting that would characterize his seven month battle with cancer.  Mom also began declining during this period, and experienced her first major fall, hitting her head against the wall after stumbling on a carpeted ramp.  Soon after that, she started using a walker for balance. 

It’s hard to believe that the projections of last year came true, and left alone are two partners – Dad and Emily – and five broken hearts, waiting for one more day together.  I miss my constant Valentine.  I miss hearing Mom's voice on the end of the phone, asking if I received the flowers.  I miss listening to Craig giggle as he talks about his latest creation.  Though the anniversarieis are difficult, I draw on the memories for comfort.  

Flowers are poor consolation for all the loss.  Still, Erin, Diane and I sent Dad and Emily flowers.  And, as if guided by Mom, Dad has taken the helm as cupid. This morning I awoke to a bouquet of red roses with a simple note: 

“Happy Valentine’s Day. Thinking of you, with lots of love.  Dad.” 

 -- J

Happy Valentines Day Mom and Craig

...we love you and miss you terribly.

To all that loved Craig and our Mom, hope you do something special for yourself in commemoration and share it on this blog.

Here's to Mom and Craig...

~E

The Beer Burper and the Bee Bop Buster

I must have "come harass me" tattooed on my forehead. It seems I've had the run of the luck these days with random seedy gentleman making me pay for being out at night.

New Year's Eve

To many, New Year's Eve was a moment of rebirth, renewal, resolution to make the next year better than the year before. To me, it was merely a transition in name alone--the same sense of loss was sure to greet me in 2009, and the journey will continue long after 2009 is put to rest. Moving through grief has no real "new year's resolution"; cliché themes of new gym memberships, self-improvement projects, and saying no to chocolate have little influence on processing the pain of losing a loved one. You can no more "resolve" to be happy as you can easily "forget" all that defines 2008. It was a hellish year and will go down as the worst year of my life. But, our "year" is not yet over. By New Years, it had only been 6 months since our mom's passing and 3 months for Craig's; we had not yet met hell's horizon.

"Turning of a new leaf" is now a simple, everyday ambition restated in the familiar phrase "take one day at a time". Things have taken a new meaning--focus on today, find small wins, make each day count. These simple goals for getting through were as important and present on December 31st as they were on January 1st or today, February 11th. To embrace New Year's as something more than that with grand statements and lofty goals seemed artificial and something more for those whose largest concern is a tightening waist band.

I wasn't sulking; I just related differently to the significance and wanted to be alone with the memories of Mom and Craig. Despite feeling a bit solemn and/or annoyed at the merrymakers and their kazoos, I fancied up and took myself out to dinner only to find that Thai food was the only thing available in 'bustling' Silver Spring. This CRACKED me up and was the shot in the arm I needed. I left around 9:45 and began my short walk home, bee-bopping and smiling all the while. Until....  

As I walked across one side of the street onto the sidewalk, I noticed a man approaching quickly from the other direction. I took notice of his speed and put in place certain self-defense measures I learned back in the day. (secret  knowledge). It was a dark sidewalk without many options to transition paths, etc, so I kept walking. The next time I glanced back (which was within moments of first noticing him), he was right behind me within two feet of me on my left side--close enough to pull my ponytail--and moved to my right when I noticed him. I quickly pivoted to my right and squared my shoulders, when another gentleman approached from the metro station causing the guy to move away. He scurried off to the side and eventually up the stairs after watching me. It's anyone's guess what, if anything, he had in mind. I could have simply been in his way when he wanted to zigzag across the sidewalk and up the stairs. Who knows...

Last Week

I went across the street to purchase a few items from the local Rite Aid. Being observant and keeping "situational awareness" is part of my field--helps aid the ever annoying "that's a design issue" statements. As I passed through my apartment lobby, I noticed a man sitting in one of our lobby chairs drinking a beer. As I left, I saw in the reflection of the window that he was watching me.

Fast forward a bit and I'm standing in an aisle at the Rite Aid when I heard what sounded like a burp and someone bumping into a stand of chips. I turned to the noise, as anyone would. (It's a hardwired defense mechanism for seemingly all living beings from deer to people. One turns toward a signal whether noise or light, assesses it, processes it, and determines an action; that process happens in milliseconds/seconds most of the time. Usually we aren't even aware because USUALLY the noise isn't a threat and no action is required.) Until... 

