***This post was originally published on August 6th, on Facebook.

Saw this on my friend’s page, @walkingforscott today and it resonated with me.

A few friends have mentioned that it has been a while since I have posted.

I’m still here.

Mom has been gone over two years now. I am still grieving. Though I have tamed my grief, it still sits with me. I am now navigating life through these unprecedented times, while still trying to process my sadness, my anger, my hurt – my grief.

Some days I am sad. Some days I am not sad. Some days are hard. Some days pass somewhat easily.

A lot has been weighing on my heart lately. So much is changing and most of it, is out of my control. All I can do is continue to take it one day at a time. Just as I have been all along. I hope for calm and content days ahead. Until then, I will focus on the great days that are simply, not sad.

****This post was originally published on September 6th on Facebook.

This picture is from 8 years ago. Eight years ago. Back when we had a newborn and the world seemed perfect.

8 years ago, I had no idea my mother would forget me and ultimately leave this Earth six years later. Nor did I fathom my husband would develop a movement disorder that would render him vision impaired.

8 years ago, all we could hope for was another baby. Our son was born less than two years later. Life seemed perfect.

But then, my mother left us. But then, my husband’s eye’s failed him.

So much has changed in eight years. Good and bad. Hold tight to those you love and make the memories. You never know what life will bring. We have some much to be grateful for, but at the same time, we have lost much. May the good memories see us through.

I said goodbye to my childhood home today. My father is moving in two weeks. For the past few months my family and my brother’s family have been spending lots of weekends at my father’s house, purging years of collected things, cleaning out closets, packing china, crystal, books and pictures.

My bedroom at my father’s house was a time capsule. Upon entering it, you stepped back in time, to 1997, the year I graduated high-school. Photos of myself and friends from over 20 years ago hung on the wall. A bulletin board still displayed homecoming mums and dried corsages from prom. Academic certificates and art awards were proudly displayed. But over the past few months, I sorted through it all, deciding what to save, what to donate and what to throw away.

After culling through it all, I narrowed it down to one box. One box that held the most special of all the items I have saved throughout my life. My baby blanket, a few pieces of my artwork, lots of photos, my purple sequined drill team hat and letters my mother wrote me when I was in college. Looking at my empty room this morning was surreal.

And the whole house is looking empty.

There are no photos on display. No books in the bookcases in the family room. No souvenirs from family vacations. No accessories or decor. Most cabinets are empty. Most closets are bare. Most of the house looks unoccupied.

I looked at each room today before I left. And while, the emptiness felt odd, I could still see what it used to be. I remember talking on the phone in my bedroom for hours. I remember getting ready for school in the mornings in my bathroom. I remember friends spending the night, making movies, dancing and gossiping. I remember tasting champagne for the first time in the family room one new years eve. I remember my father welcoming my husband to the family before dinner in the dining room, when we had only been dating for four months at the time. I remember creeping into my parents bedroom late at night to let my mother know I made it home safely. I remember making Christmas cookies in the kitchen. I remember taking pictures before prom in the entrance hall. I remember my parents moving all the furniture in the living room so I would have room to practice my routine for drill team tryouts. I remember my brother getting married on the back porch. I remember pool parties, study groups, slumber parties, family reunions, watching Longhorn football games, birthdays and Christmas mornings. I remember happiness, laughter and love.

Saying goodbye to that house was another goodbye to my mother. She is everywhere inside those walls. I can see her walking out of her bedroom door. I can see her sitting in her favorite chair. I can see her cooking in the kitchen. I can see her playing solitaire on her bed. I can see her lounging by the pool. I can see her celebrating all my victories. I can see her trying to mend my broken heart. I can see her rocking my neices and my children when they were babies. I can see her laughing. I can see HER, in that home.

My mother made that house a home. Soon it will belong to someone else. Soon I will not have a house to return to, in my hometown. My heart hurts today, but I have a lifetime of memories to see me through. For that, I am grateful.

I can never accept that life without my mother is normal. It will ways be hard. It will always be something I do not agree with. It will always be abnormal.

Here we are in 2020, facing a pandemic. It is different. It is scary. It is abnormal.

