I'm Dreaming

I saw Mom again. It seems to happen most often on weekends when I wake up early and go back to sleep for a bit. I guess because I don't have an alarm clock to interrupt me.

In this dream Cheryl and I were trying to round up a puppy that had escaped. It ran into Mom's bedroom and I followed it, hoping it would be cornered and we could put it back in it's pen. (Mom hasn't had a dog since the 1980s and I don't have one, so I don't know where that came from.) Anyway, I went into her room and she was there, in bed. In her regular bed, not the hospital bed, and she was healthy. I climbed into bed next to her and she put her arm up behind her head so I could get close to her.

Me: How did you come back?
Mom: I don't know.
Me: I'm dreaming, aren't I?
Mom: Yes, honey.
Me: When I wake up you're going to be gone again.

Mom nodded and I started crying. I kissed her arm over and over again and kept repeating, "I love you Mom. I love you. Please don't go away." She hugged me closer and I said, "Mom I need to ask you something. Can you hear us? Can you see us? Please tell me."

Everything went quiet. I closed my eyes and waited for an answer. I remember thinking to myself that I needed to make sure the answer was hers and not something I was making up in the dream.

When I opened my eyes again, I was soaring over what I can only describe as a massive courtyard. It was concrete and stone, two levels, with columns holding up a partial cover, and a concrete barrier at the edge of the second level. There were words painted all over the surfaces. The first word I saw was "NO" but then I immediately saw "YES" painted near it. I flew across the courtyard and landed on the second level where I could read most of what was written.

No
Yes
You and I talked about this a long time ago
I know
You need your space
I love you

Suddenly it occurred to me that these words were all the words Mom had ever said to me; all the words of advice, all the words of wisdom, all the words of love, painted all over the courtyard in huge fancy blue and black lettering over the background of the sky with stars and suns and moons and clouds. I was overwhelmed by this realization and I began to sob out loud and call out "Mom!" repeatedly. Everything she ever did for me, all the love, the discipline, the jokes and the laughter, it was all there, and I could feel it in every fiber of my being.

I sobbed so hard in my dream that I started actually crying and woke myself up.

And this makes your heart stronger...

So... THIS dream.

I walked into a room. I'm pretty sure it was a bingo hall, because where else would Mom be right now? There were lots of other people, but I only saw the four sitting at the table in front of me. Mom was on the end and next to her was Dad. Across from them were Cheryl and Kenna. I looked at Mom and I could see her features in detail. She watched me as I approached the table and I saw her face light up. She was wearing the shirt she had on in her Facebook profile picture, which was taken in 2006 or 2007, whichever year it was that we gave her the surprise birthday party.

Me: How did you do that?
Mom: How did I do what?
Me: You know what.
Mom: When people die you don't lose them. They don't go away.

The scene changed and I was sitting on a bed next to Mom. She was explaining some kind of machine to me as I was trying it on. It consisted of an oxygen tube with some kind of box that rested on my chest.

Mom: And this makes your heart stronger.

Then she was gone and I was talking to a man who was a medical professional. I don't think he was a doctor. I got the impression that he was either a physical therapist or a respiratory therapist.

Me: So that's what happened when she died?

And then I woke up.

When people die you don't lose them. They don't go away. And this makes your heart stronger.

Firsts

I had one of those moments today, the first of many to come. The firsts are always the hardest after a loss; the first holiday, the first birthday for each family member, the first year anniversary. Then there are those firsts that are unique to your relationship. I think those are the most difficult.

We are a family of weather-watchers. Once I overcame my fear of the sound of tornado sirens (I had a fear of loud noises that still exists in a more minor capacity to this day) I found that I preferred chasing tornadoes with my sisters over hiding from them. (As a side note, after the tornadoes that tore through my state this past spring, I think that tendency is gone.) Oftentimes I can see footage from a tornado and tell you where and when it happened because I’ve seen the video so many times. Weather-watching was sort of a strange fascination for us; whether it was severe spring storms or winter blizzards, we were usually gathered at Mom’s house switching between stations to get updates. There was a sense of security in being together as a family. If something horrible happened, at least we weren’t alone or wondering about the safety of our other family members.

