I've been thinking a lot over the past few days. A lot. So much so that I haven't slept much--which I don't recommend. My mind has been racing on all sorts of subjects. I've been thinking about what I want to write next, I've been worrying about life, I've been excited about life. I've been a lot of things. One of the realizations I came to is that your mind is a dangerous tool. People handle grief in different ways. Some people can't get out of bed, some people never fully cope and simply move on. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Some people find it relieving to talk to a counselor, some people internalize their feelings. I may have experienced profound loss in a close proximity, but I am no expert on grieving. If anything I feel weak. My mind is my best asset and my worst enemy. I love learning, I love academics, and I love promoting knowledge. But I let my mind wander so badly and so deeply that I can convince myself of anything.
I've been thinking a great deal about growing up and when you become a "grown up." I think when you're in high school, you can't wait to be a grown up. Out of your parents' house, making your own money. No one to tell you what to do. I was never one of those kids. I was perfectly fine spending time with my parents and my siblings on the weekend. I had no desire to go to parties or live a life that took my away from my parents. They weren't smothering, they didn't hover. They were just fun. I think once they realized that we were pretty okay contributions to society they decided it was okay to loosen their grip a bit. I don't think my dad was ever going to stop "teaching" us, but home was never a place that I wanted to leave. My entire first year of college, for multiple reasons, I couldn't wait to go home on Fridays and I hated leaving on Sundays. I did eventually find a family at school, but I never lost that feeling of being pulled towards home. So, I never wanted to "grow up" and move away.I went to college and grad school, but now I'm back in this house. So when did I become a grown up?
I think my parents did a good job of letting us become individuals and make our own decisions. Neither of my parents questioned my decision to major in English in college. Even when I questioned my decision. They let me make decisions. But I don't think that's when I grew up. I think I grew up when I stopped seeing my parents as invincible. When I stopped looking so much at my own "problems" and saw my parents as emotional, real beings I grew up. I saw my mom's tears, and I saw her hair fall out. 4 times. I sat with her when she was getting treatment, I cried with her each time it failed. I stopped worrying about my life and feared for hers. I feared for life without her. I don't know when it happened, but at some point in those 5 years I decided that if I could just love her enough and protect her enough that she would be okay. But with each failed treatment I saw her spirit--and mine slowly fade away. I couldn't love her cancer away. I never lost my little kid mentality that she would get better. If I was good enough and smart enough and wanted it badly enough then she would get better. But she didn't. All of my protecting didn't work.
So I spent the next year and a half healing. Or coping. Or adapting. I'm not quite sure exactly what I was doing, but I was living. I laughed. I loved. And once again I found myself protecting those around me. I would never try to fill my mom's shoes--that's an impossible task, but I made sure I was there for my sisters when they needed laughter, advice, guidance. And I protected my dad. Like I've said before, I made it my mission to help him be happy. He often would tell me, "Kari, I had a mom. I don't need another." He was still my dad. I went to him for wisdom, truth, and guidance. I leaned on him for support. But I saw his sadness too. I knew he thought he was ripped off. He was supposed to be moving into a new phase of life where it would be just him and mom again. But he couldn't love her cancer away either. I never thought, "Poor Dad." But I wanted his happiness. I wanted my mom here to be with him. I lost my mom, but he lost the love of his life. They weren't perfect, but she was the only girl he ever loved. I have different emotions with my dad's death because it was so different. I didn't have a chance to save him. I didn't have a chance to love his heart attack away.
So after all this, how do I know I'm a grown up? I don't have a job (I'm working on it!), I live at home, and I don't have the things most people think qualify you as a grown up. But I know how to love. I know how to live in love in spite of loss. I can mend. I think love makes you a grown up. When you realize that there is loss in this world. There is sadness and tragedy that you cannot control. But you can control love. My dad always said, "You can choose to be happy or you can choose to not be happy." I feel like a grown up when I choose to be happy. I worry and I stress and I make myself sick with anxiety sometimes, but I can choose to be happy. I choose love over sadness. Sadness will come. Loss will come. But love comes too. There are days when I feel like that lost little kid who wants to pull the covers over her head and yell for her mommy. But I don't have a mommy. But I have her love. And I have my Dad's love. No monster under my bed stands a chance against me when I feel empowered by that love.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Do.
