Tag: losing a parent

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Cancer Family & Friends Health losing a parent Mothering Parenting

April 18th- Birthday and Cancer

 

Birthday and cancer may seem like an odd title, but April 18th, would have been my mom’s 63rd birthday.  She passed away 2 years ago, and I can’t help but think about her today. Losing a parent never really goes away.  There are always reminders, birthdays, holidays, and family events that tend to make you stop and remember.  Fortunately, I have a lot of happy memories of her, and that is what I like to remember about her.

I actually skipped the cemetery visit today. I’ve always gone on her birthday, and death anniversary. But this year, I don’t feel the need.  I know she is in a better place, and even though her remains are buried, I don’t think her spirit is in the cemetery. Her spirit is in the memories my siblings and I have of her, and in our children.  People often tell me what great kids I have, and credit that to my mom.  She was a good mom, and I model a lot of my parenting after my mom.  When I’m facing parenting issues I have no idea on how to handle, I think back to what she did, and 9 times out of 10 it works with my kids.

So today, in her honor, I’m going to spend some extra time with Ryan and Cole, and tell them a story about when I was a little girl with my mom. I have the picture books she put together, and I’m going to find the book with my first trip to Disneyland, when I was 6, and show those pictures to the boys, and tell them what I remember about it and my mom.  I think that will do more to honor her spirit and teach my boys about their Nana, then going to the cemetery.

April 18, 2009 was the day I received the phone call from my doctor that changed my life- forever.  I was told I had thyroid cancer. That day seemed so long ago, and yet, it seems like it was yesterday. I remember wondering what was going to happen to my boys. I remember my family and friends telling me I was going to beat this, and be okay.  I remember being the most scared I ever was.  I remember crying for hours and then stopping.  Getting dressed and going out with my family and friends.  Being normal, in an abnormal situation.   Knowing I had to for my kids.  Nothing else mattered. They needed their mom- every child does. I remember that night resolving no matter what, I was going to fight and do whatever I needed to do, to fight cancer, get healthy, and live so my kids didn’t have to grow up without me.

It isn’t always been easy. I have to do follow up visits every time this year, that stress me out and bring up all the “what if’s,” again. But, three years after a cancer diagnosis, with the help, support, and love of my kids, family, and friends, what I envisioned as hope, three years ago, is a reality.

I wish I had time to respond to all the emails I get from thyroid cancer patients, but I just don’t anymore.  I am planning to write another post soon, addressing a lot of comments, questions, and issues, I’ve received in emails.  I haven’t written about cancer in a long time, but this date is significant for me.  No one knows what is around the corner, but those of us who have had cancer, happen to know some of what we need to deal with.  My boyfriend, John, pointed out to me this past week, I know what I am dealing with, and can stay on top of it. It actually does make it easier in some respects.

The only way cancer wins out is if it steals your spirit from you. There were days when I was fighting cancer, I didn’t care if I was alive or not. Then I remembered my kids and family.  Let them be your strength.  Let people help you.  Even though it is a battle, thyroid cancer is curable.  Don’t let it take your passion, drive, and optimism away.

One of my favorite things I read when I was fighting cancer was, “Cancer is a word. Not a sentence.” Sometimes it is easy to let it become a sentence, but it doesn’t help you in the long term.  Three years ago, as I was crying on my bed for hours, I would have never imagined I would be in the best health of my life, cancer free, biking, 30+ miles, placing in competitive running races, and thriving, within a few short years.

I want anyone who is fighting cancer, to know life is what you make of it- cancer or no cancer. Don’t let it become your “sentence.” Fight with everything you have to keep it a word.  Fight with all you have, and then some, to beat it.  It is hard at times- most things worthwhile are.  But, three years later I can tell you, from being there and back, it is one of the most important things you will ever do.

My mom passed away before I got my cancer free diagnosis last year.  But she saw me fight it, and continuing to live my life.  One of the last conversations I had with her in the hospice, she held my hand with what little strength she had left, and told me I was fine. She told me to keep running; she could see how strong it was making me.  She said she knew the cancer was gone- she said I was just too strong for it to survive- I was stronger than cancer. She was right.

Happy Birthday, Mom.  I love you.

To all my thyroid cancer fighters and survivors: Keep fighting! Cancer is a word. Not a sentence.

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Cancer Family & Friends losing a parent

A Gift

My mother, Linnie, with my brother, Jeff, (her first child) in 1970.

One year.  My mom has been dead for one year today.  Some days it seems like she’s still out there- living her life and she’ll be calling any day to say ‘Hi,’ like she often did.  Then there are days where it seems like she’s been gone for ten years. 

When she died, I had no idea how to get through the next year.  I don’t think anyone does- you just do.  Life goes on.  There are kids, jobs, family, relationships, friends, hobbies, and all the other stuff that keeps life busy.  I have had all of those things this past year.  I’ve wanted to share them with my mom.  There have been days where I’ve cried for her. Days where I’ve been mad, days where I have peace, days I’m happy she’s not suffering, but most of all I just miss her.

