***This post was originally published on Facebook on September 29, 2019

Yesterday, I walked in my 4th annual Walk to End Alzheimer’s. When I found the walk four years ago, I was depressed and unsure of how to process my roller coaster of emotions in dealing with this terrible disease. The walk became something positive to focus on, in such negative circumstances. I realized that even though my mother couldn’t fight Alzheimer’s and it was most likely a cure would not be found before the disease claimed her, I could fight for her.

At my first walk, my eyes were opened to the immensity of this horrible disease. Being among so many who were suffering just like me was comforting. In that moment, I really knew I wasn’t alone. Not only were my people there to support me, there was an army there, joined together, in the fight to find a cure. At that walk, I realized, I wasn’t just fighting for my mom, I was fighting for myself and my children. I was fighting for all of our futures.

Yesterday, we walked the symbolic walk towards a world without Alzheimer’s. I was proud to be there and have my people show up for me again. I was proud of the money we raised to fund the research that one day will find a cure. I was proud to do all of this in my Mother’s name again. But my proudest moment of yesterday came before we even got to the walk.

Getting up early on a Saturday morning is not fun for most people. My five-year old son, was not happy. He was grumpy and complaining about having to get up early. He had a frown on his face. He reluctantly got dressed but griped along the way. Then the whining started. “Why do we have to go for a walk? I just want to have the party.” He was referring to the Thank You Brunch we have every year immediately following the walk to show our appreciation for everyone who walks and/or donates. I tried to ignore his complaints and whines. I was busy finishing putting my daughter’s hair into a ponytail and running through the list in my head of what needed to be done, to prep for brunch before we left. Just when I had heard enough and was about to chastise him and remind him of the importance of the day, someone else spoke for me. My seven-year old daughter.

“We walk this walk for Mimi. We do it for her and because we don’t want other people to get her sickness. Remember the lemonade stand? We raised money so the scientists can find a cure. That’s why we walk. The party is just to celebrate the walk.”

I was impressed and moved. My daughter understands that the walk is so much more than making it from start to finish. She gets the bigger picture. She will continue to walk until there is a cure. She will continue to fight. In memory of my Mom and for our future.

I am a proud mother. And daughter.

#Walk2EndALZ #endalz #ihatealzheimers #keepyourmemories #missmymom #alzheimers #alzheimerssupport #livingforlou

***This post was originally published on Facebook on September 17, 2019.

Another friend has lost her mom. Cancer this time. Another mother was taken too soon. She’s been in my thoughts daily. I know what it is to grieve something you had no control over. Her mom fought. My friend fought. The rest of her family fought. But the disease won. It’s just not fair.

My friend is one of several friends I have stayed close to, since high school. Most people are surprised that we are all still a large part of each other lives. Sure some of us are closer than others, but there are fourteen of us that remain bonded to each other. Some of us have known each other since birth, some since elementary school, but all of us have known each other since at least the 7th grade. We have been in each other’s lives for more than half of our lives. We have inside jokes and nicknames no one understands. We have had an annual girls weekend since after college. We have seen each other through the excitement and hardships of school, countless birthday celebrations, broken hearts, marriages, babies, miscarriage, divorce and death. Distance, nor time have separated us. We celebrated our 20th high school reunion two years ago. Some us have moved far away from Texas – Califonia, New York, Colorado, Tennessee and Washington D.C. Because of all this we are more like family and sometimes fight like it. But no matter what, we are there for each other. Especially in the worst of times.

My friend who just lost her mom, lost her dad just two years ago. In just two short years, she is parentless. Driving home today, I teared up thinking about her and her loss. I thought about how the tears still sting my eyes over my mom daily. I wondered if her tears from losing her dad had even dried before being faced with the notion she was losing her mom. In two years, 3 of us, friends/family of high school and before, have lost 4 parents. All taken by a disease. Too many. Too soon.

As I wiped away the tears, the radio got my attention. I heard:

“What am I supposed to do
If there’s no you?

This won’t go back to normal, if it ever was
It’s been years of hoping, and I keep saying it because
‘Cause I have to

Ooh-ah, you’ll get better
Ooh-ah, soon you’ll get better
Ooh-ah, you’ll get better soon”

I had never heard the song before. I felt like it was speaking just to me. I’ll get better soon. My friend will get better. We have experienced great loss and are grieving, but we will get better.