This may not have much to do with this post, but my brother and I were watching The Shawshank Redemption the other night (one of my dad's favorites)and this really stuck with me. Red is reading a letter than Andy wrote to him and it reads, "Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies." Hope is the best of things. That's what sadness takes from you. It takes the hope of a better day. It takes the hope of a future. You're too scared to let hope in your house after tragedy. But you can take back hope. I am taking back hope. It never dies. My parents died, but the hope that they had for their children lives on in my hope. I carry the hope of my parents in my heart and in my head. When I feel hope slipping away and worrying about the future, I need to remind myself of this quote. Hope is the best of things and it never dies. You just may need to search a bit to find it. But I promise it's there.
When you lose one parent, your world and your heart is broken. When you lose someone as dynamic as my mom, that loss and that brokenness is magnified by about one million. But, like I wrote, I was healing. I was mending. I am healing and mending. I know my life and I know my feelings, but what I've realized is that others don't. I've labeled the looks you get as the "sad eyes." The "how are you doing?" slight head tilt, sad eyes. I don't mean to make light of this because I know people mean the best, but that's probably the hardest question to answer. First, do you really want to know? Because we could be here a while. Second, are you asking because you've been wondering or because you are sure I can't get out of bed and just want to confirm it? When a second parent dies, and dies so soon after the first, the sad eyes are out in full force. I don't know how I'm supposed to be acting, but even though my parents are gone, I still need to go to the grocery store. I still need to cut the grass. I still want to go for a run around town. Here is my point. Please ask me how I'm doing--or anyone who you might know in a similar situation. Please keep my family in your thoughts. Please say some prayers for us. But don't pity us. Don't shake your head and think, "Those poor kids." Because we don't feel that way. We feel blessed. We don't have parents anymore. We can't make new memories. But we have damn good memories of the past 27, 24, and 21 years. Death can't take those away. Yes, there is sadness. But I assure you there is joy. We are still blessed. So, "how are you doing" is a very complicated questions. Am I good? Yeah, I think I am. I'm a new good. I'm a learning to mend good. Am I sad? Yeah, I'm sure a part of me will always be sad. It's funny because when I get the sad eyes, I, unknowingly, have a standard answer of reassurance. I tilt my head slightly, smile, and say, "We're okay. We're hanging in there." I don't even know where this comes from. It just happens. So, let's make a deal. Ask me how I'm doing, but change it up. Say, "I thought about a memory of your dad the other day." Or, "I thought of you all and smiled today." Then I won't tilt my head. I'll look at you and respond, "Thank you. I smiled because of my parents today too." Deal?
My dad was always trying to impart his wisdom on his kids. This was usually met with an eye roll and a half-hearted attempt to listen. But I was listening. "You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar." Okay, I won't yell at the Dept of Ed when I finally talk to someone after days on hold. I'll be calm and they'll gladly process my application. Which they did. There Dad, you win. Here's one piece that has always stuck with me. He drilled it into us to be a "first hi-er." When you are walking somewhere, he told us, and someone is coming in the opposite direction, you say hi first. Don't avert your eyes, don't wait for them to say it. Personally thank someone if their good or service meant something to you. Be personable. My dad would say hi to someone 50 yards down the road or across a parking lot. This embarrassed my mom to no end. "They don't want to say hi to you!" she would say. We started telling him he was looking for "heaven points" by talking to so many people. I hope he's putting them to good use. Here's what I've learned from all of this. People don't do what you expect. Sometimes they exceed it. Sometimes they fall short. When my mom died, I expected a lot from people and was let down. So, this time around, I'm letting it known what I expect and what I want.
If you feel sad for me, I want you to tell me. If you want to reminisce with me, let's do it. If you want to talk, let's talk. If you think you want to do something nice for my family, do it. Just do something. Don't let so much time go by that you think it's too late. It's not too late. If you want to send a card, it's never too late to read kind words. If you think you'd like to send us dinner, we'll take it! Just do something. Not just for me and my family, but for anything. Don't put life off so much that it passes you by. Don't let a friendship lapse because you think you waited too long to contact them. Act. Do. I'm on the other side of this equation guaranteeing you that it will be appreciated. My siblings and I are making a conscious effort to make sure our door is always open. And I would hope that folks in a similar situation would do the same. Come over and watch a Pens game with us. Come visit Saturday morning. Just know that some people in my house sleep a little bit later than most. Back to the point, do something. Don't put off calling a friend because that friend may be expecting it more than you know. Some of the best-intentioned ideas never make it to fruition. Be the person who makes that happen. I promise you it's never too late. It's never too late for good intentions. Just do something.