I turned to the noise and noticed the same man now walking towards me. Perhaps it was only coincidental he was now in the same isle of the same store, or maybe he followed me. Who knows. I turned back to what I was doing and he began yelling at me, "What are you looking at"? Technically I was now looking at a card, so that's how I responded. Clearly drunk, he positioned as if engaging for a regular brouhaha. Now a bit annoyed, I answered his second question a bit more pointedly, "Sir, I'm not looking at you. I'm trying to read a card." As he left, I thought, crap now I need a strategy in the event he's still outside. As I left, I noticed him take off from a nearby bus station, towards my apartment complex, but then crossed the street.

Both occasions are fairly benign and forgettable moments, but I immediately thought of calling Craig for reassurance and a quick laugh. We would have surely made fun of the Beer Burper and the Bee Bop Buster, and perhaps he would have used that as material in a future story or song. It was JUST the type of tale in which he would have said, "Well. Be careful.", but would have relayed to his friends... 

~E

Managing Expectations

It’s Thursday night in Bangkok and I’m taking a quiet night for myself.  I’ve been here for over a month now, and still feel a bit scattered in my skin.  For almost a year, I had been building up for this return, and was nervous to come back to a life left on pause.  Six weeks in, and I still feel like I'm only half here.   

Being back has been bittersweet.  I arrived in Bangkok on December 29^th, after spending a mellow birthday and Christmas with Dad, Diane and Erin (more in another post).  The walk from my apartment elevator to my door was one of the longest walks I can recall.  I remember stopping as I neared my door to stare out the window towards Victory Monument, which at night, stands out like a white beacon amongst Bangkok’s skyline -- Craig was always fascinated with that view.  As I stood at my door, I took a minute to consider all that had transpired since the day I turned around to lock it before leaving for the airport ten months ago.  I remember being nervous that morning.  My heart was already in Denver, but still, I was hesitant to leave.  I knew then that if I did make it back to Bangkok, I do so without a mother and a brother.  With their cancers, I was optimistic about time, but not prognosis. 

I also knew that my life in Bangkok would change, and, indeed, it has.  Resettling has not been easy.  I arrived during a tricky time of year, when people flee to nearby beaches to spend New Year’s.  Every person except one was away for the holidays, which gave me some time to decompress and rediscover a life put on pause almost a year ago.  The city is the same, but the feeling is different.  I don't feel as connected as I once did, and understandably so.  Mom and Craig are all around me, here.  I’m surrounded by memories of their visits.  I remember taking Mom and Dad to the Grand Palace on her birthday, and how she felt faint during our tour.  I remember our dinner atop Bangkok’s tallest restaurant and how she looked as she carefully negotiated the stairs down to our table.  I remember how she cried when I hand delivered a carrot cake Nu and her mother made for her birthday. 

I remember braving knee-high water with Craig on his first day here, and how we had to pole-vault over a ten foot wall just to get to my apartment.  I can recall how he nodded his head and looked off to the side when he told my friends about his life in Denver.  (I realize that I do the same behavior.)  I remember how he was a goofy drunk when my friend Rob and I took him out for a night on the town.  We had to help him walk to a taxi. 

I remember how he would laugh at random signs, like the sign On Nut, and insist that I take a picture.  It was so easy to make him laugh.  I have a photo on my TV of a time we spent in southern Thailand when we took a boat through a tiny cave, and had to lay flat just to get through.  Though I was sucking it in, only one part of my anatomy-- my stomach -- responded.  At one point, my chest -- and hence, the boat -- became wedged against the roof of the cave and the rock side.  Craig laughed and insisted on taking a picture of the water marks left on my T-shirt.  I wake up to that photo every morning.  I’m looking off to the left while Craig is smiling at the camera.  Such a happy time then.  The memories are hard, but without them, life would be a hollow existence. 

My days here have been mixed.  I spent New Year's outside on top of the 19th floor of Central World.  Central World Plaza throws big Times Square-like party for New Year's with thousands crowding the street.  It was nice to look down on the merry-wishers as my friend and I counted down to 2009.  I held up well, for the most part, but when we hit the ten second mark, it hit me that they are really gone.  I gave my friend a long hug and left for my apartment where I had one of those once in a lifetime kind of sobs that would make Hollywood smile.  It was the kind of sadness that comes when you realize that forever is forever and life will never be the same. 