So why am I against the “new normal”? Because all that is new, is not normal. When my mom got sick, it was not normal. I was not used to my mother telling the same story seventeen times. I was not used to reminding her who people were. I was not used to my mother forgetting I was her daughter. But guess what? It became somewhat routine, even as much as I fought it.

The new normal. A few weeks ago, I would get so mad hearing someone say they were trying to get used to their “new normal”.

Nothing about this is normal. It is not normal to be at home all day long, every day. It is not normal for only one member of our family (me) to be the one to face the public and potentially be exposed to the virus. It is not normal for my children not to attend school and not be among other children around their age. It is not normal for us not to be able to go visit our family and friends. It is not normal to have to plan out any trip beyond our home.

I am a worrier and I worry. A lot. I’ve been told “do not borrow worry”. That is another phrase I hate. I cannot turn my worry off. But, with the amount I worry, I know so many things are beyond my control. This pandemic has certainly been proof of that.

The not knowing what the days ahead will bring, is the worst part. Even as a procrastinator, I am a planner. Not being able to plan our summer properly pains me. Let alone the cancelled family vacation in three weeks.

So now. My children stay home all day and I struggle to play teacher to them. My husband is able to work from home everyday, but his days revolve around Zoom meetings and phone conferences. I try to work from home as much as I can, but a large portion of my job is hands on, so I have to go into the office once or twice a week. I wear a mask and brave the grocery store to buy a weeks worth of food. My children have each other, thankfully, to play with, but no one else. We are all being tested in different ways.

None of us signed up for this. And while the extra family time at home is great, the ice wears thin from time to time.

None of this normal. None of this is what we were used to. But guess what? Nothing new, is normal. It takes time. Time to get used to what is now and time to grieve what once was. And only time will tell what works and what does not.

So, as much I do not want to embrace the new normal, I know I am. I know I have to. The world is changing and I have to adapt.

Just like the first time my mother did not recognize me; her daughter, I had to adapt. I had to accept that things were different. I had to start accepting a new normal.

Here’s to you accepting your new normal.

*This post was originally published on Facebook on March 28, 2020.

These are troubling times we are in right now. It is scary. It is sad. It is surreal. I think not knowing when this will end is the hardest part.

Today has been extra hard for me and it’s only half past noon. I’m stir crazy. I’m frustrated. I’m on edge.

I took a friends advice and took a walk by myself. It cleared my head a little. While on my walk, this song came on and it seemed so fitting for these times.

Pain throws your heart to the ground,
Love turns the while thing around,
No it won’t all go the way it should,
But I know the heart of life is good.

Thank you, John Mayer.

The heart of life IS good. Let us remember that as we carry on day by day.

Stay home. Stay safe. Stay strong.

***This post was originally published on Facebook on February 23, 2020.

Life is unpredictable. When my husband and I got married in 2008, I was on cloud nine. I was 29 years old. Great childhood, check. High school, check. College, check. Lived as an adult on my own, check. Married a man who made me laugh every day and that I adored, check, check.

Fast forward to 2014. Our second child, our son, was born. Our daughter, our oldest, was a ripe 21.5 months old. Family complete. It was everything I grew up wanting. But you can’t live among the clouds always.

It was shortly after the birth of my son that my family confronted my mother’s inconsistencies and forgetfulness. That ultimately led to her Alzheimer’s diagnosis about three months later.

Though in my heart of hearts, I knew the diagnosis was coming, I was still crushed. That mixed with my post partum emotions was not a good thing. Here I was adjusting to life as a mother of two. There was Mom Guilt of loving another child besides your first born, tending to a newborn and trying to be present enough for an almost two-year old. Next I was thrown into the notion that my mother, the one I was counting on to show me the ways of motherhood, was sick. So sick that she would forget me and everyone else before the disease claimed her life.

Fast forward to 2016. Just as I was finally coming to grips with and opening up about my mother’s Alzheimer’s, my family was thrown into a new medical journey.

It started out insignificantly enough. Driving home from the beach one Sunday, my husband complained that he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He ended up pulling over and I drove the rest of the way home. Over the next few days, my husband tried to get more sleep, thinking that would solve the problem. When it did not, he went to his ophthalmologist. He was told it was ocular allergies and received eye drops. When those didn’t help, he was prescribed steroids. When that failed, we sought out a neuro-ophthalmologist. Within five minutes, my husband was diagnosed with Blepharospasm.

