Over coffee

She came into Starbucks and immediately saw someone she knew. Two Raleigh Bob's connecting over their red Starbucks cups and a noisy wash of "I haven't seen you in so long"s. She's a jewelry maker. Her friend, the one in a meeting across from me, gushed to her colleague about how talented she was.

Then, she said, "This is my dad."

She introduced a man who probably used to be taller than her. His face was the face of a man who obviously used to be healthier. His cheekbones were over pronounced. His shoulders slumped. He spoke softly, but I heard him. He said, "I do like to eat."

The women laughed. He smiled. He still had it.

It was the baseball hat that got me. The random baseball hat that didn't go with the crisp blue jeans that were being cinched to him on the last belt loop. The baseball hat that was a little too casual for the collared shirt he had most definitely had help tucking in before he left home.

The hat was what brought my daddy zooming in this morning - his absence blowing through me like the coldest blast of wind rushing in each time someone opens the door to which I sat to close.

I miss him.

I wished that I could pick him up; take him on my errands with me; stop for coffee; spend the day doing mundane things.

In the end, I only stared, batting back a few tears. I stopped short of leaning over the table and grabbing the woman with the Raleigh Bob and telling her how lucky she was. For all I know, she's quite aware of how lucky she is.

I hope so.

Something's gotta give

Maybe I've told this story before, maybe not. As Christopher's birthday cupcakes sit baking in the oven, I can't help but tell it again.

It was time for a party. Susan's youngest was turning six. She called me up, like she did whenever cupcakes were in order, and asked me to tell her how to make buttercream frosting from scratch.

Real moms make the frosting for their child's cupcakes. From scratch.

Or something like that.

I start in with my "You let your butter get room temperature . . ."

Wait. You mean it sits out of the fridge? On the counter?

"Yes. It's fine. I promise. I would probably use two sticks. When it's soft enough, put it in your mixer and start to cream it. Watch it - when it's getting fluffy, then start to add your powdered sugar."

How much powdered sugar?

"Oh, I don't know. At least three cups. Probably four. Just keep adding it until you get the consistency you like."

Oh please. There has to be a recipe. Do you mean you are just making this up? You can't just make it up. 

"Alright. Hold on. I'll find a recipe."

So I did. I looked up a recipe and gave her exact measurements for the butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract. Then, I got to the milk.

"It says 2-6 tablespoons of milk."

Silence.

"Susan? You okay?"

SERIOUSLY? There is a big difference between 2 and 6 tablespoons of milk. This is a RECIPE. It's supposed to have MEASUREMENTS.

We laughed and laughed. Always the scientist. Always the artist.

She didn't end up making the frosting. She was just too tired. Within a week, she went into hospice care. And then we all know what happened.

I can't help it. When I make cupcakes, I can't help myself. Laughing at her frustration over my shoddy instructions. Crying over the fact that she didn't get to make the frosting.

*************************************************************
Something has got to give.

I have more to write about. Colin is hilarious. Christopher is thriving. My momma was just here for a wonderful visit.

It's just when I'm in this space, I can't help but keep coming back to Susan.

Maybe I need a change. A fresh start. A new design. Maybe just a whole new blog.

I don't know. I know it's alright to miss her. I know it's alright to be happy and to be sad all at the same time.

But dang. I'm ready for my fingers to write about something else. Such is the downfall of free form, rambling blogging.

That last glass

I'm petering out on the whole posting everyday in November. It's just not in me anymore. There is plenty I have spinning around in my head, but not really much I want to put here.

Mainly, I keep thinking about anniversaries. December marks a lot of anniversaries, most of which I'm not terribly excited about.

My last hug from Susan.

My first miscarriage.

The death of my grandmother.

Then there's Christmas. YAY! Happy times. Happy times.

I don't know. It's not as bad as I make it sound here. We have three trees up (so far), my mantle is done, my grandparent's Nativity is out for the first time in years. I'm getting it on with the holiday decor - which didn't happen last year.

I was a little distracted.

Maybe I'll always be a little distracted at Christmas time and just learn how to focus in spite of it.

There are stories that I want to write - moments that I want to put down on paper - of that last weekend I was able to spend with Susan. It's just not for the blog.

When I do that though - have things that consume my thoughts - it's hard to write anything else.

There is one other December anniversary that I don't talk about much. It is an anniversary that I wouldn't have made without Susan. One that I'm surprised I'm still celebrating now that she's gone.