Once I moved away, it was routine for Mom to call me when severe weather was moving into my area. “Are you watching the weather?” she would ask. I always knew that if I didn’t have the television on, Mom would warn me in plenty of time. If I was already aware, sometimes I’d call her before she’d call me. “Just wanted to let you know I’m keeping an eye on it!” We also had an understanding that I would call her after it had passed to let her know I was okay so she wouldn’t worry. Sometimes I would call several times in the middle of it to keep her updated on my whereabouts or to explain where the worst part of the storm was relative to my location. It was routine, it was expected, and it was comforting.

I was sick much of the night last night (fever-induced nightmares are so not fun) so I was in bed for much of the day today. I finally got up and around late in the afternoon, and right around the time I was considering a shower I started to hear thunder in the distance. I remember Mom always telling me not to shower during a thunderstorm because lightning can travel through water and electrocute you. That was a good excuse to get me out of doing dishes during stormy weather when I was a kid! (By the way, this isn't an "old wives tale" as some may think; my meteorology professor last year confirmed the validity of it.) 

Anyway, today's storm wasn't overly severe, but it was one of those storms where the thunder is distant for what seems like forever and then out of nowhere it's extremely loud and right on top of you. With that first BOOM, which shook the house and made the power flicker, my initial thought was, "I need to call Mom to tell her I'm watching the weather and that I'm okay..."

And just like that, I wasn’t okay anymore.

Dawn

This poem is one that Mom wrote several years ago. She won a writing contest with this piece and I now have this poem on a plaque in my bedroom. When Kenna died, we had this poem printed on the back of her memorial booklet, and it was on the inside of Mom's memorial booklet. The pastor read it at her funeral, but I can't remember if he read it before I read mine or after. I think it perfectly sums up who my mom was: a deeply spiritual woman who appreciated the little joys in life.

"Dawn"

I walk at dawn through meadows gray,
to see the sunrise on the hill.
This is my favorite time of day,
when all is quiet; all is still.
And at first light in the eastern sky,
I hear a rustling in the trees.
I hear a brook go chuckling by,
and whispered prayers upon the breeze.
And as I feel the first warm ray,
A bird sings out from winged flight.
He's singing to announce the day,
and bid farewell to fading night.
The sounds of dawn bid me, "rejoice!"
They're echoes of the Master's voice.

- Shirley Love

As a side note, I have always heard Mom's name not as "Shirley Love," but as "surely, love."  She had so much love and she shared it abundantly.

I saw her this morning just as I was waking up. In my dream I was at the municipal swimming pool, talking to some people I knew from junior high and high school. I looked up and there she was at the other end of the pool. She was younger, probably in her late 40s or early 50s. Her hair was in the curly perm she always wore back then and she was wearing her glasses. She was looking away, possibly reading something, and her entire being was out of proportion from the scene; she was ten times bigger than the rest of us. Larger than life. I said, "Oh my god, that's my mother!" And just as I was about to run through the water to join her, I woke up.

How apropos that Mom visited me at "Dawn."

The Best Laid Plans Often Go Astray

Mom died on the Saturday before Labor Day. Kenna died on the Friday before Memorial Day. I don't know what it is with my family members and holiday weekends, but sadness now hovers over all of my summer holidays.

It had been nearly two months since I'd last seen Mom. I took an extra day after the July 4th holiday so I could have a long weekend with my family. Independence Day had always been a favorite holiday for Kenna and me, and I found myself rather depressed this year. I stayed at Mom's a little longer than I had intended and I was late getting to the park to watch fireworks. I don't know what kept me at Mom's, but I didn't want to leave, and I cried on my way out. Maybe I knew our time together was almost gone. I can't remember a single thing we talked about that night, but I remember turning off her lamp, kissing and hugging her, and telling her I'd see her again the following day. I did, but she was so exhausted that she could barely stay awake long enough to visit. That was the last time I saw her before her heart attack.