When you lose one parent, your world and your heart is broken. When you lose someone as dynamic as my mom, that loss and that brokenness is magnified by about one million. But, like I wrote, I was healing. I was mending. I am healing and mending. I know my life and I know my feelings, but what I've realized is that others don't. I've labeled the looks you get as the "sad eyes." The "how are you doing?" slight head tilt, sad eyes. I don't mean to make light of this because I know people mean the best, but that's probably the hardest question to answer. First, do you really want to know? Because we could be here a while. Second, are you asking because you've been wondering or because you are sure I can't get out of bed and just want to confirm it? When a second parent dies, and dies so soon after the first, the sad eyes are out in full force. I don't know how I'm supposed to be acting, but even though my parents are gone, I still need to go to the grocery store. I still need to cut the grass. I still want to go for a run around town. Here is my point. Please ask me how I'm doing--or anyone who you might know in a similar situation. Please keep my family in your thoughts. Please say some prayers for us. But don't pity us. Don't shake your head and think, "Those poor kids." Because we don't feel that way. We feel blessed. We don't have parents anymore. We can't make new memories. But we have damn good memories of the past 27, 24, and 21 years. Death can't take those away. Yes, there is sadness. But I assure you there is joy. We are still blessed. So, "how are you doing" is a very complicated questions. Am I good? Yeah, I think I am. I'm a new good. I'm a learning to mend good. Am I sad? Yeah, I'm sure a part of me will always be sad. It's funny because when I get the sad eyes, I, unknowingly, have a standard answer of reassurance. I tilt my head slightly, smile, and say, "We're okay. We're hanging in there." I don't even know where this comes from. It just happens. So, let's make a deal. Ask me how I'm doing, but change it up. Say, "I thought about a memory of your dad the other day." Or, "I thought of you all and smiled today." Then I won't tilt my head. I'll look at you and respond, "Thank you. I smiled because of my parents today too." Deal?
My dad was always trying to impart his wisdom on his kids. This was usually met with an eye roll and a half-hearted attempt to listen. But I was listening. "You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar." Okay, I won't yell at the Dept of Ed when I finally talk to someone after days on hold. I'll be calm and they'll gladly process my application. Which they did. There Dad, you win. Here's one piece that has always stuck with me. He drilled it into us to be a "first hi-er." When you are walking somewhere, he told us, and someone is coming in the opposite direction, you say hi first. Don't avert your eyes, don't wait for them to say it. Personally thank someone if their good or service meant something to you. Be personable. My dad would say hi to someone 50 yards down the road or across a parking lot. This embarrassed my mom to no end. "They don't want to say hi to you!" she would say. We started telling him he was looking for "heaven points" by talking to so many people. I hope he's putting them to good use. Here's what I've learned from all of this. People don't do what you expect. Sometimes they exceed it. Sometimes they fall short. When my mom died, I expected a lot from people and was let down. So, this time around, I'm letting it known what I expect and what I want.
If you feel sad for me, I want you to tell me. If you want to reminisce with me, let's do it. If you want to talk, let's talk. If you think you want to do something nice for my family, do it. Just do something. Don't let so much time go by that you think it's too late. It's not too late. If you want to send a card, it's never too late to read kind words. If you think you'd like to send us dinner, we'll take it! Just do something. Not just for me and my family, but for anything. Don't put life off so much that it passes you by. Don't let a friendship lapse because you think you waited too long to contact them. Act. Do. I'm on the other side of this equation guaranteeing you that it will be appreciated. My siblings and I are making a conscious effort to make sure our door is always open. And I would hope that folks in a similar situation would do the same. Come over and watch a Pens game with us. Come visit Saturday morning. Just know that some people in my house sleep a little bit later than most. Back to the point, do something. Don't put off calling a friend because that friend may be expecting it more than you know. Some of the best-intentioned ideas never make it to fruition. Be the person who makes that happen. I promise you it's never too late. It's never too late for good intentions. Just do something.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Mend.
This blog isn’t meant to be a Hallmark card for coping with loss. I want to share how I’ve dealt with grief, and how I deal with it every day, in hopes that someone might read something I’ve written and think, “Wow, I’ve never thought of it that way. I guess you can be happy again.” Honestly, though, some days hurt. A lot. Some days the sadness consumes you and all you can think about is the series of events in your life that has brought you into this sadness. It’s not like you really have a say in the matter. The sadness just consumes you and the tragedy of life consumes you. I had spent every day of 18 months finding ways to conquer this sadness and to heal my heart after my mom died. And then my dad died.
