***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 11-1-18.

I went to another memorial service on Monday. One of my lifelong friends lost her mother after battling disease for more than a year. Another friend is now motherless. Another friend is now walking in my shoes. My heart is broken for her.

I drove to Lufkin Monday morning to support my friend and celebrate the life of her mother. I left early to ensure I had extra time before the service started. It was a dismal and foggy day. The fog was so thick at times I couldn’t see more than 10′ in front of me. I’ve made the drive to my hometown countless times. I know that drive like the back of my hand. I can time out how much longer the trip will take by each passing landmark. As I drove through the murky haze, I noticed the fog made everything look different and unfamiliar. At times, I didn’t instantly know what town I was in, how far I had driven or how much further I had to go.

I realized my fog-laced drive was a metaphor for adapting to life without my Mom. After her death, life wasn’t so recognizable at first. It was a bit foreign. Difficult. Cloudy. Familiar people, places and things seemed distant and obscure. The thought of everyday tasks, chores, responsibilities and work seemed somewhat suffocating. Getting out of bed and starting each day was hard, but I did it. It would have been easy to stay nestled under the covers, safe and hidden, but I forced myself to face my new reality.

Often times, I pretend everything is alright, when deep down to want to scream and run away. But, I know I can’t run away. Grief will follow. It will find me. I’m still taking it one day at a time. I just have to keep getting out bed each morning and try to be the best mother, wife, friend and employee that I can be, for that day alone. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I’m happy to say that the fog is starting to clear a little. Each day is a tiny bit easier. Life is beginning to come into focus more clearly. The roadmap has changed, but I’m still traveling, even though I have lost my compass.

As the saying goes, “Life goes on”. And it does. The road doesn’t end and the reststops are meant to be brief. Even when I have broken down, I have picked up the pieces and kept going. I have to trust that though I can’t see where the road is leading me and the signs are mixed, that I am doing well by just moving forward.

I wish I could make this transition easier for my friend. I want her to know that the fog will eventually start to clear. It just takes time, patience and strength. But if ever she feels lonely as she travels her cloudy road, I’m happy to ride along with her. For I am still searching for a clearer path too.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 10-14-18.

We had a quiet weekend for the most part. With two small children, quiet sure isn’t what it used to be, but our weekend was not jammed packed with activities like many of previous weekends.

Friday night my husband and daughter attended the Father/daughter dance at my daughter’s elementary school. I thoroughly enjoyed helping her get dressed and fixing her hair. Those were some of the moments I dreamed about before I had children. Me and my daughter, in my bathroom. She, perched on my vanity chair, looking at herself in my mirror, while I dryed and brushed her hair. I hope it will be a lasting memory of hers.

Once dressed and all hairs in place, my husband got down on his knee and presented my daughter with a corsage. Her eyes lit up. The smile I captured is one of pure, innocent joy and excitement. These are the moments we strive to provide for our children. Moments that catch them off guard and show them just how special they are. Hopefully, my daughter filed away a couple of memories that night full of love. Memories she can look back on years from now and understand how much she is loved and adored.

I could write more about the father/daughter dance, but I think my daughter summed it up best the next morning when she said, “last night, was the best night ever!”.

It’s these little moments that can shape the rest of our lives . I remember one Saturday long ago, when I was about 4 or 5. I was watching morning cartoons in the living room. My father came in the room as asked me if I wanted to go to Hanna Barbera Land. He might as well have offered me the world and off we went. Though I was too young to remember the ins and outs of that day, I remember spending the day with my Papa, just the two of us. It wasn’t his idea of the most fun Saturday, but he gave me one for the books.

When I was preparing to speak at my mom’s memorial service, I reviewed tons of memories in my mind. Which one was the best? Which one could express how much love we shared? What I realized was it was not how big the gesture was, be it a father/daughter dance or a surprise trip to an amusement park, it was the feelings that were evoked that solidify the memory. My mother and I made tons of memories together. There were many to choose from, but ultimately, it was the way she always made me feel, that was important. Loved.

