Random things I have wished for in the last 24 hours.

In no particular order. 

That all weapons would spontaneously melt. 

World peace. 

A venti Caramel Brûlée Latte. 

A tattoo. 

Unlimited groceries from Peapod. 

Becoming an anchoress. 

Becoming a hermit. 

Becoming a nun. 

More cookies. 

Milk. 

Gypsy Cold Care tea. 

A butler. 

Yarn. 

A pedicure. 

Amnesia. 

Libby's happiness. 

A peaceful Christmas. 

Katie to come home. 

It's always a struggle.

"Yes, I am wise, but it's a wisdom borne of pain. 

Yes, I've paid the price, oh but see how much I've gained.

If I had to, I can do anything. 

I am strong. 

I am invincible. 

I am woman."

-Helen Reddy

We sang this constantly while in the Boundary Waters while portaging or paddling into a stiff headwind and whitecaps.  I learned the lyrics and sang with gusto every line except this one: Yes, I've paid the price, oh but see how much I've gained.

I've paid a heavy toll to be here. Stuck here. Floundering about in my grief.  Asking myself what have I gained?  

I'm bitter. Angry. Sad. Disheartened. Grieving. 

I seriously want to kick someone in the nuts. 

I don't think those are things to be proud of as gained. I don't think they're anything to be sung about. 

I've lost my baby girl. I've lost my worldas I knew it. I've lost my ability to be happy, to go through a day without crying, to hold my precious firstborn. I hug Libby at night and think of how cold Katie was when I last held her, trying to give her my warmth. 

Pretty special, right?

What I gained came in the 14 years, 10 months, 15 days, and 15 hours before her death.   I wouldn't trade it, even knowing the end. But it certainly wasn't enough. 

DNA.

Rarely any more to I have what I need to blog. I need three things to blog: time, quiet to think, and a safe place to cry. 

The last is the hardest. I'm alone and quiet most in my car. But it's not a safe place, especially when I'm driving. Nor is it a safe place when I'm parked. I'm often alone in the car waiting to pick up Libby. It's quiet in the office, but I can't let myself cry in such a public place. At home, I'm seldom alone. This is a rare exception, I'm home and alone. 

The one year mark passed. I'm glad I spent it at home, quietly. I just want to be with Katie, however I can. Alone wih my thoughts and her spirit soothes me as well as makes me sad. 

Weirdly, I want to go camping alone. I want to curl up in my sleeping bag and just be for a while. I actually miss my sleeping bag. If I was home alone at night, I think I'd just sleep in it on my bed. I like the way it curls around me. 

I wish Libby liked camping; she's the one person I know that I'd like to camp with. We have a sense of quiet together. In the same room, but doing different quiet activities.  

I need to read my book for book club. I'm a bit afraid of it. I don't want to cry. I don't know the answer. Book club is tomorrow. I've had the book for two months now. 

I wonder what's wrong with me, then I remember. It's now my DNA. It's in my cells. It's such a part of me that I don't know where I stop and it begins. I have very little sense of who I was before. 

I'm a grieving mother. I grieve for myself and for every other grieving mother. 

24 days later

Damn.  Time flies.

Since the last post, I've spent 8 days and 7 days with my Girl Scouts camping.  5 days and 4 nights were primitive camping.  That means pooping in the open in a pit latrine in the woods and being thankful that there was a pit latrine, walls or no walls.

In the Boundary Waters I found Katie, or maybe she found me, really every second of every day.  The last night when I was weeping because I didn't want this time with her to end, I could practically feel her leaning against my shoulder.  I now choose to believe that there are signs everywhere, its just up to us to pick them up.  I never felt like this before, it's only since Katie's death that I've looked.  All the other parents at Compassionate Friends tell stories of signs every meeting.  My counselor says that it's very real and not in my head.

I just still can't wrap my head around the fact that she's not here.

One year ago she was in her second week of school in Oklahoma.  One year ago we had already bought tickets for her first trip home.  Yes, this was home.