Every patch on my heart was ripped open that morning. Every stride I’d taken to heal, I thought, was wiped away in an instant. Sadness consumed me. Grief consumed me. Disbelief consumed me. My dad wasn’t sick. He wasn’t suffering from a gut-wrenching sickness like cancer. My dad was so focused on how to be happy after my mom died—and how inconceivable that was—that he forgot to mend his broken heart. He couldn’t control having a heart attack; essentially, he couldn’t control his broken heart. The events surrounding that day are still surreal to me. It was an oddly familiar feeling. People flooding to my house. My home—my dad’s home—filled with mourners and food and sadness and food. I didn’t eat for an entire day. Isn’t that odd? Well-wishers bring so much food you don’t even know what to do with, and I couldn’t make myself have a desire to eat one thing. In my eyes, no amount of food or hugs would bring my dad back. My mind was consumed with one thought: I was at home. I put myself in charge of my dad’s happiness and well-being, and I let him down. I let him die. I could have done something. Could have heard something in the middle of the night. I could have saved him. I let my brother and my sisters down. I let my uncle down. I let my dad down. I let my mom down. For all of the happiness I found in my mom’s light and love, the only emotion I let consume me that day was guilt.
And then I realized something. I use the word I way too often. Me me me. It’s my natural instinct. I didn’t blame my dad—even though a doctor’s visit could have prevented this. It was easier for me to blame myself. I knew there was nothing I could have done. Being a logical, intellectual, adult, there was nothing I could do to save my dad. But that same little girl who never expected to live life without her mom surely never thought she would live without her dad too. I made it my mission to make my dad happy again after my mom died. His happiness mattered more than my own. His grief mattered more than my own. He never asked for it. I simply decided that it was best for him. And I think that he was happy—sometimes. I think I wanted him to be happy so that I could feel okay to be happy too. Writing that sounds a lot more selfish than I ever meant it to be. I wanted him to be happy so I worked as hard as I could with my school and with my assistantship. I wanted him to be happy so I called him twice a day. I wanted him to be happy so I talked about the wedding as often as I could. And he was happy. For me. He was happy for the direction my life was taking. He was happy I was happy. But at nighttime, after the phone calls, and after a day of work, he came home to an empty house. His happiness—true and real happiness—was gone. He loved one girl his whole life, and he did everything he could to save her. There’s that hero syndrome again. Nothing my dad did or didn’t do could make my mom’s cancer go away. And when it didn’t, he blamed himself. He blamed doctors, but mostly he blamed himself. Seeing a pattern here? My dad loved his family more than his own life. Seeing another pattern here? He wasn’t ever going to truly be happy again until he was with my mom. And now he is.
He in no way knew that this was going to happen. His heart was irrevocably damaged and only a doctor’s visit—which he was so against since my mom—might have predicted it. But those are all muddied details. Once again, we’re left with pieces. How do you mend your heart twice? This goes back to the whole breathing deal from yesterday. I want so badly to protect every person I love and to never let anything bad happen to them. As long as they are okay, I am okay. But I’m not. Not really anyway. I have to mend myself and not dive headfirst into protecting others. There is a peace that comes each day in this new life without my parents. I have to learn how to be okay with them not being here. And I think that stems from knowing that they are together. I am still learning and praying and striving for answers about “where they are.” Are they in heaven? Are they asleep? But does it really matter? My parents are no longer here. In a physical sense. But they are alive in each of us. In our laughter, in our tears, in our accomplishments, in our strength, in our weakness. In that sense, they are together and they are happy. There is no more hurt for them, there is no more pain. They are alive in the promise of Jesus Christ. In His sacrifice for our sins that we might have a hope for a better day. They are waiting for that better day. It is coming. And it will wipe away all of my selfish fears, desires, and tendencies to lean on the word “I”. I am not alone. I have the peace that I love my parents with a whole, mended, broken, mending heart. And, no matter how I may lose sight, I have always had the peace that I am loved. I am loved by two parents together at rest, and above all, I am loved by the One who conquers all fear and all death and who brings ultimate happiness.