I am very proud I spoke at my mother’s memorial service. It was hard to get through, but I’m glad I could share a little of my version of my Mom with the congregation. It will never be enough. There is so much more I could have said, but I hope I hit some of the best highlights. Here is what I said:

“I’ve been preparing for this day for several years, but now that we are here, I have come to realize we can never truly be prepared. It’s ironic, because growing up, it seemed my mother was always prepared. She would make at least five lists of what we needed to do, what we needed to get and in what order. There were lists for every occasion, every event, great or small and her grocery lists were works of art. Her list making became so prevalent, she got new notepads and pencils in her Christmas stocking. She prepared.

I find myself making lists. At work, at home, for trips, for grocery store. The night we lost Mom, I started making lists. Who to call and what needed to be done. I prepared. There are moments you realize you are turning into your parents. That was one of them. And how fitting.

As we began to lose Mom over the past few years, it was hard to watch as the disease changed her. And though, Alzheimer’s has caused us many tears and sadness, it has also provided a few moments of joy. There are 3 things Mom never liked. 1. Having her picture taken. She’d throw her hand over her face or grab the nearest object to hide behind faster than a ninja. 2. The water in the Gulf. We are a beach loving family, but my mother wouldn’t put one toe in that brown water. 3. Getting her perfectly quaffed hair wet, outside of showering. My mother took me to the pool almost every day in the summers. I can only remember one time she went under the water. Three years ago, we all spent a long weekend in Galveston. Mom still remembered all of us then, but the disease had caused her to forget those 3 things she disliked. My mother splashed in the Gulf with my children, her hair got wet, but she didn’t mention a thing and she smiled big smiles for the pictures we requested to document that moment. We captured that picture that day and I will treasure it always.

As we are here to celebrate Mom’s life, we also need to celebrate her love story she shared with my father. I’m sure many of you have heard my Papa say he “saw her from across a crowded room” freshmen year at Southwestern. He remembers her talking with her friends, using her hands almost as a secondary language. He quickly fell in love with her. They dated for six years before marrying and started their life and family in Houston. Years later they moved to Lufkin, essentially starting over, but their love only grew stronger. And in the most recent years, as Mom started forgetting more and started forgetting us, my Papa loved her still. He was her primary caregiver until the end. I’m not sure how he was able to do it, but he did. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health. My Papa lived up to his vows. July 6th would have been their 50th wedding anniversary. Gordon and Emily will celebrate number 19 next month and Bradford and myself, our 10th in October. Thank you Papa and MOM for leaving us a legacy of love and a marriage to aspire to.

I will remember my mother fondly. I will remember her laughter, her quick wit, her strength, her fiesty nature, her sometimes sailor mouth and most of all, her love. She always let us know and said it out loud, how much she loved us. That was important to her. That people knew how you felt. I realized that she passed that down to me and I have already begun passing it on to my own children. In telling my sweet Adelyn that her Mimi was gone, through her tears, Adelyn told me she wanted Mimi and everyone else to know that she loved Mimi.

Preparation, laughter and love. That’s what I will carry with me as I move on without my Mom. Prepare for what we can, laugh even when you want to cry and most importantly, love openly. That’s what matters. That’s what we and the world need. Love. I love you, Mom.”

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook on 10-7-18.

Losing a loved one is hard. Really hard. It takes your breath away and makes you wonder how you will not suffocate. And just when you gain a breath, in an instant, a memory, a photo or even something insignificant can steal it away. The aftermath of losing someone is like treading water. You do it to keep your head above the water, but you know you can be pulled under if you quit moving, even for a second.

On Friday, my husband and I attended the memorial service for the father of a close family friend. As we walked through the parking lot towards the church, my husband took my hand. I let out a loud sigh and he asked if I was okay. No, I was not. Just four months ago, almost to the day, I was attending my mother’s memorial service. Rather than letting the tears fall, I replied, “so this is our new thing”. He questioned what I meant. I explained that we used to attend weddings several times a year. Now it is funerals/memorial services. Happy times replaced by sad times. How cruel life can be, as we get older.

Inside the narthex of the church, I hugged friends I had not seen in a while. Another similarity to the fun times of weddings in the past, yet in this event, it wasn’t so joyful. “Hi, great to see you, though I hate that it is under these circumstances.” We are all busy with families, careers, etc. How sad it is that sometimes it takes death to bring us together.