She had told me that if she didn't live with Daddy then that she'd never live with Daddy.  She wanted it to be fair, she said.  (That was my sweet "justice" girl, trying to find a balance of fairness.)

That was quite prophetic, don't you think?  One month later.  ONE MONTH LATER.

Now I'm counting down the 16 days until the first anniversary of her death.

DAMN YOU WHO TOOK HER FROM ME!

It wasn't God.  I've not made up yet.  I'm still angry.  But it wasn't God.

It was man.  The same as if someone took a gun and shot her.  It it was a person with a gun, I could direct my anger and grief at a specific person.  Here it's just some corporation (and I don't care what the SCOTUS says, corporations aren't people).  I'm some grieving mother whose name is unknown to the corporation who killed her. If it weren't for the lawsuit and the lawyers, the killer would not even know that my baby was killed by their actions.

I need someone to stand up and tell me that he or she did this to us.  I need someone to know how I hurt.

Attempting self-care

Today was a big day. I feel like I accomplished a lot personally. It's hard to manage "radical" self-care as Anne Lamott would put it. Especially when you're back to "left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe."  I'm trying, though. 

Establishing care with a new health care twice in 8 months or so is rough under any circumstances, but when insurance changes, so do we. This means that I've sat with a new provider twice and wept while they weep with me. But I did it and finally got it done even with the fact that I've had this insurance for a while now. We are trying some different things that will hopefully help as the anniversary grows closer. 

And counselling was today. That always makes me sob. I just have to believe that this pain now will help me in the long run. It's damn painful every visit. 

I am blessed with providers who care deeply, though. I told the nurse practitioner today that I feel rather like a person in a foreign land who doesn't understand the currency or the language. I just hold out my hands and hope that someone will understand my needs, take what they should, and give me what's the best for me in return. 

What a far cry from the woman in charge of her own health and destiny. She should probably, eventually reappear. I just know she's not here now. 

Not in my job description

I had a shitty and unproductive week last week. It is so hard sometimes just to stand upright, let alone actually accomplishing something. I hate it!  I used to be much more productive than this. Now, just getting out of bed is sometimes the greatest achievement of my day. 

There were so many things that got me down. Compassionate Friends. Appointment as co-representative of Katie's estate. Hangover from vacation. Coming to grips with the reality of a Girl Scout trip without her (yeah, I'm not there yet).  Sad and stressed Libby as she has to continue her life without Katie. 

Sometimes it's nice to just go back to the blissful unreality. It's getting harder to find. Every thing I clean now has something that reminds me of her. Every time I go to bed there is some sad, sad thought. I'm crying a lot more again. 

Eleven months. 

Then a year. Holy Mary Mother of God, I'm not prepared for this. I'm not supposed to be *that* mother. This is so very much not what I signed on to do. 

And now the blog for today

Colorado was weird. I used to tell the girls that it would.be easier for me to leave my left leg home when I went on vacation than for me to leave them behind. Colorado was just that hard. Everywhere I looked, Katie wasn't. There were only four girls in the photos, not five. And it made me extremely sad. 

I put on a good front, mostly. I fell apart only when I was out to dinner with Cheryl and Laure. Falling apart in public after one margarita. I shouldn't drink.  (If you're happy and you drink, you're a happy drunk. If you're angry when you drink, you're an angry drunk.  If you're sad and you drink...  I just shouldn't drink.) It's hard enough to keep my shit together if I'm sober. 

Now I still feel hung over emotionally. So much so that I couldn't trust myself to volunteer today. Or go to the office. It's a work from home today, which isn't Monday unusual. Just the fact that I'm so damn emotional. 

I'm back in counseling. It hurts. It's necessary, but it hurts. Compassionate Friends meet tonight. It's an awful thing to have to do. Katie's probate had the initial hearing today. I'm officially a co-administrator of my daughters estate now. Sucky sucky sucky. 

I worked the German Immersion School booth a at GermanFest on Friday. I saw many people that I knew and many parents, grandparents, and friends of Katie's classmates. And those that know asked how I am. And one even asked how the accident happened. But everyone else didn't know, so I just told them to tell their (insert relation classmate here) that Katie's Mom said hello. 