Every patch on my heart was ripped open that morning. Every stride I’d taken to heal, I thought, was wiped away in an instant. Sadness consumed me. Grief consumed me. Disbelief consumed me. My dad wasn’t sick. He wasn’t suffering from a gut-wrenching sickness like cancer. My dad was so focused on how to be happy after my mom died—and how inconceivable that was—that he forgot to mend his broken heart. He couldn’t control having a heart attack; essentially, he couldn’t control his broken heart. The events surrounding that day are still surreal to me. It was an oddly familiar feeling. People flooding to my house. My home—my dad’s home—filled with mourners and food and sadness and food. I didn’t eat for an entire day. Isn’t that odd? Well-wishers bring so much food you don’t even know what to do with, and I couldn’t make myself have a desire to eat one thing. In my eyes, no amount of food or hugs would bring my dad back. My mind was consumed with one thought: I was at home. I put myself in charge of my dad’s happiness and well-being, and I let him down. I let him die. I could have done something. Could have heard something in the middle of the night. I could have saved him. I let my brother and my sisters down. I let my uncle down. I let my dad down. I let my mom down. For all of the happiness I found in my mom’s light and love, the only emotion I let consume me that day was guilt.
And then I realized something. I use the word I way too often. Me me me. It’s my natural instinct. I didn’t blame my dad—even though a doctor’s visit could have prevented this. It was easier for me to blame myself. I knew there was nothing I could have done. Being a logical, intellectual, adult, there was nothing I could do to save my dad. But that same little girl who never expected to live life without her mom surely never thought she would live without her dad too. I made it my mission to make my dad happy again after my mom died. His happiness mattered more than my own. His grief mattered more than my own. He never asked for it. I simply decided that it was best for him. And I think that he was happy—sometimes. I think I wanted him to be happy so that I could feel okay to be happy too. Writing that sounds a lot more selfish than I ever meant it to be. I wanted him to be happy so I worked as hard as I could with my school and with my assistantship. I wanted him to be happy so I called him twice a day. I wanted him to be happy so I talked about the wedding as often as I could. And he was happy. For me. He was happy for the direction my life was taking. He was happy I was happy. But at nighttime, after the phone calls, and after a day of work, he came home to an empty house. His happiness—true and real happiness—was gone. He loved one girl his whole life, and he did everything he could to save her. There’s that hero syndrome again. Nothing my dad did or didn’t do could make my mom’s cancer go away. And when it didn’t, he blamed himself. He blamed doctors, but mostly he blamed himself. Seeing a pattern here? My dad loved his family more than his own life. Seeing another pattern here? He wasn’t ever going to truly be happy again until he was with my mom. And now he is.
He in no way knew that this was going to happen. His heart was irrevocably damaged and only a doctor’s visit—which he was so against since my mom—might have predicted it. But those are all muddied details. Once again, we’re left with pieces. How do you mend your heart twice? This goes back to the whole breathing deal from yesterday. I want so badly to protect every person I love and to never let anything bad happen to them. As long as they are okay, I am okay. But I’m not. Not really anyway. I have to mend myself and not dive headfirst into protecting others. There is a peace that comes each day in this new life without my parents. I have to learn how to be okay with them not being here. And I think that stems from knowing that they are together. I am still learning and praying and striving for answers about “where they are.” Are they in heaven? Are they asleep? But does it really matter? My parents are no longer here. In a physical sense. But they are alive in each of us. In our laughter, in our tears, in our accomplishments, in our strength, in our weakness. In that sense, they are together and they are happy. There is no more hurt for them, there is no more pain. They are alive in the promise of Jesus Christ. In His sacrifice for our sins that we might have a hope for a better day. They are waiting for that better day. It is coming. And it will wipe away all of my selfish fears, desires, and tendencies to lean on the word “I”. I am not alone. I have the peace that I love my parents with a whole, mended, broken, mending heart. And, no matter how I may lose sight, I have always had the peace that I am loved. I am loved by two parents together at rest, and above all, I am loved by the One who conquers all fear and all death and who brings ultimate happiness.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Breathe.
I've been toying with the idea of writing down my thoughts for a long time. At times, this blog will be wedding advice and ideas. At times it will be a lesson I've learned. I think today will be a combination of both.
When you're a little kid it's easy to think about what you want to be when you grow up. However, we don't often think about what our life will be like when we grow up. That's not the fun part. We don't think about bad things when we're little. We think we will have our own house, a great job, and lots of toys. But what happens when you grow up and life isn't the way you ever could have imagined? What if it's worse? What do you do? You put one foot in front of the other and breathe.
I don't remember what I wanted to be when I grew up. Chances are I wanted to be like my mom. Kind, smart, loving, silly, superwoman. Now that I'm a grown up, I can only hope that I have become even a fraction of a bit like my mom. When I was that little girl wanting to be like my mom, I never imagined that I would one day live life without her. And I surely never imagined it would be so soon. But cancer doesn't care about your little girl dreams. It doesn't really show much regard for what you want at all. My mom fought like I have never seen anyone fight. She didn't give that disease one inch of her body without defending herself like crazy. But cancer doesn't care that you're the world's best mom. Cancer doesn't care that you love your kids and your husband more than life itself. Cancer doesn't care that your smile lights up a room. We live in a fallen, sinful world. And because of that, and despite all of her fighting, cancer took my mom.