My last drink.

It was a glass of prosecco, in case you are wondering. At Gravy on Wilmington Street. Don't remember what I ate or what I wore, but I remember that glass of beautiful bubbly.

Cheers, y'all. The holidays are coming. Whether you damn well like it or not.

Into the ether

Some days I feel like a nonperson. Like I just take up space in the universe, but no one really pays attention to me. Which is ironic, because I am the single person capable of doing anything for the boys. I mean, if I'm gone, and the boys are home with Kevin, the moment I walk in, it's, "Mama! Can I have a glass of water? Please? I'm thirsty. Will you get me something to drink?"

It's like Kevin has starved them, denied them hydration, refused them bathroom privileges, and never ever changed a diaper. All of which is ridiculous, of course.

Other than my superpowers to "get people stuff," I seem to be pretty useless. I say, "Please clean your crayons off the table, it's time to eat," and the sound vibrations disappear into the ether. I say, "Please stop dancing and twirling in the aisles; you are going to run into someone," and the words are mysteriously transformed into magical dance music that makes four year olds unable to control their feet.

I say, "Don't forget to take Mallory her flowers," and my voice is so heavy, it weighs the bouquet down to the counter, and makes it impossible to pick up and carry to the concert.

Logically, I know it's perception. And if I had an appointment with my therapist tomorrow, we would talk through this, I would cry, and we would get back to the fact that my cheerleader, the one person who constantly told me the good about myself, is gone.

So yeah. Maybe I'm supposed to be moving on. Maybe I'm not supposed to still be writing about grief. Maybe I'm annoying and whiny. So be it. 

The truth is, it's been insanely difficult to write everyday this month without writing about grief. And I can't avoid it today. Today is one of those days we would have talked through all of these things and the things in her day, and the words really would have disappeared into the ether. They would have lifted from us and floated away together, leaving us to comfort each other, fortify each other, and laugh with each other.

Surely not everyone has that person in their life. What I want to know is this: how do they manage without it?

Metastatic Breast Cancer Day

Today, October 17, is Metastatic Breast Cancer Day. Only one day out of the whole month of Pinktober is dedicated to metastatic breast cancer, which is technically, the only breast cancer that kills women. If you die because of breast cancer, then you die from breast cancer that has turned metastatic.

Metastatic Breast Cancer is what took Susan in February. Metastatic Breast Cancer still needs awareness, I think. So today, and every October 17 from now on, I'm going to send you back to her blog to read this:

"I am a woman with metastatic breast cancer.  My cancer was first detected as inflammatory breast cancer nearly 4.5 years ago, although I’ve also had invasive breast cancer, Paget’s disease, and recurrences as the cancer spread to lymph nodes under my left arm (2010), to lymph nodes in the center of my chest (New Year’s 2011), and then to my bones in March 2011.

Metastatic breast cancer means that cancer cells have spread from my right breast to other sites, made themselves at home, and reproduced so many times that now each cell has become a mass of cells detectable by today’s x-rays, CT scans, PET scans, and MRIs.  I have those tests frequently now, to determine how well my current treatment is proceeding, whether the cancer is progressing or held at bay, and when we should change treatments to something that might be more effective.  Last week’s tests and scans showed that there is still cancer in my neck, spine, ribs, and hips.  The blood tests had been showing a reduction in the total load of cancer cells in my body, but as the numbers slowed to a standstill, they agreed with the increasing pain in my hips, left ribs, and neck, one that agrees with the scans; we will have to change treatments."

Please. Please click over and read the rest of Susan's post at her blog, Toddler Planet.

It won't because she was sweet

My Aunt May is dying. She is 94 years old and has been in a nursing home for a few years. She is the last of the Carter siblings for whom my oldest son is named. She is a fireball. She is strong. She is smart. And now, it is her time to go.

Over the past few years, I've experienced death in many different ways. My grandmother had Alzheimer's and experienced a very slow and difficult decline. She was the first family member or friend that I lost. I was sad but not destroyed.

My other grandmother, Honey, moved to California with my parents when she was around 90. I didn't get to see her much or talk to her in her last years. She was 97 when she died. She died in much the same way that her sister, my Aunt May, is going. She was just worn out of living. Again, I was sad - I lost a great champion in Honey. She believed that I was as close to perfect as God ever made, and I loved her dearly for her belief in me and the strength she taught me.