Colorado sunset

For some reason this didn't post.

I'm missing Katie in Colorado, but here's a photo. You've got to know the set up of it. It's at sunset, but the photo is taken facing east, not west. I'm not sure how you get a fantastic sunset picture facing east, unless it's Katie. 

Hurt. Fragile.

Today is a hard day for Joe. The Fourth of July has always been his holiday with the girls. It has been many years since the girls were both with me on the Fourth. Last year I had Libby only, and that was the first year ever the girls had been separated on the Fourth. I know he's hurting. And Libby is hurting. I'm hurting, too, but it's my everyday hurt, not my holiday hurt. 

Kind of like the old saw about having 50 words for snow.  I have a jillion kinds of pain. 

I can't even begin to catalog, but I'm going to start. 

Everyday hurt (the constant grind of pain for thinking about everything from eating a sweet mango that she loved to taking out the trash that she hated)

Holiday hurt (that extra-boosted painful reminder that she's not decorating the tree or sitting at the table or hiding the eggs or any other myriad things)

Happy memory hurt (a beautiful memory we shared or a happy one that has happened since, but which is marred because she wasn't there)

Sad memory hurt (remembering the funeral or when I saw her after her death, even the love and support that I wish I hadn't needed)

Lonely hurt (just flat missing my baby)

Mama moment hurt (only a mama would get the moment, also when listening to another mama talk about a proud mama moment that I missed or will miss with Katie)

Kind words hurt (when an unexpected kindness catches me off guard and makes me cry)

Those are more productive, I guess. I don't have a better word right now for that. It means I'm processing. At least I hope that's what it means as I sit here and weep. 

Then there is the bad hurt:

The stupid words hurt ("she's in a better place" "God has called her home" and the like. Well meaning, just stupid.)

Guilt hurt (if only I had..., this wouldn't have happened)

Regret hurt (I just wish I had done X with Katie before...)

Thankfully there are more things listed in the former than the latter. Man, though, those latter one can pack a wallop and get you down for days. 

I have such lovely friends who are so intuitive, knowing what I need before I need it, but I feel like I need to share these with a larger audience. So that some other mother some other place can show this to her support system and know that someone else has written down a list of what she needs. 

I don't even know what I'm asking for here. 

I need you to make sure I'm okay on the holidays, especially the ones on no religious or government calendar.  

I need you to still acknowledge my love and pain and loss. 

I need you to still remember Katie crying or laughing. Always remember my girl. Always. 

And you should always share your child and your child's joys with me.  Just also remember that these also bring an edge of pain for me, so be gentle. 

I told Joe a couple of nights ago that when making choices between the feelings of his emotionally stable family and Libby that he always needs to err on her side of the fragile one. 

That's probably the most important piece. Remember the fragile ones. 

Yet another thing for which I don't have the answer.

Libby is with her dad this week. She's down at the house that she associates with Katie, the property on which Katie died. And she's sad and lonely, and she feels like no one gets it. And she wants to come home. 

I'm here. 850 miles away. I can't fix it. If ever I wished for Star Trek technology it's now. 

(Goddamn it, Jim! The teleporter is not working.)

All I can do from afar is to try to mediate the distance between a hurting thirteen-year-old girl in all of her awkward glory and her equally hurting dad who has never been a thirteen-year-old girl. 

All I want to do is rock my baby and hold her when she cries. Really both my babies, but my earth baby is hurting more than my angel baby. 

I just had to take some time and explain to Joe some of what she's feeling so that he can grasp a small bit of it. God bless the fathers of girls. They sincerely don't have a clue when they're blindsided by emotion they've never even heard of before now. And God bless Joe because his load is that much heavier now. 

(I'm still mad at God. Don't take my God blessing and God damning as a change.)

I need peace and serenity to say and do the right things. The only thing going for me at this point is that my understanding is that there is no right answer because there is no wrong answer. As long as I do things out of love, things should turn out okay.  

I just need to hold on for one more day (and then one more day, and then....)

What don't I cry about?