So here I am. I'm getting married, without my mom. And without my dad. But we'll save that for another day. I don't want this to be a tearjerker, but I know many people look at my life and say, "I don't know how she does it. If I lost both my parents, I don't know what I'd do." Here's what you do: Take a deep breath, put one foot in front of other, and smile. I said yes to a marriage proposal without my mom. I bought a wedding dress without my mom. I am planning a wedding without my mom. I had a bridal shower without my mom. And I'm still standing.I'm still smiling. I miss her every second of every day. I miss her when I'm addressing wedding invitations and I miss her when I'm cleaning the house. I miss her when I wake up in the morning and I miss her when I lie down at night. It doesn't go away. Everyone tells you, "It gets better with time." It doesn't. No amount of time will let me hear my mom's voice again. So what do you do? You breathe. You smile.
Every day I find new ways that my mom lives in me. I find myself thinking like her, reacting like her, and living like her. My mom never had a "bucket list". In fact, she'd be pretty pissed that she's gone. But she did love her life. She loved laughter and she loved being crazy. Mostly, she loved me. And my dad. And my brother. And my sister. And my other sister. My mom loved love. And that is how she lives in me. I love love. Not the mushy, gushy, gag-me type of love. Ask my fiance about that. No. I love to make people happy. I love when people smile because of me. So I am planning a wedding that will make people smile. I want my wedding to be a reflection of love. I want to dance and I want to laugh and I want to love because that's when I feel closest to my mom. That's how I deal with her being gone. I breathe, I laugh, and I love.
When you're a little kid it's easy to think about what you want to be when you grow up. However, we don't often think about what our life will be like when we grow up. That's not the fun part. We don't think about bad things when we're little. We think we will have our own house, a great job, and lots of toys. But what happens when you grow up and life isn't the way you ever could have imagined? What if it's worse? What do you do? You put one foot in front of the other and breathe.
I don't remember what I wanted to be when I grew up. Chances are I wanted to be like my mom. Kind, smart, loving, silly, superwoman. Now that I'm a grown up, I can only hope that I have become even a fraction of a bit like my mom. When I was that little girl wanting to be like my mom, I never imagined that I would one day live life without her. And I surely never imagined it would be so soon. But cancer doesn't care about your little girl dreams. It doesn't really show much regard for what you want at all. My mom fought like I have never seen anyone fight. She didn't give that disease one inch of her body without defending herself like crazy. But cancer doesn't care that you're the world's best mom. Cancer doesn't care that you love your kids and your husband more than life itself. Cancer doesn't care that your smile lights up a room. We live in a fallen, sinful world. And because of that, and despite all of her fighting, cancer took my mom.
So here I am. I'm getting married, without my mom. And without my dad. But we'll save that for another day. I don't want this to be a tearjerker, but I know many people look at my life and say, "I don't know how she does it. If I lost both my parents, I don't know what I'd do." Here's what you do: Take a deep breath, put one foot in front of other, and smile. I said yes to a marriage proposal without my mom. I bought a wedding dress without my mom. I am planning a wedding without my mom. I had a bridal shower without my mom. And I'm still standing.I'm still smiling. I miss her every second of every day. I miss her when I'm addressing wedding invitations and I miss her when I'm cleaning the house. I miss her when I wake up in the morning and I miss her when I lie down at night. It doesn't go away. Everyone tells you, "It gets better with time." It doesn't. No amount of time will let me hear my mom's voice again. So what do you do? You breathe. You smile.
Every day I find new ways that my mom lives in me. I find myself thinking like her, reacting like her, and living like her. My mom never had a "bucket list". In fact, she'd be pretty pissed that she's gone. But she did love her life. She loved laughter and she loved being crazy. Mostly, she loved me. And my dad. And my brother. And my sister. And my other sister. My mom loved love. And that is how she lives in me. I love love. Not the mushy, gushy, gag-me type of love. Ask my fiance about that. No. I love to make people happy. I love when people smile because of me. So I am planning a wedding that will make people smile. I want my wedding to be a reflection of love. I want to dance and I want to laugh and I want to love because that's when I feel closest to my mom. That's how I deal with her being gone. I breathe, I laugh, and I love.
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