Wash over me

I put the kids to bed and fought the tears until I found refuge down here on the couch. Safely out of earshot of the kids, I feel my cheeks flush and the tears start to roll down my cheeks. The lights on the tree blur as I let my sadness come to the surface. I sit here and I cry the tears that have been brewing all evening. I am discouraged by my somber mood.

I walked down the stairs with a familiar heaviness in my chest. I dislike this feeling that has been at bay for so long. I have grown accustomed to feeling in control of my sadness, choosing when to let it wash over me and when to channel it into something hopeful. I know that it is my choice, yet I don’t always feel the strength required to make the better choice.

Why do we choose to be sad? Is there some biology at work sabotaging our good intent? What lens am I looking through today that makes me feel depleted? Why do we feel more resilient some days and others just the opposite? I have asked myself this question many times over the last four years and I find myself sitting here again tonight wondering the same thing.

There are too many variables at work to hold just one accountable for our moods but there must be triggers for each of us. Tonight, I am sad for what my kids have lost…will this ever go away?

Oh Christmas Tree

 

Tree time

 

 

 

 

Re-fuel

I wonder, I question, and I doubt. I find myself having this conversation in my head repeatedly as my patience and energy dwindle. My fresh can-do attitude fades as I look at the circles beneath my eyes in the mirror each morning. I work along side co-workers who comment on how tired I look (ps. telling someone they look tired is the same as telling someone they look like shit) and I wonder if this is all worth it.

I toss around various scenarios in my head wondering which variable would relieve some of the stress I feel each day. I apply my mascara and look back at myself, staring into the freckles in my eyes and I see this exhausted woman staring back at me. I don’t feel young anymore. I don’t feel like the bubbly Vancouver mom I used to be. This single-parent-widowed thing is a tough gig.

My mind flickers back to quick snapshots of family times when things seemed easier. It feels like eons ago, and as though I’m recalling someone else’s life. I search for that recent memory of feeling replenished and well rested but it escapes me. I don’t remember the last time I felt unhurried in my day. As I drive from home to the daycare then work and back again each day in scramble mode, I wonder who else feels like this?

The days feel long and my eyes are heavy as I finish the lunches for the following day (my most dreaded task aside from emptying the dishwasher). I can’t seem to find the 2 minutes it requires to pull over and collect my mail from the mailbox on the corner, or to stop for gas even when the gaslight has been glowing for a day or two. To sacrifice the 6 minutes it takes to fill my car would make me “ultra-late” instead of the usual late so I push it. I test the fuel range setting on my VW as it ticks down to 10kms until empty. I exhale in frustration standing in the cold as I fill my car at $1.13/litre…of course, wishing I had done it the day before.

As I listen to the pump clunking away I catch it’s rhythmic sound. It sounds nice…un-hurried, steady, and not in a rush in the least. I envy the gas pump and it’s simple purpose and patient way. I suddenly realize, this is the first time I’ve stood still for more than 5 minutes all day.

D-e-t-e-r-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n

I have stood in the hallway outside Noah’s door and cursed his persistence. His unwavering need to always control a situation. His desire to consistently get what he wants. I grab at that silver lining in an effort to look for the positive. I tell myself, this quality WILL come in handy when he’s an adult. His persistence will grow to be less trying and more profitable for him when it is not at the expense of my sanity.

And then I see.

I watch as my little 5-year-old falls over 50 times and gets up, determined to master the latest new skill. He does not get discouraged, or even ill tempered. He skates and falls, and skates and falls, and tries to keep up to his sister.

Watch out Audrey, it won’t take him long…

Dear Mr. G

You have a way of sneaking back into my everyday when I am just fine. Really, really, fine. It irritates me and corrupts my joyful mood, with a thump. (Ask Audrey and Noah, they are my unlucky, innocent bystanders.) You have a way of doing that. I am growing to resent your sneaky ways. I used to be thankful in the early days for the relief from you. I’d have a few consecutive days where I realized that you were not a constant and I smiled at this. I could operate and be “un-grief-like”; I’d go so far as to say, downright chipper.

This process of shedding you unconsciously came about at it’s own pace. No amount of willing it would do any good; I learnt this lesson early on. I felt triumphant when I did more than just muddle my way through the conversation that makes most people stare at the floor when you answer “No, I’m not married…(long pause)…I’m widowed" I filled the silence and made it okay that they asked an innocent question.

Today…
You crept back in and I’m sick of you. I’m sick of your little reminders that make me feel alone when I am not. I tire of the surprise visits and the popping in when I’m doing regular mom stuff. Carving pumpkins, making dinner, mediating the relentless bickering of children, you know…regular everyday things. Why do you need to pinch me just to hang out for the afternoon and leave that bitter, ripped off taste in my mouth? Enough already.

I don’t need any reminders that you are still here. I was there, remember? Grief has no finish line. Jerk. I’m rebuilding my life and I don’t need to feel thankful that you’re not my everyday anymore. Just give it a rest and let me nudge myself forward when I want to.

Got that??
Beat it grief.

I didn't need you today, come back some other day if you must.

Yours truly,
Leslie

Ps. Sorry I called you a jerk.

Nightlights

It’s been nearly a week since we attended the Light the Night Fundraiser and the last few days have been filled with memories from years past. Our team, “Just Keep Swimming” was very successful in raising money for the Leukemia Lymphoma Society this year, we nearly reached our ambitious goal of $2000. The messages I sent seemed barley adequate to express my gratitude to those of you who supported our fundraising efforts.

I couldn’t find the right words to express all that I have been carrying in my thoughts these last few weeks. I watched proudly as Audrey and Noah got excited at the prospect of raising money for leukemia research. Their loss and sadness was not tied to these efforts. They didn’t pair this event to a sad day in their lives; they pounced on the opportunity to find something fun and positive about it all. I was amazed at their enthusiasm.

I was reticent to even propose such a thing to them. Thinking the whole time, how do I expose them to such an emotionally loaded situation? Most kids in our neighbourhood are selling chocolate bars for the local bowling league while mine are soliciting donations in memory of their Dad?? This seemed wrong on so many levels. I began to feel angry and sad that this was their reality and questioned my involving them at all. Wondering, and again doubting my judgment as to whether they were ready for something like this.

As this week has unfolded, I have come to think that maybe it was my own vulnerability that I was afraid of exposing, not so much theirs. I am afraid to see my kids hurt, they have had a lifetime worth of pain in their little lives. I am afraid to see my kids cry and miss their Dad; it breaks my heart to watch and feel it unfold. I feel helpless at times knowing that my hugs are not enough to fill the void

Thankfully, in true Audrey and Noah style, they surprised me. They walked and laughed and embraced an evening that was devoted to helping other people touched by this disease. Yes, we had some tears late that night but the general spirit of why we were there was not lost on them. I should know by now that they are my little nightlights when I need them the most. Their Dad would be proud of them.