Next to go was my grandfather. He was one of my dearest friends. It was the first loss that sent me to the floor, knees buckled, tears streaming, and actual physical grief coming forth with no way for me to control it. He told me that he didn't want to go just days before he died. I didn't want him to go either. I was pissed off at God for a long time even though Granddaddy was 94 when he died. It wasn't exactly a surprise

Then, my daddy got sick. So very sick. Parkinson's and dementia took him slowly and cruelly. He died in February of 2011, and I felt relief. I felt relief for him and for my mother who was his primary care giver in spite of her ongoing battle with ovarian cancer. I missed my daddy for a long time before he died. I mourned his death, and I still miss him now, but again, I managed.

What came next was completely different. 364 days after my daddy died, my best friend, my soul sister, my person, she died. Gone. Left this world. Left her husband, her kids, her parents, her brother, and her friends. Some days I'm so angry. Most days I'm just sad. Often it feels like we are all just kind of standing still, holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Susan is gone. What happens next?

What in the world are we all supposed to do now?

It's like that when someone young dies. You don't exactly make long term plans with your daddy who has a degenerative disease or with your 97 year old grandmother. But with your best friend of decades? You plan things. You plan trips. You plan things for your boys. You plan retirement. You dream together because you are peers. I can't imagine the plans that she had with her family.

What do you do with all of those plans?

I know I have to let it go. I have to send it down the stream.

It's just not that easy.

*******************************************************
Kevin and I made a trip down to Georgia for him to meet my relatives there. They are awesome people, and I wanted him to spend a little time with them. His favorite story to tell from that trip is about meeting Aunt May. We got to talking about my grandmother, May's older sister, and her nickname, "Honey." Kevin asked Aunt May why we all called my grandmother "Honey," and Aunt May replied without a moment's hesitation,

"Well it won't because she was sweet."

I love that woman. Thank you, Aunt May, for all you did in helping raise my momma to be the woman she is today. I wish you peace and comfort.

Because they get it

I only met Susan one time. We were at the Type-A-Mom conference, and I had my baby with me. Susan got down on the floor with her and started to play. It was so cool.

"Ah," I say. "You must be @mamadweeb."

This is how is was this past weekend without Susan. I could not sit with her. I could not hold her hand. I could not laugh with her until we both cried.

But she was everywhere. Everywhere.

I remember walking into the Serenity Suite and finding Susan laying on the bed with her hands folded on her chest. She was sleeping, and I was thrilled that the Suite was being used so perfectly. I took out my phone to take a picture, and she opened one eye big just enough to give me the stink eye. The stink eye, and permission to go ahead and snap a picture.

"I remember this. It was right before she was to go speak on a panel. She needed to rest so badly. She laughed about that picture you took, Maggie. She told me about it."

I sat in the Serenity Suite and clutched my tissues as story after story as told from the other perspective. And I realized more and more all weekend long that she had told me every single bit of it.

It's not just that she wanted me to know because I couldn't be there with her that year. It is because every moment of her time at those conferences - no - every bit of human interaction at those conferences meant something to her. She loved people. She loving meeting you. She loved seeing your babies.

****************************************************************
Thursday afternoon, Amy and I were in front of the American Cancer Society's Hope Lodge, a place where cancer patients can stay for free while receiving long term treatment. We were about to go in for a reception honoring the #morebirthdays campaign and also honoring Susan.

We stepped onto the sidewalk, and I felt the panic rise all the way from the tip of my toes. In pulses, it moved through my abdomen, calling up my recently finished lunch, made its way to my throat, closing it tightly, and finally tried to escape through the tears welling up in my eyes.

I stopped. Amy stopped. She waited on me. Calmly. Patiently. It didn't take that long. I called up the techniques I've been learning in therapy the past few months, and in few deep breaths, I could move again.

That was how it was at BlogHer without Susan. Without Susan, but with friends who understand.

****************************************************************
Friday morning, the first panel I attended was Blogging for the Love of It. Bon was the moderator. She was one of the first bloggers I started reading in 2006 as per the advice of Susan. We love Bon, and Susan had the privilege of meeting her in D.C. one afternoon. Bon's posts were often a conversation topic for us, and Bon has been a tremendous support to me over the past year.

Walking towards the front of the room to hug Bon, I lost it.

Big, ugly, gasping, sobbing, tears. It came without warning and without being able to stop. I cried on her shoulder (great way for her to have to start her panel), and then excused myself to find some tissues.

