I woke up early and traveled a couple hours north to a retreat center, “St. Mary on the Lake” was it’s name. It was lightly raining and big maple leaves dropped to the ground as I drove down the winding driveway to the lake. I parked and entered the “Peace and Spirituality Center”.
We met in the Garden room, nine of us, all here for the Grief and Loss Program. I was looking forward to today, but also dreading the heaviness of what the day might hold. We started with a few minutes of meditation and then we each took turns telling our story, speaking our sorrow.
When it was my turn, I first spoke of my kids’ father. He was larger than life, literally, 6’5, valedictorian, and football scholarships to Stanford or Norte Dame. We were married in 2002. We had three beautiful children together. Somewhere during that time when I was raising tiny humans, he started making some poor decisions. He started smoking a lot of pot, put our rent on credit cards and started down a path I did not want my kids to be part of. I filed for divorce when I was six months pregnant with our youngest. I got divorced holding a three month old in a sling. We really didn’t hear from him after that. An occasional letter or email, with a promise of connection again someday. One child support check, ever.
The kids and I made lemonade, that is what we do when things get sour. We found our way, despite his lack of support. In 2018, he died. They said it was a heart attack at 46 from undiagnosed high blood pressure. When he died, so did our hopes of reconciliation. My daughter’s hope that her father would eventually show up and walk her down the aisle, crushed. My hope that he would teach my boys to be kind men and fathers, also in ruins. I taught them how to shave and tie a tie myself. He could have been such a wonderful influence on the kids. For what it was worth, I do think he truly loved his children. They are beautiful, kind, accomplished young people, and I am so proud to be their mom.
I put a photo of him and I on the altar in the garden room.
Next, I pulled out a photo of my Mom. My best friend. She and I were two peas in a pod. My parents got divorced when I was two. I was an only child so it was just my mom and I for most of the time, aside from vacations with my Dad. When the kids were tiny and I could see that things were going downhill with their father, we moved from Portland, OR to Olympia, WA to be closer to her. She was involved in everything. She drove the kids to practices, she mended ouches, she listened to me try to navigate work and three kids by myself. She was my friend, greatest supporter, and guide.
On New Years Eve of 2015, she wasn’t feeling well and went to ER. She was soon diagnosed with stage four Pancreatic Cancer. Devastation does not begin to describe our sorrow. She was given 3-6 months to live. She lived for two more years. She did chemo and all kinds of treatments. About 6 months into her cancer jounrney, her husband (my stepdad) climbed down from a tree he was working on as an arborist and fell over dead from a heart attack.
He was her caregiver, and husband of twenty years. How she dealt with all that an being sick, I will never really understand. We sold her house, packed up everything and she lived with us for awhile until she needed more care than I could provide. She was a warrior. She spent two months on Hospice and I was able to take a leave of absence and spend every day of that time with her. She planned well for leaving this earth with such care. She had someone make “love blankets” for all of her loved ones. She wrote a poem to each person. She told me every night, “I love you forever and ever”. And I know she meant it. I could write about her for hours. How I see her in rainbows and I know she is there, looking out for us.
I put two pictures of her and I on the altar.
They asked us to bring a symbol of how grief has touched our lives. I found this rock years ago that had several indents. It reminded me of how grief leaves a mark and also forms who we are. Grief makes the grooves part of our being, it’s not good or bad, it just is. And it makes us unique.
At lunch I walked the beautiful grounds, thinking about life. I paused at a statue of Mother Mary and prayed. To my mom, to the heavens, I sent my missing her words heaven’s way.
I turned around to go back to the retreat when I saw one purple flower. Just one, in a see of green. Purple was her favorite, and mine. Tears dropped on my purple shoes and I said, “hi mom”.
I walked up the path past a lovely smelling bush, I stopped and noticed. It was a Camilla, one of her favorites. I stepped closer and smelled the white flowers, it was the same bush we planted over some of her ashes in the backyard. I inhaled and exhaled and I knew everything was going to be alright.
The day ended with art, meeting a new friend, and gratitude for this multidimensional, and beautiful life.
I leave the porch light on
My son sat down to play the piano today, before he headed back to college this afternoon.
I feel a rage deep inside that burns. Not a smolder, a bonfire. Kindling of broken promises and blame, logs of hurt, judgement and abuse.
We took my middle child to college on Saturday. It was a whirlwind of moving boxes and feeling feelings. Deep love and amazement poured through my veins. As we drove home, I thought to myself, “what do I do with myself now?”
Four years ago today, my mom went on hospice. I remember it vividly, November 11. I was hosting a donor gathering in honor a family who had generously given to support the college. My phone was ringing in my pocket as I finished my speech. I looked and saw several messages. “Oh no,” I thought. I rushed to return the call from the caregiver taking care of my mom who had stage 4 pancreatic cancer. “They are taking her to the ER again,” she said. I told my team I had to go. The look on my face said it all, they knew it was my mom.
Sparkle Tea 