The sad days are difficult, and I often like to spend those days alone, far from the watchful eye of others – some details simply can’t be conveyed.  Thankfully, I have a patient group of friends that don’t mind the tears, which have come often.  My first time back to the UN was overwhelming for what it signified.  My colleagues were aware of the situation when I left in March, and knew the situation was dire.  To return meant one thing:  that the “situation” was over, meaning Mom and Craig had died.  That was hard.  They were supportive, but obviously overwhelmed by the story.  A few colleagues had followed along with the blog and were aware of the details, which helped.  A few of my colleagues also had experienced loss, so I felt safe sharing.  Still, at the end of the day, I felt emotionally raw, as if the weight of the day was resting on my chest, waiting to explode.  So at a dinner with two of my closest friends, I let it all go.  It was difficult to fathom that I’d never be able to relay the ‘first day’ stories to Mom, or gripe about inter-office dynamics to Craig, that the little successes and failures of life will be shared with others but not them.   

I find that it’s the little things that creep up.  Thankfully, life is getting a bit easier, and I’m taking the steps to help make it so.  Taking a cue from Craig, I’ve decided to slow time down, act on what I said I’m going to do, and tune in to the inner sounds of life.  I’m now taking classical guitar; I’ve begun yoga and Pilates classes; and I’m trying to remind myself to laugh at least a little each day.  As for work, I’ll be here for the next four months, and then, as Mom would say, we’ll see.  My original intention was to stay a few weeks to pack my apartment and say goodbye to friends, but I’ve revised my plan in order to pursue a short-term contract with UNICEF, which will last until June. 

In the meantime, I’m taking life one day at a time.  There are a few things I’ve discovered since arriving here:  acting on the ‘To Dos’ is much more satisfying than writing them; talking helps; and music can help a body overcome even the hardest of situations.  After living the last year bouncing from borrowed shelter to borrowed shelter, it’s nice to finally feel at home, regardless of the awkward fit.  Staying a few more months buys me time to let go of my life here, but not the memories; those I'll take with me.  -- J

Portal

Despite its constancy, time has an almost bipolar way of slowing down to a point of restless panic and speeding up leaving little time for reflection. There is so much to say, so many moments left undefined, yet not nearly enough time or mental space in which to properly address them. Instead of journal pages, repurposed half sheets of paper, old mail envelopes, napkins, and receipts serve as placeholders for later reflection. The memories they hold lie about my apartment like a blinking cursor on a page, waiting for the next sentence.

Friday night, I rummaged through a manila folder I had with me when taking care of Mom and Craig. In between old work notes, bill statements and unread articles, I found written on a small white sticky note Mom's top 5 travel destinations...in her handwriting. Something so small and seemingly trivial at any other time in life was my instant portal back to Mom.

I remember watching her as she'd write. It was almost as if she started the letter in the air before placing "pen to paper" (one of her catch phrases-"let's put pen and paper to it"). Her handwriting was always embelished with curves, precise, and always the same. In 6^th grade, I made the regrettable mistake of having her write down answers to an interview I conducted with her simply because I couldn't keep up with her spoken word. When I presented in front of the class, I couldn't make out one loopy-loo from the other. I don't remember the topic but I do recall the teacher's advice-"next time you might consider writing it in your own handwriting. It'd be a whole lot easier for you" (eyes widen in the universal sign of having witnessed a train wreck). (For those concerned, I still got an A.)

Tears welled in my eyes as I studied the curves of each letter; the alignment of her writing as if she had used a legal pad to form lines; the use of numbers as she jotted down her top five: 1. England, 2. Sweden, 3. Ireland, 4. France, 5. Austria.

A small white sticky note captured a tenuous time between determination and desperation, between tumor remission and recognizing that time was running out. I remembered rallying Craig, Jill and Diane to help Mom make the most of the time that remained, fulfill as many life goals she could under the all too short "sentence" her cancer had given her. Even if these goals were unachievable in the end, it gave her hope that they could be.

I asked each person to list the top 3-5 places Mom had never been but might like to visit. One night, Diane had Mom write hers down. I flew in not long after and remember smiling when I noticed our ideas had influenced Mom's list. We had a listener among us, apparently. 

We never made it to those dream destinations. Tumor growth, chemo schedules, steroid complications, fatigue and motor instability were hurdles we could not overcome despite our best intentions. Yet, in late March, when using a walker was no longer a choice but a safety necessity, Depends had replaced underwear, and leaning far to the left was a way of life, she boarded a plane to a dream destination not on her list but etched in her heart. She journeyed back home to Michigan for a final farewell. It was the last time she would see her family.

I joined Mom and Dad as their "escort". Nestled among the white sticky note and my other documents are the memories from that trip scribbled on hotel paper and stolen napkins.

I'm grateful I wrote down my half-baked thoughts before they escaped me, and captured the details of being with Mom and Craig as I witnessed them. Many memories/notes/thoughts I have already written about; others lay waiting like a cursor on a page. Yet, all are my portals back to Mom and Craig.

~E