With cocktail napkins in hand, and Sarah by my side, I began to pull it back together. Sitting in that session, I realized, this was going to be it. This weekend would be the weekend where I could cry freely because people would get it.

And so I did. I cried when I needed to or felt like it. Jean reminded me that it was okay. Kristen held my hand. Jess cried with me. Amy waited with kindness.

And they understood why I miss her like I do.

The tiles we painted in Susan's memory at the American Cancer Society.

They will be complied into a mosaic by Darryle Pollack, and hung at ACS in NYC or Atlanta.

BlogHer 2012

Some time last fall, Susan and I had a crazy idea. I don't remember who said it first, nor does it really matter - what with us being of the same mind as we were.

"Let's go to BlogHer in New York. Let's do it. 2012."

We bought our tickets at the super earlybird rate and started making plans for our trip.

Honestly, I was done with BlogHer. It was too big for me. This is my little space, and not many people join me here. I'm fine with it just the way it is. I enjoyed BlogHer the years I had gone in the past, but I didn't feel the need to return.

However.

Susan shone at BlogHer. She was totally in her element. There was this myth that she concocted in her mind that I was the popular one in high school. One glance at the two of us in a crowd like BlogHer, and you would know there was no truth to that whatsoever. She owned the room when she entered. Confident. Friendly. Brilliant. Beautiful. Everyone noticed Susan.

I wanted her to feel that one more time. I wanted to make sure that she got to be in her element again come August. So I bought the ticket with my heart and ignored my head telling me it was fancy.

We made plans to have a handicapped accessible room because there was a strong chance she would be in a wheelchair. We made plans to be in said room a good bit of the time because there was a strong chance she shouldn't be around crowds. We made plans to cart in our own Diet Coke because BlogHer always ends up in a Pepsi place. And Diet Pepsi? No thank you. We don't do Diet Pepsi.

Then came February 6, 2012.

My first thought was to sell my ticket. She was the only reason I was going. But I put it off, and by the time I really started thinking about it, something inside me said, "Just go anyway."

So I am.

I'll be heading to New York City on Thursday morning. It will be three days with women who knew Susan and some women who know me. I don't know what to expect. I don't know if it will be hard, or if it will be healing.

It might simply be fun, like the weekend we just spent with Curt, Widget and Little Bear. There was sadness lingering, but we enjoyed being together so much that the sadness didn't prevail. I think Susan would have been proud of us.

So yeah. While the posts and tweets about clothes and shoes and swag fly by, if you think about it, say a little prayer for me. If you are there, please say hello to me. I tend to disconnect when the sorrow hits, and it's likely that you'll see me just standing around. Quiet. Glazed over. I'll be the one people tweet about as "aloof" or "snobby." But you know the truth.

I'm just wishing my heart had been right this time. I'm just wishing I was tackling this weekend with Susan.

Next

What am I doing here? Not blogging, that's one thing.

I'm healing. Still hurting. Mostly living. Getting help. Finding help for my heart and my boys. Swimming. Working. Sewing. Cooking. Losing weight. Chauffeuring. Vacationing. Hiking. Trying to reconnect with people I adore and miss and have been shutting out.

Considering what comes next.

Nothing makes me miss Susan more than opening blogs. I'm not sure I want to do it without her anymore.

And yet, in a few weeks, I'll be flying up to New York City to attend another BlogHer convention.

What exactly am I doing?

I miss writing. But more than that, I miss knowing that she's reading.

LympheDIVAs and Liz Lange. In memory of Susan.

Yesterday, yet another of Susan's legacies came to fruition.

Susan connected Crickett's Answer to Cancer with LympheDIVAs, helping provide beautiful and necessary, but expensive, compression sleeves to cancer patients needing them.

It didn't stop there though. Of course it didn't. This is Susan I'm talking about. She then brought Liz Lange, who you might know best for her maternity line in Target, into the mix. Liz agreed to design a sleeve to be sold by LympheDIVAs with the proceeds to benefit Crickett's Answer to Cancer.

A couple of days before Susan died, we spoke about the sleeve. She was so proud of making that connection and helping women in need obtain the compression sleeves they so desperately needed.

This is a great day for Susan's work, advocacy, and legacy.

I hope you will help me spread the good news.

The work at hand

I honestly don't know how it can possibly be May already.

There are friends I have not seen in four months. New babies I haven't met yet. Phone calls I haven't returned. Emails I've ignored. Recitals I've forgotten to attend. This fog, this haze, has consumed me now for almost three months.