The last time I talked to her on the phone, she was in the skilled nursing unit. It was late in the afternoon, a time when her mind seemed to fog over somewhat, probably due to exhaustion from all the activities of the day. Her room didn't have a phone, so I talked to her on Cheryl's cell phone. That was always frustrating for both of us because she could barely hear me and I could barely understand her. We tried, but there were a lot of "What"s and "I can't hear you"s. I told her I would come visit soon, and she said, "I love you very much. Please don't forget me."

That's it. The last thing my mother said to me in a coherent state of mind was, "Please don't forget me." It will haunt me forever to think that she even considered that a possibility.

I had plans that Labor Day weekend. Cheryl had been telling me how she would go see Mom at the skilled nursing unit during lunch time. She would walk in the door and see Mom in the dining hall with her friends. When Mom would see Cheryl, her face would just light up with happiness and she would smile. My plan for that weekend was to spend as much time as I could Friday evening and Saturday doing homework so I would have plenty of free time for the rest of the weekend. I was going to drive in late Saturday or early Sunday so I could walk in with Cheryl during Mom's lunch. I was so excited. It had been a long time since I'd seen Mom anywhere besides her bed and I couldn't wait to see her face light up.

Instead, I watched her die.

The Truth About Death

I came home yesterday, one week after my mother died, three days after her funeral, and what seemed like a lifetime to my cats. I say home, but it really isn't. This is the house where I have lived for nine years, in the city where I've resided for thirteen years, but home will always be Mom's house. Not the house on Dewey Street, but the house we moved into when I was ten years old. The house on 8th Street. The house my grandpa built. The house where my mom spent the later years of her childhood, in the room that decades later would become my own. The house where my grandma died as my mother held her hand. The house where we spent Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays and holidays and just plain, ordinary days. The house on 8th Street is where the real stuff happened. The house on Dewey Street is where my mind travels when I need to escape to somewhere safe. It's where my life was secure, unchanging, and normal.

But what is normal, really? Death is normal. Everyone dies. Everyone who lives long enough has to cope with losing a loved one to death. Death is a welcome escape from suffering into whatever comes next, and an unwanted, life-altering event for those left behind in the world. Before Kenna died, I imagined myself at her bedside, holding her hand and having an emotionally moving, deep conversation before she peacefully slipped away. In reality I got something painful and ugly that I can't even bear to recount here, and I wasn't present when she died. I didn't get my Hollywood ending. I don't think anyone does.

Someone Important

Today was the day we laid my mother to rest and said goodbye to her for the final time. I have a plethora of emotions that I cannot possibly articulate right this minute, but I wanted to share something with you. I wrote this and read it at her funeral this morning.

There's someone important I want you to meet...
This is my best friend, we like to play
I want to be with her every day
We play with dolls and pretend to be grown
With her as my friend I'm never alone
Friend, this is my Mommy.

There's someone important I want you to meet...
This is a guy I know from school
Don't say too much to him, that wouldn't be cool
When I talk to him my legs feel like butter
And inside my chest my heart starts to flutter
We're going out now on our very first date
Goodbye Mom, I won't be too late
Sweetie, this is my Mom.

There's someone important I want you to meet...
This is my newborn, your new grandchild
Look! Did you see that? I think he just smiled!
Never in my life have I been filled with such joy
As I am when I look at this precious little boy
Being a mother takes so much hard work
There are times when I feel I'm going berserk
But if there's one thing I know to be true
I'll go a long way with what I've learned from you
Son, this is your Grandma.

There's someone important I want you to meet...
This woman is one of the world's greatest treasures
My love for her could never be measured
She taught me so much about life and love
And her inspiration always came from above
So as she leaves me now to walk with You
There's just one thing I'll ask You to do
Put her in the most special place
Reward her daily with Your love and grace
And although You care for so many others
There's no one as special to me as my Mother.

I'm Going Back to the Start

Sometimes our senses have a better memory than our brains do. My maternal grandmother passed away when I was just five years old, but I can still remember what her face powder smelled like. Spearmint gum smells like my paternal grandmother, who has been gone since 1991, and coffee smells like home. Not my house, because I rarely drink coffee, but home, where I grew up; where my parents were, where my friends were, where my bike and my toys and my pets were. Where my security is. A place where my family was young. Healthy. Alive.

I remember so many things about The House on Dewey Street...