Blepharospasm is a bilateral condition and a form of focal dystonia leading to episodic closure of the eyelids. In layman’s terms, it is a spasm of the eyelid muscles, usually causing excessive blinking. In my husband’s case, his eyes involuntarily clamp shut and he either cannot or struggles greatly to open them.

We were told there was good news and bad news with the diagnosis. Bad news: there is no cure for Blepharospasm, nor is there a known cause. Good news: It is a treatable disease with routine Botox. We left that first appointment, naive in what we were about to embark on. I joked with my husband that he was going to look so young in the years to come with Botox. No crows feet for him!

I will never forget one particular weekend shortly after his diagnosis. He had received his first round of Botox earlier that week, but we were told it would take up to two weeks to for the full effects to become apparent. His eyelids were not working at all. He spent almost the entire weekend on the sofa with his eyes clamped shut. It was a new world he was entering. And though, at the time, we both thought it would be short lived, I can only imagine how dark, literally and figuratively, those two days were for him.

I was at a loss for what to say or do for him. We were trying to adapt to him not being able to see easily. He bumped into furniture and tripped over our childrens toys. But still, it seemed like something we just had to get through at the moment because we believed the treatment would fix the issues. It did not.

Unfortunately, Botox does not have the usual affect on my husband. It helps slightly, but day to day, my husband struggles with opening his eyes. Over the past 3.5 years, he has seen numerous doctors and specialists, tried many different prescription drugs and undergone three surgeries, all in conjunction with different trials of Botox injection amounts and patterns. My husband has developed facial dystonia or possibly a learned behavior of holding his head back and contorting his facial muscles to engage the eyelid muscles to function. This world is very judgmental and he gets lots if odd looks. You may think, at least he his eyes aren’t open to to see the looks cast his way, but he does see some of them and it does affect him. He wears special glasses with a metal crutch built-in that literally try to keep his eyelids pried open. My husband hasn’t driven a car (more than about two miles) since April of 2017. Reading for more than a minute or two is extremely hard. Day to day life became extremely hard. Staying positive became extremely hard.

Close you eyes for five seconds. One……. Two……. Three…… Four…… Five……. Now imagine you were not able to open your eyes. It’s not that your eyes don’t work, only your eyelids. It’s not that you are blind, just you can’t open and maintain your eyelids to see. Imagine not being able to easily read your favorite book, watch your favorite TV show, maneuver in the kitchen and cook a meal, or drive yourself to work. Imagine your child saying, “Daddy, watch this!” and you cannot.

I am constantly tasked with finding things for my husband. I do all of the driving for our family. I handle most of the homework with our children. Blepharospasm has definitely changed the dynamic of our family. I get frustrated. I get angry. I get annoyed with the extra stress it puts on our lives. But, then I stop and think, about how my husband must feel. My feelings on our situation cannot even begin to compare to how he feels, living it everyday. He has had a lot of hard days. A lot of bad days. A lot of dark days. And rightfully so. I have no idea how hard it has been for him to get out of bed some mornings. At times, he will focus on the positive. This disease will not kill him. He can continue to fight and seek out new treatments. But it has made tremendous impacts, physically and psychologically. I cannot truly understand what this has done to his mental health. I cannot fathom what this disease has stolen from him.

But. I admire my husband more now than ever before. He still faces everyday, even on the days he drags his feet. He faces this cruel world, even after the hardest of days. He continues to fight and I want him to remain hopeful. My husband continues to be a father, a husband, a son, a professional, and a friend. We have been blessed with our family and friends that have rallied around us and that his career has supported him, appreciated him and provided necessary support. But, it is hard.

For better, for worse. It’s during the worst, that your love is tested. I am proud to say our love is strong. Strong enough to survive the low points. Between losing my mother in 2018 and dealing with my husbands disease, there have been many low points. Looking back there were days that just getting through the day only to sleep and try again in the morning, was an accomplishment. It amazes me that while my husband has been adapting to life with his disease, going through his own grief and darkness, he was there for me and my grief, before and after losing my mother.

Here we are in 2020. We are still working to better my husbands situation. We now know it will most likely never be what it once was, but we continue to hold out hope we can still make it better than it is right now.