And yet, I'm better.

I guess me realizing how disconnected I've been is part of the being better. We can thank my patient, loving family and my awesome therapist for that.

Susan isn't coming back. My grief isn't going away. I have to find a place for both of these, and I'm getting there. Slowly.

If you knew Susan at all, even "just online" (which we all know she valued tremendously), then you know that one of the beautiful things about here - what drew people to her - was how she made you feel about yourself. She was selfless, kind, and even in her scientific socialness, she was a wonderful friend.

Now. Imagine that person was your best friend for years and years and heaped that love upon you like she did even her "just online" friends. Now. Imagine that love a million times stronger.

That's what is gone from my life.

The wake up call in therapy has been that I value myself so very little, and I spent a good part of my life surrounding myself with people who didn't value me either. Susan always valued me; she valued every living creature (I say as I shamefully admit I flushed a bully algae eater fish without a second thought because he was being a jerk to the other fish. Woosh. Goodbye.).

I get it now. Get, as in understand, not have adopted fully and graduated from all further therapy. I get that I have to start here. Deep within me. I have to realize that I wouldn't have had a friend like Susan if there wasn't something valuable about me.

Find the way to love myself. Sounds so trite and textbook doesn't it?

Maybe, but it's my calling now. Because when I can do that for myself, I can teach my children to do it to, and I want that very much. I want my children to know how valuable they are.

So much work to do. So so so much work.

April 13

Happy birthday, Susan.

I love you, and I miss you.

Two months

I can't do this.

Every time I come to write, it's because I can't do the happy anymore. Then, when I get a chance to write, I can't stop thinking about the people whose feelings are hurt because I miss Susan so much. As if that makes them less important to me. It's stifling me.

I can't do it. I can't not write about it. I can't carry it with me. I can't hold it in and keep acting like it's alright now.

Yesterday, we were at a birthday party and someone that I've met several times before but don't really know (yet) said, "I'm sorry about your friend." She knew the news because she read Susan's blog.

I was so happy to have Susan come up in a conversation. It felt amazing to run into someone who was thinking about her too.

I think that's why I still go to Twitter and do a search on @whymommy. I still stop by her blog and see if there are new comments. I still check the Whymommy Love Fest page on Facebook. It helps to know that people still think about her. Because I still think about her everyday. Time after time everyday.

***************************************************************
The house is almost finished. About a week after Susan's service, we started a major remodel on our house. Walls came out, and steel beams went in the ceiling. Floors came up, and new ones went down. There was so much painting. I thought the painter was going to just go all Murphy Brown on us.

The painter commented one day about how often Colin says, "Why?" Because, believe me, it is often. He then commented that I always seemed to have an answer for him. I don't, but I certainly try.

"Why, Mommy?"

That's where Susan got her handle. She loved loved loved that her children asked, "Why?" and she strove to always outlast them. She wanted them to be completely done with the chain of "Why" without her ever having to say, "Because I said so."

I try to live up to that. I fail. A lot. But I try.

**************************************************************
We have a new dog. Every time there is loss in my life, I tend to prowl around Petfinder, looking for the perfect pup to fill the hole in my heart. Yes, I know. It won't work. But dogs were just another thing that Susan and I had in common. We both love dogs and have been foster homes to English Setters and Beagles, and have adopted needy pups into our homes to become loving members of our families.

However, I really have been wanting a small dog, and the boys have too. They need to learn that not every dog is a 100 pound docile Labrador who will let them poke, push, ride, and sit on him. They need to learn to be gentle with animals, and Christopher really wants a dog that will sleep with him.

I found a tri-colored Dachshund through a rescue group in Wake Forest called A New Leash on Life (who were fabulous, by the way). After a couple of weeks, Kevin finally agreed to let me submit an application to adopt him. The only problem was that he turned out to not be good with small children, only older ones. So, they suggested Macy.

"She's a wonderful dog. A Chihuahua mix."

Um, no thank you. No Chihuahuas for me, please. But, I knew not to just turn her down flat, so I went to the website to check out Macy.

It's like my Chelsea come back in Dachshund form. I don't think there's a lick of Chihuahua in her - I think she is American Eskimo and Dachshund. It doesn't matter though. Just check out these babies.

First is Chelsea:

And here is little Macy Moo:

Not identical, but enough alike that it's really eerie.