My friend spoke at the service about her father, just as I had at Moms. My heart ached for her. I knew how hard that was. To sit down with pen and paper and try to write something that will be eloquent, meaningful, honorable and conveys to all listening, just how great your parent was, is incredibly difficult. How do you paraphrase 39 years of love, support and life lessons? How do you pick which characteristics, which stories and which memories of that person to share? How will a five minute eulogy do that person justice? Speaking at my mother’s memorial was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but it is also one the proudest moments in my life. And I am proud of my friend for writing and getting through her tribute to her father.

After the service, we gathered for a reception at the church. Before losing my mother, I never knew what to say to someone who had lost a loved one. “Sorry for your loss” seems so trivial. I thought about what to say to my friend. I came up with several different ideas. When I had my chance to speak to her, I broke down. I let the tears come, as her tears were already evident. We hugged. We held on for close to a minute. Now we have a new, unwanted bond. We have both lost a parent. All my prepared words failed me. “I love you” was all I could get out. It was enough. She knew, I knew what she was going through and those three words said it all.

I wish I could say it gets easier, but it does not. At least for me, not yet. Each day does seem more manageable though. I manage more and more as time goes on, to not let the loss of my mother consume me. I will never get over losing her, especially in the way I did, but I do believe at some point, I will be at peace. I’m not sure how long it will take, or how difficult it will be, but I have to keep moving forward. There are too many people counting on me, including my mother. There is too much life yet to live. We just have to remember how precious life is and to tell the ones we love, “I love you”. After all, “I love you” is pretty powerful. It can and sometimes does, say it all.

***This post was originally written and published on Facebook 9-8-18.

Recently, my good friend was celebrating her birthday. She had people over for a casual dinner and drinks. After a couple of hours, the crowd thinned a bit. The men retreated outside to talk guy talk and the women stayed inside, with the AC, for girl talk.

The conversation topics were normal. Husbands, kids, etc. There was wine involved, so, ETC. I was enjoying the moment. The conversation. The commeraderi. Before I knew it, the conversation turned to mothers. One by one, I listened to my friends complain about their mothers. How their moms drove them crazy. The dynamics between their mom as their mother versus their mom as a grandmother to their children. They compared how often they talked to their mothers. Some spoke every other day. Some 2 times a week. Some only texted and/or facetimed.

At first, I just listened. I smiled. I nodded along. I tried to think about what I could contribute. Even though my mom had just died, she had been gone, or hadn’t been herself for a very long time. I realized I couldn’t really join in on the conversation. It continued. Side conversations formed. All about Moms. I tried to ignore it. I looked at my phone. I pretended like everything was ok. It wasn’t. It was getting hard to breathe. I thought about getting up and removing myself from the room, but I didn’t want to make a scene. I did not want my friends to realize what that conversation was doing to me. I did not want the focus turning to me and my grief. It was a birthday celebration after all.

I thought the conversation would play out quickly and the topic would change. I kept my head down and breathed deeply. It was a new situation that I needed to become accustomed to. I tried not to cry. I forced back the tears that were welling in my eyes. What I wouldn’t give for my Mom to be here to annoy me. To talk to her again. The real her. I would have loved to have been able to join in that conversation. But, I can’t. My mother is gone. I can no longer complain to her or about her, but I wish I could . I wish my Mom was still here.

My friends did nothing wrong. (Ladies, if you’re reading this, I mean it. You did nothing wrong.) It was a normal, expected, organic conversation. I just hated that I could not be a part of it. My head was swirling. I wanted to say something. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell all my friends to be grateful they still had their mothers. Luckily, before anything dramatic happened, one of my friends sitting next to me, sensed my distress. She put her hand on my shoulder and asked me a question not related to mothers. Quietly, she changed the subject for me and took my focus away from the mother talk. I was so grateful. I could breathe again. The tears retreated. I was ok.

And I will be ok. I will always miss my mom. I will always wish I had gotten more time with her. I know there will probably be more moments like this in the future. Moments that catch me off guard. Moments that reel me back to the harsh reality that my mother was stolen away. Her memories erased. That she forgot me. I believe it will get easier with time, as most things do. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. This is all just a part of my new normal. Life without my mom.