My husband is valuable. My husband is strong. My husband is brave. I will continue to fight with and for him. I have hope. I am grateful to him to be by my side.

I love him.

For better or for worse.

***This post was originally published on Facebook on December 30, 2019.

The night after Christmas, I found myself, staring at my new Christmas tree, upon which my mother’s jeweled ornaments hang. I was all alone. I decided to play Mom’s favorite Christmas songs. Then I found myself talking to her. The talk, one-sided as it might have been, lead me to write this post. It is raw and heartfelt, yet as a mother myself, it is one I know is not necessary. I felt the need to apologize, though I know my mother would tell me otherwise.

After reading the post, which at the time only included my apologies, to my husband, he suggested maybe looking at it in a more positive light. It took me a few days, but I gained so much from taking the time to examine my feelings and what I have gained from it all. There are a couple I could not balance with thanks. Another reminder that I am a work in progress.

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I’m sorry, Mom. Thank you for being a wonderful mother.

I’m sorry for not picking up the blocks when I was three, like you asked, even though I punished myself. Thank you for teaching me there are consequences for my actions.

I’m sorry that I got too scared on my first sleepover and you had to come pick me up in the middle of the night. Thank you for showing me that you would always be there for me, even in the middle of the night.

I’m sorry for not keeping my room as clean as you would have preferred. Thank you for allowing me to play and make a mess. Perfection was never expected, but being a kid and having fun was.

I’m sorry for getting annoyed with your questioning growing up, when all you wanted, was to hear more about me and what I was going through or feeling. Thank you for taking an interest in everything I did and wanting to know all you could about me.

I’m sorry for the times I didn’t live up to your expectations. Thank you for showing me you loved me no matter what.

I’m sorry for breaking the rules, even if it was a small number of them. Again, thank you for not expecting perfection and again, for teaching me about consequences and responsibilities.

I’m sorry for every eye roll I thought you didn’t see. Thank you for not calling me out and making me feel ashamed.

I’m sorry for any time I spoke angrily towards you or hurt your feelings. Thank you for allowing me to express myself.

I’m sorry I stopped asking for hugs when I became a teenager. Thank you for not forcing them when I was trying to be cool and thought I outgrew hugs from Mom.

I’m sorry for being so stubborn and independent. I should have let you help me more. Thank you for letting me attempt to make it on my own, even if you knew it may lead to mistakes. Thanks for helping me pick up the pieces.

I’m sorry for my sarcastic retorts, even if I inherited my sacarsm from you. Thank you for laughing it off.

I’m sorry for all the times I made you worry. Thank you for loving me so much.

I’m sorry for the times I got mad at you when you were only trying to help. Thank you for letting me know you would be there when I needed or wanted help.

I’m sorry not everyone took the time to find out how kind, funny and wonderful you were. Thank you for showing me to always be true to yourself and that we can’t always control what others think of us.

I’m sorry I didn’t realize how cool you were until I was in my mid twenties. Thanks for patiently waiting that one out.

I’m sorry you got sick.

I’m sorry I couldn’t make it better. Thank you for never expecting more out of me than you knew I could handle.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there more, in the good times and the bad. Thank you for never making me feel like I didn’t do enough.

I’m sorry you forgot me. Thank you loving me so much in my life, that I knew it wasn’t your choice.

I’m sorry I was mad at you for a little while. Though, I wasn’t really mad at you, I was mad at Alzheimer’s. Just like I know you didn’t really forget me, it was Alzheimer’s. Thank you for teaching me it is ok to feel and experience every emotion.

I’m sorry you left me too soon.

I’m sorry you don’t get to see your grandchildren grow up. Thank you for teaching me so many lessons to pass on to them.

I’m sorry I took you for granted. Thank you for never judging me.

I’m sorry for not giving your the credit you deserved, all along the way. Thank you for understanding my love was always there.

I’m sorry for all the times I let you down. Thank you for always making me feel loved.

I’m sorry you’re not here. Thank you for teaching me that even when you are not present, love remains.

I’m sorry I’m having a hard time with this. Thank you for giving me such an amazing mother/daughter relationship that makes it so hard to accept you are gone.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, “I love you” as often as I should. Thank you for making me feel that you always knew it.

I’m sorry, Mom. Thank you for everything.

I love you.

