Tangled Grrl

 We've hit that time of year again. I survived the second anniversary of Mom's death. And now my Facebook memories are starting with the constant updates of Dad's progression through the hospital. From now until July I will be reminded on a continual basis of That Time. I could just not look at the reminders, but I won't. It's like poking a bruise. You know it will ache, that the poke will make the throbbing more intense, yet you can't seem to stop pestering it. Just to make sure it's still real. It isn't just discoloration - the hurt goes deeper than the surface. You have to be sure it causes pain. Looking back now will still bring me to tears. I still miss mom every day. The hole she left behind isn't so jagged any more. Maybe all of those tears smoothed away the worst of the sharpness and made it easier to bear. Or maybe just living each day one after another forces you to accept the changes.  I went back and read some of my writing from the early...

I've been trying to think of how to do this for days, weeks maybe. How to express thanks. I've been touched by so many people over the last few months in so many different ways. Who ever thought that you could be so thoroughly heartbroken and yet so thoroughly soaked in a feeling of love that you feel as though your heart was overflowing with it all at the same time? It's possible and it's confusing. I would love to thank you all individually. Hug each of you and let you know in just the right way how much you've touched me. How much you've helped, how your acts of generosity, kindness, time, words, gifts, patience, phone calls, text messages, flowers, presence, hugs, food, conversation, shelter, rides, organization, ideas, etc have somehow impacted my family or I in a big way. But I don't even know who all contributed. And I don't know how to say it in the exact right way. But I sure as hell am going to try. The last three months are a bit of a haze...

I'm in a fog today. I spent last night writing up the story of Dad's progression through this nightmare. As usual, I couldn't manage it without some tears. But I got through it and emailed it to him. We posted it on Facebook and GoFundMe for anyone who wants all of the sordid details. In order to write such things, you're forced to relive them. And I wonder how long it will be before reliving them doesn't make me feel like the wounds are ripped open again. When the pain and loss won't feel so new, so fresh. Because you can't tell a story about Dad without telling one of Mom too. I know it will be worse when I go back home, to my "normal" life. Part of me is dreading it. As much as I miss my husband, girls, cat and my bed - I know that when funny things happen I can't call and tell Mom all about it anymore. I can't call her for advice or for the recipe of dishes I know how to make but can't remember. I can't call her to vent my fru...

It can be a really hard thing to admit when you need help. For some, it's the hardest thing. When my siblings and I were growing up, our home was a safe haven. My parents allowed our friends to eat or sleep over when they had nowhere else to go. They were always welcome with us. Family dinners often meant feeding 12 people, not feeding just the 5 of us. Need a place to crash? Stay with us. Need a place to do homework? Come see us. Need school supplies? Come see us. Need a hot meal? Come see us. Just need something, but not sure how to ask for it? Come over. We will figure it out. That was our house growing up. Mom and Dad always joked that we were the Home of Wayward Strays. And they loved every moment of it. We were raised to open doors for strangers, say please and thank you and give to others. Find someone in need? Give to them first. That's what we saw done in our own home every day of our lives. I can't tell you how many times my parents put other people before the...

Before Dad could speak at all, he was trying to communicate with his doctors and nurses by mouthing words to them. Some of the nurses and doctors were better than others at figuring out what he was trying to say. Some were abysmal. One day we had the head of Critical Care medicine in his room and his Cardiac Thoracic surgeon. They were trying to explain to him the next steps of recovery. They were telling him he was making good progress but the next steps were going to be difficult. They were going to suck. He was trying to tell them something, but they couldn't understand. He tried to tell me but I was struggling too. So the doctors said, "Screw this, let the man speak." And they deflated his tracheostomy cuff, and pulled his ventilator for a few moments to let him speak his first words. My dad said, "Embrace the Suck." I started laughing like crazy and the entire room of doctors and nurses just turned around and stared at me. If you've never worked in a ...

Some days are harder than others. Some moments are harder than others. Sad moments and happy moments are the hardest. The times when you would naturally reach out for the person who knows you the best. When you would immediately call your mom to share your sorrows or your joy. She would just know what to say. She would have the right inflection, the right words. She would respond in every right way to make you feel like you deserved to be on cloud nine. Or that you could survive this setback. Because she made you. She already understands the flaws, the minutiae that makes up your thoughts. Yesterday one of the nurses told us that although Dad's chances after he was admitted were 50/50, in her experience only about 20% of patients in that shape actually make it to where he's at. And today he was actually cleared to have a liquid diet. That's such a major accomplishment. And all I want to do is call my mom and tell her. I want to hear the elation in her voice when I explain...