I realized around Christmas, when I pulled out “The Night Before Christmas,” book she recorded in her voice the year before for Ryan and Cole, I was forgetting what her voice sounded like.  You don’t think about that- until you realize you are forgetting what their voice sounds like. 

All the things- little and big, I took for granted from her- parenting advice (sometimes asked for, sometimes not), Mother Day cards and wishes, phone calls, little odd gifts that would come from QVC in the mail to me because she thought I’d like them, visits, birthday cards, encouragement, someone who always had time for me, unwavering support, my boys’ Nana, and unconditional love, I noticed this past year, painfully, because those things are not here from her anymore. 

And yet, I still have a sense she’s with me.  As I have gone through the tedious process of keeping current my cancer follow up care, I hear her voice in the back of my mind, telling me to stay up on it.  I see her smile in Ryan, Cole, and my niece’s.  When I am baking or cooking one of her recipes, I remember the love she had for us, as she made the same dishes years ago.  When I feel like I really need to know she’s looking out for us, something happens- something unexplainable, which I can only attribute to her. Like Cole telling me out of the blue, that Nana visits him when he sleeps, and she tells him she loves all of us.  Or the pharmacy dropping the price on the very expensive cancer testing drug I need by the exact amount my insurance won’t cover.  It’s hard not to think she is out there somehow- making sure we know her presence is here.

Then there is the guilt and questions that are always buried beneath the surface.  Was I a good enough daughter? Did I spend enough time with her?  Did she know I loved her? Did she know how much I appreciated things she had done for me her entire life? I tried to make sure I told her these things during the few days we had in the hospice, but I can’t remember.  Much of that week is a blur.  I do remember when I told John my mom was very sick, probably was going to die, and I was heading to Minnesota with my sister, he told me the time I would have with my mom would be a gift.  I didn’t really register what that would mean at the time, but I thought about it while I was spending time with her in the hospital and hospice, after she passed away, and during this past year.

A gift.  A gift to watch your mother die.  A gift to be there.  A gift to say good-bye.  A gift to laugh with her one more time.  A gift for her to hear her grandchildren’s voices for a final time.  A gift for all of us to be a family one more time.  A gift for her to hug me.  A gift for her to hold my hand.  A gift for her stroke my hair one last time, like she did when I was little.  A gift to crawl into bed with her, like I did when I was little.  A gift to be her little girl, one final time.   A gift to tell her I love her.  A gift for her to tell me she loves me.  A gift to see her make the decision this was the end of her life.  A gift for her to see the outpouring of love from her friends.  A gift to hear her labored breathing, as it slowed down every hour.   A gift to know it was peaceful.  A gift to hold her hand, as she took her last breath.  A gift to see her suffering end.  A gift to see her spirit finally at peace-forever.

To have had and to have known these things in my mom’s final week of her life, even with the pain and heartache, -the comfort it has brought me- I can’t fully describe. The only words I have are: A Gift.

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Family & Friends losing a parent

One Month Later

It occurred to me yesterday that today is the day my mom has been gone for a month.  Some days it seems like this still isn’t real.  And then there are days where it is all too real. 

Last week my sister’s husband, Kevin, and our friend, who was friends with my mom too, went to Minnesota to pack up her house for us.   Kevin said he didn’t want us to have to go through her things-it would be way too difficult.  So they flew out there, packed everything up, and drove back to Colorado.  We are so grateful to them for doing that for us.  Her things arrived at my house last week.  My brother Jeff, and my dad came up to help unpack the truck, but it was so difficult.   

I can’t tell myself she really busy at work, and that’s why she hasn’t called, when I saw all her things she owned in life- some of it she still had from when I was a little girl, in the back of a U-Haul.   

There was one picture she had holding my brother when he was a baby- she was 21, young, free, and beautiful, as a new mother.  I found it years ago in really bad shape and had it restored professionally for her as a Mother’s Day gift.  I wanted to find that picture last night.  I opened all the boxes that were labeled pictures, and found so many pictures she had of us.  Pictures from when we were babies up to just a few months ago.  I wanted to find that picture, because I feel like part of her gets a bit more distant everyday, and there is nothing I can do to stop that.  Seeing that picture would have helped. 

I didn’t find it last night, but I know it is there among her things somewhere. In some box, wrapped in tissue paper.  Her life.  Our life.  Our memories of her are in boxes now.  That is all we have left of her.  It isn’t nearly enough, but it is all we have.  When I saw the box with all our old family and childhood picture books, I felt a sense of relief.  The years she spent creating those for us, we have them now.  We will always have a piece of her and our history with those pictures. 

I drive by the cemetery on my way to work.  I had planned to stop today, but it snowed a foot of snow last night, and I would not have been able to find her grave.  I feel bad  I couldn’t “do” something today and at the very least go to her grave. 