It happened. One of those unexpected moments you can’t predict, that takes your breath away.

I have been blessed to find amazing friends in our neighborhood. One of those friends planned a “Friendsgiving” this year. The hosts opened their home and provided the turkey for seven families. In return we all brought appetizers, sides and desserts. It was a fun evening of gratitude, friendship and thanks.

As we sat down to dinner, I was enjoying the moment. I was grateful to be with great friends. Friends who have carried me through some dark hours and provided a safe place to grieve, cry and vent. Toasts were made. Glasses clinked. We gave thanks.

The dinner was successful and delicious. A group photo was suggested. We attempted to capture the moment, though the photo could never fully express the comradery shared. There were awkward angles, but a photo exists of 14 adults sitting at a dining table, grateful for each other and a night to celebrate friendship. Never mind the 13 tiny humans running around celebrating in their own way.

Normally, my phone would not have been on the table at a dinner like that. Normally, I wouldn’t have focused on it. There I was, laughing, smiling and enjoying the night, when my brother texted.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The preview that came across the top of my phone said “images”. Curiosity killed the cat and all that. Close as we are, my brother doesn’t send pictures or images that often.

I opened the text to find my brother had sent me photos of our mother. Photos he had just received from a distant cousin. Photos I never knew existed. Photos I instantly cherished. Photos that seemed to stop time for a minute.

The tears quickly welled in my eyes, though I didn’t let them fall. I swiped through the photos over and over, zooming in and analyzing every detail. Though I couldn’t believe I now possessed these images, I selfishly wanted more. And while the photos stirred the sadness within me, I was more comforted by them, than anything else.

Love. Comfort. Warmth. Happiness. Beauty. Gratitude. Family. Life. Thanks. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but this one is worth so much more.

They say you can never go home again. I used to believe that wasn’t true. Now, it seems accurate.

I am currently sitting in my childhood home, in the living room, alone. My father is in the hospital working on some health issues. While I am beyond grateful it looks like I will be able to bring him home tomorrow, it was somewhat disheartening this evening to come “home” to this empty house.

This house has so many memories and the good ones far outweigh the bad. This is the place of late night family dinners, big breakfasts on the weekends, slumber parties, staying up late on the phone with boyfriends, long summers spent by the pool and countless Christmas and birthday celebrations. It is the place I left after high school, so ready to be an adult and on my own. It is the place that took me back in on weekends and provided comfort through college. It is the place that didn’t judge me when I visited as a young adult and wanted to act like a kid. It is the place I brought my husband to, when we were first dating, to meet my family. It is the place my children joyfully refered to, as “Mimi and Papa’s house”. This is the place where laughter and love was always present. This is the place that was home.

But tonight, as I sit on the sofa alone, next to my Mom’s empty chair, it all feels different. As an adult, my Mom and I would have late night chats in the living room. We talked about the little things and the big. We talked about the past and what the future hopefully would bring. We laughed and we cried. We would notice the clock and say “we must go to bed” and then stay up at least another hour talking. Neither one of us wanted to be the one who ended the chat session.

As I sit in the quiet, it feels almost as if Mom might come in the room, sit down in her chair next me, and say “well, Girl, what’s been going on?” I would give almost anything for one more late night chat. I would force myself to stay up until dawn talking. I would soak it all in. I would let her annoy me with her need for more details on whatever our subject was. I would hold her hands and relish the moment. I would memorize her laugh. I would tell her how much she means to me and how much I love her.

“Home” feels so different now without her and it probably always will. I will try not to dwell on it, but rather, be grateful. I come from a home of love, laced with laughter and strength. A home that provided the foundation for who I am. A home that let me borrow the blueprints to start my own. A home that has more value in the memories created within, than in the structure or physical things inside.

Without Mom, “home” doesn’t feel like home. But, when I go to the house I share with my husband and my children, that is starting to feel like “home”. There is love and laughter. There is a foundation to shape my children and guide them as they grow. And one day, hopefully my children will sit in the living room with me, racing the clock, during a late night chat. My house is becoming home, because of the previous home that built me.

They say you can never go home again. Maybe that’s true. But the memories. They go with you and help build something new.