Once home, I searched the song and listened to it closely. I realized the song might not be speaking directly to me, but probably more likely, my friend. I knew from the diagnosis, Alzheimer’s would claim my mother. My friend had hope her mom would beat cancer. That might make it worse. I wouldn’t know, but I do know that cancer and Alzheimer’s left us without our mothers. Left our children without their grandmothers. Left our heart with a large hole.

Soon you’ll get better. I know we will. In time. Until then, we have each other. We have our families. And we have 12 other friends, among others, who support us, love us and remain there for us. In good times and bad. Soon we’ll get better.

Much love, my friend.

Tonight we watched The Princess and the Frog as a family. None of us had ever seen it. In it, one of the characters, Ray, a firefly, dies. There is a quick bayou burial on screen. It is one of those short, yet impactful Disney moments that is so beautifully woven into the story, it is easy to gloss over and not notice. But my daughter did.

My seven-year-old turned to me and said, “They are supposed to put up a picture of Ray, like at Mimi’s funeral.” Her face fell into a frown. I knew her heart was sinking and the sadness was creeping in. I told her that not all funerals are the same and immediately chastised myself for not coming up with something better to say. While I was role playing in my head of what to say and do next, my daughter got reabsorbed in the movie.

“Phew”, I thought as I wiped my eyes of the tears that were about to spill.

The movie ended about twenty minutes later and everyone lived happily ever after. Except for Ray, of course.

Before I could even wonder if the rest of the movie had turned my daughter’s attention away from all things sad, my sweet girl snuggled up next to me and said, “I wish Mimi didn’t die. I wish she could be here every day.”

Me too.

I hugged her tight as the tears fell and kissed her head. I told her I wished for the same thing every day. She pushed her little self closer to me, but I could still see one tear-stained, pink cheek. I told her it was okay to be sad and to cry. And then, without much preparation, I said something along the lines of this:

“Those tears and your sadness, you know what that is? It’s love. It’s the love you had for Mimi and you have to let it out. It is because we loved her so greatly, that we are so sad she is gone. So just remember, when you feel sad about Mimi, it’s really just your love pouring out.”

She was still pressed against me, but I felt a hint of a smile form on her face. I hugged her tighter and planted another kiss atop her head. It was an unexpected moment, but one that provided so much. There was no time to think of the perfect words or reaction, yet in trying to console my daughter, I actually helped myself too.

My sadness, my grief, is Love. And I have to let it out.

Where do I start?

I turned 40 over a month ago. I celebrated. I celebrated big. I celebrated several times. I was happy and joyful reveling in the milestone with some of those I am closest to. But all the while, the sadness was there. One extreme to another. Smiles, laughter and pure joy, rivaling the sadness, tears and grief. Bouncing back and forth from one end to the other, has left me exhausted.

Exhausted.

Exhausted and stuck. I’m not sure where to go from here. Will I forever ping pong between the happy tears and the sad tears? Do I continue to allow myself to be truly happy while I am truly sad? How is that even possible?

I think I am realizing that you never truly get better, rather you just get used the hole in your heart and how it affects you day to day. Not a day has gone by since my mother passed away, that I haven’t thought about her. I have cried every day. Varying levels of tears, of course, but they have been present every day. Will a day come that I don’t think of her? That I don’t cry? I don’t know. And that drives me crazy.

As much as I am a planner, I am also a procrastinator. I wish I could plan for my emotional course. But emotions cannot be planned. I can wake up and plan my day with the best intentions. But then an unexpected song comes on the radio. Or I see a mother and daughter laughing together while shopping. Or while scrolling through Facebook I see a sentimental 90 second video about a dog becoming a psuedo-mother for an abandoned pig. The tears come. Even if I am able to suppress them, or procrastinate the sadness, they still come.

There is the old adage, “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” I am feeling this 100% right now. Today my daughter started 2nd grade and my baby boy started kindergarten. My oldest and my youngest are finally on near-equal playing fields.