She's fitting in very nicely. She and Gibby like to chase the squirrels together. She likes to sleep in the bed, but with me and Kevin and not Christopher (yet). She is a big cuddle pup, and it's doing wonders for my heart right now.

Peace that passes understanding

Most days I leave my grief right here. Whether I publish it or just save it for myself, typing out my words enables me to go about my daily life as though I didn't have my heart ripped in half on February 6, 2012.

To the outside world, I appear no more strange than I usually do.

Monday was different. Monday was Circle day. It's the first women's Bible study I have been a part of that Susan wasn't also attending, and often, I would call her on Monday afternoons and we would talk about what had been discussed that morning. Sometimes, I would take notes and send her an email with some verses that made me think of her or something someone said that I thought would be meaningful to her.

Monday was different. Monday was Circle day, and I wouldn't be sharing any of what we discussed with Susan that afternoon. Maybe that is why I was particularly raw that day.

Maybe I was raw because I feel safe among those women.

Maybe I was raw because in reality, it still hasn't been that long since she died.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

     Matthew 5:9

We started out by talking about what having peace means.

Susan and I had this conversation many many times. What does it mean to have peace when you are a young mother with terminal cancer? How is it possible to find peace when you know you are being robbed of decades you expected to spend with the people you love?

I couldn't help myself, and by the end of the lesson, I found myself in the bathroom sobbing. I'm not a public crier. It's not something I'm usually comfortable with. But among the women in this group, the ones who found me and knew what was going on, I could cry.

It felt safe. And it felt necessary. It was almost as if I needed to say to some part of my everyday life, 

"It's still not okay. I'm still not alright with this. The peace I can make with recent events is fragile and has to be rebuilt daily. Be gentle, world. It still hurts."

And they let me do that. I'm so grateful.

*****************************************************

Susan loathed for anyone to say that a person "lost their battle with cancer." She absolutely and completely hated those words.

This week, as I've thought about peace and Susan, it has occurred to me that to use the words "fight" and "battle" are altogether appropriate, but the idea that cancer "won" is not.

Cancer didn't win anymore than Susan lost. That cancer that was living in Susan? That bitch is just as dead as she is. 

Susan is, however, at peace. There is no more fighting. There is no more anger. There is no more fear. There is no more pain. There is no more sickness.

She has peace. 

She accepted God's will in her life. She fought for as long and as hard as she physically could, and then she made peace.

There is a big difference between losing a battle and making peace with your life.

January 11, 2011

Always 

I don't usually know what to say,
But I always will know how to listen.

I don't know the answers to your questions,
But I will search for you and validate your need to ask.

I won't blow anymore sunshine.
I won't hold back anymore tears.

Because you need to know these things:     
     I know the time will come.   
     I trust your strength.     
     I believe in your family.

And this is also true:     
     I ache with you.    
     We support each other, and we both hurt.     
     We are both angry.     
     We are both scared.     
     Neither of us needs to apologize for it.

Do you know that it is so hard to give to someone like you?     

I want to give everything I can to you, but you - you are always         
     Arms outstretched         
     Searching the crowd         
     Ready to teach, to give, to share.

It's hard to catch you without your arms open to give.
It's hard not to take from you all the time.

That, by the way, was a compliment.

I am the woman who will play it straight with you.     
No more sugar coating from me, I promise.

I am the girl with whom you always played straight.     
     There will never be pompous bags of sand with lit candles in front of my home. In your honor.

You are my favorite one.
The one who restored my faith in lasting friendships, time and time again.

I will stand as strong as I can for you.
Following your example of what a friend really is.

We will be always friends.
Always.

One month

Dear Susan,

Suddenly, February is over, and I'm back at the Presbyterian Women Coordinating Team meeting this morning. The first Monday of every month. The last one was the meeting I was in when Curt called to tell me that you had passed.

Now it begins. The time in my life when I do things without you.

February was just a jumble of days in which I wished you back to this earth with every breath I had.

March has to be the time when I start to move forward again.

The time I spent at home wasn't healing like I hoped it would be, but it was enlightening. I feel like I know what I want my path to be now. I know what I want for myself and my family.

Thanks to you, I also know that I can do it.

While I was in Mississippi, there were four planets visible in the night sky. I grabbed my daddy's binoculars one night and headed outside. Momma lives in the country now, so I thought it would be a great view. It wasn't. It was cloudy every night I was there.

What a metaphor for us and our home state.