This past Saturday was my daughter’s first soccer game. She played “soccer” in preschool, in that an organization came to her school and taught the basics. When she entered kindergarten we were both adapting to a new school and no extra-curricular activities took place. Last year she took dance at my strong encouragement. She didn’t love it and for the last several months of dance, she repeatedly asked to play soccer this year. Of course I said yes, as I just want my children to do what they love.

Finally, the league we signed up with began this last week. She was beyond excited. In a way, you can say she had been waiting for this for a couple of years. Her first practice was only two days before her first game. She recieved her uniform at the first practice and slept in that night, along with her soccer ball. Saturday morning arrived and she awoke full of energy, ready to go. Though she didn’t know the difference from playing goalie or defender, she had fun and was already looking forward to the next game. This is a league that doesn’t keep score, which I have mixed feelings about. The trouble with that “fair” rule, is that they didn’t take into account, that 6-8 year-old players keep up with the goals on their own. I am proud to say that the Red Foxes emerged victorious!

We left the soccer fields and picked up a post game celebratory lunch at Chick-fil-A. As we drove through the neighborhood to our house, Maroon Five’s latest single, Memories, filled the airwaves of the car. I have heard it a few times. Enough to sing along with the chorus, which I did. I understand what the song is about, so it’s not shocking to know that it has brought tears to my eyes. We pulled into the driveway and I turned the car off before the song even ended. The four of us unloaded and marched into the house. After we were inside, the dog out had been let out and my son announced he was going upstairs to change clothes, I noticed my daughter was sunken against the wall with tears streaming down her face. I was taken aback. This girl was just on cloud nine. What could have possibly happened in the past 20 or so minutes to turn her happiness into sadness.

“I’m thinking about Mimi and how much I miss her.”

I felt like I had been hit in the stomach and my heart broke all over again. I was in disbelief of how quickly her high turned into such a low. I led her into the living room and scooped her into my lap. I stupidly was still oblivious to why her her precious heart was suddenly hurting.

“That song was talking about memories and the people we miss. I miss Mimi.”

So many things hit me at once in that moment. My 7-year-old was still grieving. I had taken it for granted that her life and relationship with her Mimi was short and therefore might be easier to process. I realized that she must have been bottling up her emotions, unknowing how best to express them. My daughter, though mature for her age in many ways, was still a little girl who simply misses her grandmother. My daughter, though strong, can break. My daughter is just like me. A simple song on the radio can propel us back to the raw hurt and sadness of losing my mother and her Mimi.

As she cried, I hugged her tightly. Tears began to pool in my eyes. I was tempted to be strong for her. But as I hugged her and felt her small body shake with emotion, I stopped holding back and let my daughter see me grieve. I let her see the tears I normally only let out in front of my husband or when I am alone. I let her feel how it affected me. I wanted her to know it was ok.

We talked for a little bit about Mimi and her memories of her. How they used to work puzzles and color together. I told her that the memories may make her sad right now, but eventually they will make her happy. I told her that I missed Mimi everyday and it was ok to be sad. And I told her that Mimi loved and still loves her so much.

Almost as quickly as the sadness came on, it retreated, in true childlike fashion. My daughter leaned in for one last hug, wiped her eyes and then asked for her lunch (it was Chick-fil-A after all). Within minutes, my happy girl was back, enjoying chicken nuggets in her coveted soccer uniform.

The purity of a child’s innocence is precious. I have always worried what would rob my children of their innocence. My son was too young at the time, but my mother’s death definitely took hold of my daughter’s innocence. It may not have stolen it all, but it left its mark. I wrestle with wanting my daughter to live in a perfect, happy, rainbows and unicorns kind of childhood bubble and knowing when it is appropriate to start to begin processing real life issues. How do we let children be kids, but still prepare them for harshness life can sometimes bring.

My take-away is this: Children are always listening, even when we don’t think they are. It may be to the words we say, the actions we make or interpreting the song on the radio. This world is hard and will no doubt throw hardship their way at some point. I will take it one blow at a time. I will try to show my children it is alright to be sad, to be mad, to grieve, and to work through your emotions. But, most of all, I will try to make them understand, they are never alone and hiding behind your emotions is never the answer.

My daughter is me and I am my mother.

We are strong but we need to understand it is ok to be vulnerable and to release our emotions. Mom, taught me that and now I am teaching her her granddaughter.