My daughter has two years of elementary school under her belt. She was quietly excited to begin this year. I couldn’t help but notice the difference between her new classroom in 2nd vs. her old one in 1st. Less colors, less pictures, more serious. It is a room that says “welcome” but prepare to work hard. New year, new classroom, new teacher, but she is still a very young lady with so much to explore and learn.

My son thrived in his pre-K program, but couldn’t wait until he got to go to his big sister’s school. He woke up this morning and smiled before he even opened his eyes. He cheered “kindergarten!” as he got out of bed. His energy was contagious. New year, new school, new classroom, new teacher, new friends to be made, but he is still a little boy, just ready for an adventure.

My job has allowed me to cut back my hours so that I work only while the kids are in school. I am looking forward to more quality time with with my children and cutting out some the rush we constantly lived in before. But, I am still a working Mom who worries I am not doing enough or possibly doing too much for my children. I am thrilled my new schedule will allow more time for homework, extracurricular activities and the regular day-to-day responsibilities, but I know my new routine, will become just that.

Routine. The same. Sure, every now and then, something will shake up our routine, but for the most part, it will be the same. And while this seems depressing, it is needed. A routine can be counted on and doesn’t provide unexpected stress. But, the unexpected, provides relief from the monotonous mundane. To fall into a beautiful balance, is the goal. New. Old. Change. Same. Stuck.

So here I am. 40 and stuck. What to do?

I’m going to try to stop waiting for it to get better. Because, maybe it already has. Maybe in waiting for a big explosion, I missed all the small pieces that connect me to better. I will always be sad that my mother is gone, but I will always be grateful for the life she gave me. I am changing, yet I am the same. I am a 40 year old, married mother, raising two unbelievably amazing little people, but I am still my mother’s daughter. I learned my best life skills from her. That will never change.

****This post was originally published on Facebook on July 2, 2019

I’ve had this post partially written for almost two weeks now. Just can’t seem to finish it. I usually like to wrap up my posts with the insight I have gained from my self reflecting and how I plan to move forward. I can’t promise that this time.

I keep waiting for it to feel different. I made it through a year without my mom. It was an incredibly hard year, with some very dark days. There were days I did not want face. Days I wanted to avoid. Days I wanted to erase. As the year marker grew nearer, it became a goal. Just make it to the year mark. Just survive until then. Day by day.

Then what?

Was everything supposed to be better all of the sudden? Make it a year without Mom and magically I am healed? Was the grief supposed to vanish? I’m not sure what I expected to happen, but I was not prepared for it all to feel the same. To feel exactly the same.

Stuck. That’s what I feel. Stuck in my grief. And my grief is mine. It is as unique as my DNA. I know there is not a timeline for my grief. I know my grief is not something I can overcome, rather it is something I have to accept into my life. Into each day. Whether at home or work, with friends or running errands, I have to let my grief be there with me. I have to share my life with my grief. Busy schedules have to accommodate my grief. My happiness has to accommodate my grief. I have to accommodate my grief. I have to accept it and let it in because my grief is MY grief. It is mine. I know part of me will grieve always. I just want and hope for balance.

I felt myself sinking again. I had come so far and for what? To realize that all this time, my grief was nesting within me. It wasn’t a traveler, stopping in for an extended stay. It was unpacking in it’s new home. Making itself comfortable in even the smallest of spaces I allowed it. I felt duped and defeated.

And though, through all the sadness the last few years have brought me, I have still been happy and found joy time and time again. But right now, two days before I turn 40 years old, I am stuck. Maybe part of it is the fear of facing this milestone without my Mom. I was still in a fog last year on my birthday, being that it had only been one month, to the day, since she had passed.

Now as my birthday approaches, I can’t help but notice and deeply feel the absence of Mom. The one who brought me into life. The one who loved me before anyone else. The one who in part, made me, me.

No age or number has ever scared me. I truly am comfortable with turning 40 years old. I am not a woman who hides her age. But I am an almost 40 year old woman, who misses her mother greatly and feels stuck in grief.

I don’t know how long I will feel stuck. Maybe getting through this birthday will unstick me or maybe it will take more time. No matter what, life goes on. And even though my wish can’t come true, I will blow out 40 candles on the 4th of July. I will turn another year older. I will carry on.