I think of things like this - things that I want to tell you - and I tell them to you anyway. People have told me to still talk to you. That you are still with me. I'm starting to figure out what they mean by that.

I miss you, Susan. I miss you every damn day. But I know what I'm going to do without you now. I have plans, plans that you helped me make - plans that I know you are proud of me making.

I will be better. I promise. And I will find a way to make sure you are always with me.

Where it all began

It's like Facebook knows us. On my list of online friends, you are right under Kevin. Because you were the one I talked to the most. I still expect to see the green online dot appear by your name. At first, I wouldn't read the posts people wrote about you. Now I am searching them out, looking for any bit of newness. Something that makes it not be over. I go to Twitter and do a search on your handle and smile at the moms who are thinking of you when their children notice the stars. You are always in the night sky. You are always in nature. You are always with me. I'm going to Mississippi tomorrow. Our place of becoming. I'll drive by your house. By my house. I'll show them to my children. I don't really know why. Probably because you are always with me, and that is where it all began. Instead of where it all ended.

Threading it back together

When I had my first miscarriage in 2006, I grieved here on this blog. I poured my sorrow out through my words so that I could leave the pain here and try to get on with daily life.

It worked for me.

This time, I'm publicly grieving for my best friend. I'm laying out the pain, the utter agony, of losing the person I have had holding my hand through life for 25 years. Here are the pieces of my heart, shattered for you. Tread lightly among my words, for they are threading those pieces back together again.

Today, more people I actually see in real life sometimes read my words. I run into them, and I feel weird for smiling. I feel awkward for not breaking down into a puddle of tears. 

The thing is, by laying out the grief here, I am better able to pull myself together in real life.

Susan understood that. 

At BlogHer in 2008, she spoke on a grief panel. Most of the bloggers on the panel had blogged about personal illness or loss. Susan described what it was like to blog so personally about her cancer diagnosis and treatment while still maintaining so much privacy for her family. At some point in the session, I mentioned that I blogged to leave it behind me for the day. 

There is no point to that paragraph, other than the fact that it has been on my mind all day.

I am fine out in public. I have to be. It is my nature to smile, laugh, and make inappropriate jokes. 

The only time I am not fine is when I have reason to say the actual words out loud, "My best friend, Susan, died last Monday." Actually saying it out loud always get me. Hell. Just typing it makes me cry. Somehow, that very concrete admittance of the obvious just sticks in my throat. I know that not saying doesn't mean it didn't happen. I just hate saying it.

So I grieve here. Where I can wallow and hurt and cry and gnash my teeth. I will hit publish, be comforted by the wisdom and compassion of so many people who take the time to share it with me. Then I will close the laptop, get up, and go on with life.

It's far from fair, but doing anything any differently won't change the fact that she is gone.

A year of goodbyes

A year ago today, we buried my daddy.

Parkinson's and dementia had left him barely recognizable by phone. In person though, there was no mistaking his laugh, the twinkle of mischief in his eye, or the way he held my hand. He never stopped being my daddy.

This past year has been a blur of goodbyes to him. I thought, and I thought wrong, that I had said goodbye to him before he even left. I thought that since he slipped away slowly over time, that I was coping with his death before it even happened.

That, I've discovered, is an impossible thing to do.

Hospice isn't the place to say goodbye. It's the place to say, "I love you. I will be alright." It's the time to hold on tightly and brace yourself with your loved one so that they know that for as long as they are still breathing, they will never be alone.

Only in death can you really say goodbye. Even though he is gone, I keep having to say it to him. Goodbye.

I've been thinking about the idea of heaven lately. I'm supposed to believe in it, as a Christian, and I suppose I do, but I don't believe in any actual description of it. I kind of just have it in my head that it's a promise that after you die, things won't suck.

This week though, I've tried to convince myself of a more concrete vision of heaven. Somewhere over the rainbow bridge where my daddy and Susan's gram would be waiting for Susan to cross over and give them big hugs. Somewhere in a field where Watson, Kepler, and Chelsea would all bound towards her, greeting her with wagging tails and big sloppy kisses. Somewhere Susan could continue being Susan, just without pain or sickness.

I don't know though. It's just not coming to me.

Visions of heaven don't really help right now anyway. Right now, I just miss them. And that has to be okay for now. To just miss them. Daddy and Susan.

Everything there is to know

So this came in the mail today. A card that I ordered for Susan on January 22. Stupid slow post office.

I think that she knows everything there is to know now.