I mentioned in a previous post one of her favorite songs was Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and it was sung at her service.  One of my friends posted a link to a new version of the song she had heard.  I think it is neat that happened.  It reminded me to keep looking for my mom in small things.  Another friend sent me a link a few weeks ago I had forgotten about until now.  It was to another version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow.  My mom would have loved this version, and the pictures. 

I miss and love you, Mom.   

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Family & Friends losing a parent Mothering

My Mom’s Memorial Service

My mom’s (Linda- “Linnie”) memorial service was held on Saturday.  The day was sunny, cool, and a bit breezy.  It was the kind of day my mom would have loved, especially with the Flatiron Mountains of Boulder as the backdrop.  My mom’s older brother, John, passed away in 1952, when he was just seven, and is buried in Boulder.  My mom wanted to be laid to rest with him, and we were very happy we could carry out this last request for her.

 My siblings, Jeff, Mara, Vanessa, and I, were very touched by all the people who attended.  From our bosses and co-workers, to old friends who remembered my mom when we had all been children.  Two of our friends are members of a choir, and they organized some members to sing.  They sang one of my mom’s favorite songs, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. 

 My cousins, Mary and Emily, along with their dad, Mike, read some quotes, and thoughts.  My aunt, Laura, and friend, Christina, read two touching letters from two of my mom’s friends in Minnesota.  My siblings and I all spoke briefly about my mom, and we found out that was harder and more emotional than we thought it would be.  I gained a new perspective though on my mom from hearing what my brother and sisters, and others remembered about her.   

The choir sang another song while my mom’s three grandchildren, Ryan, Cole, and Maelin, each put a rose on John’s gravestone to symbolize their grandmother’s wish, and also how she will live on in them.   

After everyone had left the service, my siblings and I, watched as the interment took place.  It was simple, and it was final.  

We held a reception afterwards at Laura’s house, and it was so nice to see more friends who couldn’t attend the service.  They laughed, cried, listened, and shared memories with us.  I know I speak for my family, in thanking everyone who has supported us through the loss of our mother.  We appreciate all the condolences, prayers, cards, flowers, plants, notes, and well-wishes. It has made a very difficult time a bit easier. 

I have never lost any one so close to me before.  Like most people, I’ve had some hard situations in life, but those seem to cease in comparison to this.  My favorite time of the day now is the first three seconds I wake up in the morning.  Because I don’t remember for those few seconds she is gone.  

During the time I had with her in Minnesota,  I felt like I was forgetting to tell or ask her something.  I couldn’t shake that feeling, and yesterday I realized what it was that I never got to ask her: my mom lost her mom when she was 16.  I keep finding myself wanting to call my mom and ask her advice- how do you get through this? How do you move on after your mother dies?

For the first time ever in my life, I am going to have to figure this one out without her.  

Below is what I spoke at my mother’s service: 

Thinking about my mom, it is hard to narrow down her life, but I remember her always telling me, “you will never know how much I love you, until you have your own children.”  When I was a little girl and heard this, I didn’t understand.  When I was a teenager and she told me this, I rolled my eyes and said sarcastically, “whatever moth-errr”  When I was in my 20’s, and heard this, I thought it was sweet, and when I was in my 30’s and had my own children, I finally understood the magnitude of this simple sentence I had been told my entire life.  I also realized how true her statement was. 

My mom told me about ten years ago, she had regrets in her life, and wished she could have done some things differently.  But she said in her clear, strong, voice that having us- her children- was the only completely perfect thing she had ever done.  She told me we were the best things to ever happen to her.  Then she added, “you’ll never know how much I love you, until you have your own children.” 

During our last days together, I thought about all the times she stayed up with me when I was sick, or was there when I needed to talk, and all the other millions of things a mother does over a lifetime.  I remember she helped me get my first job- at McDonald’s- I was too shy to call the manager back to check on my application, maybe I knew something she didn’t, but she called for me and I got the job.  She was the first person I called after my sons were born, and the one person I could call at 3AM when I had a screaming, sleepless baby up, for advice.  I’ve watched her incredible strength, and determination and her mistakes and downfalls.   My mother taught me how to live, and how not to live. She wasn’t just my mother- she was my friend too. 

I was able to be with my mother in her final days, hours, and moments, and it was a gift.  My mom was there when I took my first breath, and I was there holding her hand, when she took her last one.  Her life is complete and the circle ends where it began- with us, her children. 

I told my mom in our last conversation, she had been right about her statement, she smiled and she also added “I will love you forever.”  

I believe she will and I have started to tell my own children, Ryan and Cole, “you will never know how much I love you, until you have your own children.”  They look at me and smile now when I say this.  They will roll their eyes at me in a few short years when I tell them this.  They don’t understand now, but one day they will.  That will be the legacy of my mother that lives on in her children and grandchildren.  Love. 

My mom and I- 1998