****This post was originally published on June 6, 2019

I fell apart again. I’m not ashamed of it. In fact, I needed it.

Tuesday was hard. It was the anniversary of my mother’s death. I don’t really like using the term “anniversary” as an anniversary is usually something to be celebrated. I certainly wasn’t happy on Tuesday and looking to celebrate. No matter how you phrase it, Tuesday was the day that marked one year without my mom.

One year. In some ways it seemed like that year went on forever and in others, it went by really quickly. It’s funny how fickle time can be. It never seems to be our friend.

I woke up Tuesday and immediately thought about waking up on that day a year ago. I woke up thinking it was just going to be another run-of-the-mill day. Instead, it was the day I would tell my mother goodbye, one official and final time. All day this past Tuesday, when I checked the time, I would think about what I was doing a year ago. Getting the phone call from my brother with the news it was “time”. Racing home to pack a few essentials before hitting the road to be by Mom’s side. The drive with my brother to our parents home, both of us anxiety laced and already grief stricken. Walking with my father to their bedroom to see Mom for the first time, laid up in a hospital bed. Holding her hand. Telling her I loved her. Saying it was ok for her to let go and be free.

I got through work on Tuesday of this year without letting the tears fall, though they tried several times. Once home, I was on edge. My anxiety was in high gear. I knew I needed to grieve. I knew I needed the release. I was short-tempered with my children. I needed a safe space to let it all out, but I didn’t want that to be in front of them. They didn’t know what that day signified and I saw no reason to make them sad. Luckily, my husband saw my cue and took the kids up early to watch a movie.

Once the coast was clear, I allowed my grief to show. I could tell my husband was uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to do or say. He tried to make me feel better. I shrugged off his attempts. I finally told him, I needed to fall apart. He asked what I meant. I told him I needed to cry and allow myself to feel the weight of the day. A day that marked that I had gotten through an entire year, without my mother. I told him it was ok for me to fall apart. I pointed out that I had done it before and picked up the pieces each time and moved forward. I told him I would be ok and I would be able to get through this and move forward again. He thanked me for explaining it to him in that way and said it helped him understand. If anything else, he had relief that I was not relying on him to fix me or the situation.

And so I did. I fell apart. It wasn’t super dramatic and it didn’t last too long. I simply stopped holding back. I felt the pain and the sadness. I released the tears and grieved. And in that release, the weight started to lessen. A year without Mom. A year of so many firsts. A year of grief. A year of growth.

I now truly understand that falling apart is not a sign of giving up or giving in. Sometimes you need to feel the the hurt and the pain. Sometimes you are stronger for having been broken. Sometimes you need to fall apart to try to become whole again.

I fell apart, but I picked up all the pieces. Time to move forward again.

The beach is my happy place. It is instantly soothing. It is where I can usually hang up my worries and troubles for a while. I can slow down. Catch my breath. Be calm. Relax.

We spent the better part of yesterday on the beach. Being more responsible adults these days, my husband and I spend most of our time, under an umbrella. From there we watched the shoreline and our children play. They splashed and swam in the ocean. They hunted for pretty seashells and dug in the sand for treasure. They ate ice cream from the ice cream truck. They made friends for the day with two other children sharing the beach with us. Not once did they tell me they were bored. Except for the times I would have to call them back to shore after swimming out too far, it was pretty perfect.

Under the umbrella, my husband and I listened to music and talked. Not about the major, serious and important things, but rather small and mostly insignificant topics. We talked about “what ifs” and “maybe one day”. We laughed and reminisced about the old days. It was a nice break from our normal hectic and chaotic lives.

After a while, my husband headed back to the beach house to make lunch for the kids. He took his phone, therefore our music, with him. I sat there and reveled in the not so quiet. I listened to the rise and fall of the waves. I tried to follow its offbeat rhythm and crescendos of crashes the waves pushed upon the shore. I listened to the wind swirling around me and the more steady chorus it provided. And though it was broken up every now and then by a seagull or distant laughter, it was beautiful and so peaceful.

I looked out to the horizon and noticed at a certain point you cannot tell where the water stops and the sky starts. It felt as if I stared long enough and maybe squinted my eyes, I might see heaven. And just like that, a wave of emotion splashed in my face. Tears welled in my eyes, but they didn’t sting as much as normal. The sadness I felt in missing my mom was much lighter. Being in my happy place, out in the open where the lines between sand, sea and sky are blurred, I felt closer to my mother. Almost as if I would start walking down the beach, I just might find her. But then my husband was back with sandwiches and real life resumed.

It has almost been a year since I said goodbye to Mom. As the anniversary gets closer, I am grateful for that moment on the beach and the calm and closeness it provided. I hope it will remain and see me through.

One day at a time…

This is the last good photo of my mother and me. It was taken two years ago, today. My mother never liked having her picture taken and I don’t have many photos of us together over years. But I have this one. Alzheimer’s had changed her so much already at the time, yet I had no idea how much more the disease would change her and steal from her, over the next year and a half. This was the in-between.

Alzheimer’s did one good thing though. It made my mother forget she did not like having her picture taken. She readily smiled for this one. I wish I would have taken more.

This photo was taken at an event honoring my father. It had been in the works for many months. We were grateful Mom’s health even allowed her to be there, but we still worried. A person with Alzheimer’s becomes a big question mark. Their attitude and even personality can change in an instant. I was hopeful the night would go well and Mom would not get agitated or forget her surroundings and become frightened. Luckily, it was a success all around and then some.

I received something that night that I was not expecting. I didn’t even realize it was something I needed. Validation.

There I was in the public restroom, with Mom, coaching her on what to do inside the stall. I was holding the stall door shut. It would have been too difficult to talk Mom through how to lock the door and then there was the fear she would not be able to unlock it to exit. Between giving my mother instructions, similar to those I gave to my potty training three year old at the time, I glanced up. I locked eyes with an old friend from school. I gave her a half smile. She did not smile back. Instead, she mouthed, “I’m sorry.” My eyes instantly welled with tears. I managed to mouth back, “thank-you” and then had to turn my attention back to my mother.

When you get engaged and word spreads, people call, text, email and even send gifts to acknowledge your news. The same thing happens when you get married or have a baby. When someone passes away, you receive cards and flowers, expressing condolences. When someone is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and word spreads, there are no phone calls, texts or cards. At least in my experience. I know it’s not because people don’t care, but rather they just don’t know what to say or do.

But, in that public restroom, two years ago, a friend acknowledged my situation and that it sucked. She could have just smiled back at me and exited the restroom. I would not have faulted her for that. Instead, she validated my unfortunate circumstance and that I was losing my mom. It was a simple gesture, but one that meant so much. I felt like someone finally saw me in my plight.

I will always remember that moment, in a restroom, of all places. That photo will always be a reminder of that night and to reach out to others in the bad times, as well as the good. A simple acknowledgment can go a long way. It certainly did for me.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 4-11-19.

Yesterday was rough. Not necessarily because I missed my mom. I did miss her. She was on my mind, just like every day, but yesterday was hard for other reasons. Regular life reasons.

I won’t go into much detail. It was your typical mothering of a 4-year-old picky eater and a 6-year-old testing her boundaries, on top of struggling to balance work responsibilities and keeping up with the household. All my responsibilities and my ever-lengthening to-do list seemed to be ganging up on me. These are normal, routine issues that occur frequently. But yesterday, it got to me.

There I was, teetering on the fine lines between living in real life, slipping back into my grief and letting the combination break me again. Suddenly, something a good friend said to me recently, popped into my head. “Nothing is easy.”

That phrase has stuck with me. “Nothing is easy.” Sure feels that way lately! As I navigate life with more weight on my shoulders than ever before, it certainly feels like nothing is easy. Almost all of my previous posts reflect this. But last night, after a long work day, futile attempts to parent well and trying to cross off a few items of my to-do list, “nothing is easy” seemed to laugh at me. It seemed to mock me.

I could have let “nothing is easy” get the better of me. I could have let it break me. Instead, I thought about “nothing”. —–Nothing.—— Nothing is nothing. So yes, everything seems hard right now. And what is easy? Doing nothing. Having nothing. Getting nothing. I do not want nothing. Mom always said I would appreciate most, the things that made me work the hardest.

Listen to your mother. 💜💜💜