Seemingly nothing. 

Last year I volunteered to talk to a PhD student about early pregnancy loss since I had a miscarriage before Katie. This summer she called to follow up, and I had to tell her about Katie.  After talking about loss to someone, you feel like they're a friend. I couldn't talk about one loss without the other. 

She shared her story with me (at least part of it) via email, and I finally read it today. She never had a child after going through many heartbreaking miscarriages. 

As I told her, I lost a fourteen year old, but had her for 14 years, 10 months and 15 days: precious time that she didn't get. I said before that I would do it again knowing the pain at the end. I'm crying for her loss, that she didn't get that time. 

I'm so damn grateful that I got time with my brilliant, beautiful girl, but a millennium with her could never be enough. 

Maybe back in the groove

It's been a rough time since I've been away. I've been really angry with God. I am calm one minute and then falling apart the next. Yeah, a lot has been going on inside. 

Second Compassionate Friends meeting was last week. I mentioned that last blog. I'm still frightened that I'll be sad for the rest of my life, but a small part has moved toward being resigned to that fact. Of course, a small part still believes that she's not dead, so take that for what it's worth: nothing. 

People have called me strong. One woman told me that I was the strongest bad-assed mother she's ever met. Remarkable, since the day before I had wept nearly non-stop.  I feel weak and vulnerable and fragile. 

I am weak and vulnerable and fragile. 

I recognize it. That's why I've pulled back to my comfort safety zone of friends. I'm friendly, it's just hard to let anyone in the bubble. I know it's not healthy, so I put forth effort to get to know new people. I just don't let them get too close. 

I still talk to Katie. I found a long hair on a door frame yesterday and asked her unfitness hers or sister's. That's how I have always asked the question to either girl. "Is this yours or sister's?"

Sad

I went to my second Compassionate Friends meeting last night. They are my people now. 

What struck me though was that they still hurt 28 years later. I understand. It just hit me that I am going to be sad the rest of my life. 

Every day

Every day has it's own unique and butter challenges. 

Yesterday I was looking for a missing file on our desktop computer. I found a note Katie had typed for Joe to send with some pictures she had chosen from when they were little. "I miss you and I know you miss me."

All these exquisite sharp silvery bits. It's  like being sliced by beautiful ice slivers. 

Today issues with Libby because she's so furiously sad here. I'm furiously sad here, too. I fell asleep last night thinking of how we could move. But I know that I'll be furiously sad anywhere. And the memories hurt here, but they're some of the best memories I have. How could I leave?  How can I not?

I put Compassionate Friends meetings on my calendar. Crying as I look at September and October. 

I am grieving all over again. 

I don't think I will ever blog without crying. 

I fucking hate my life.

That is all. 

Mother's Day, Shabbat, and going Home.

I survived. 

Libby did an amazing job of making me feel special. Gifts. Flowers. At her idea we went to Holy Hill and walked the Stations of the Cross. But for missing half of my heart, it was a good day. 

Talk about a severe reset of the "okay" calibration. 

I had Shabbat with my rabbi friend and his family. We talked about my anger with God some. One of the things that he said is that every person born has a purpose. Some fulfill their purposes sooner than others, so they get to go "home" earlier. 

And I still cry. 

And the law marches on

I talked to the attorney yesterday. The manufacturing company hasn't been forthcoming with requested information.  The last option is filing a lawsuit. Which means that we need personal representatives must be ordered by a court. Which means filing a probate for Katie. 

They had to ask me if Katie had a will. 

If I agree to be a corepresentative with Joe. 

It has to be done. It hurt, but I need closure. 

God is not "good."

I see this on Facebook a lot lately. "God is good all the time."  

It's especially hurtful when it is accompanied by a photo of their adorable child(ren).

It makes me want to scream. 

I want to comment on every post "Bullshit. Bull. Shit."

Because I am a walking, talking, example to the contrary. 

If God was so all-fired, fucking good, I would not be living this nightmare. 

Monetary values

I was volunteeringtoday, giving some free legal advice. I saw a man who didn't want to pay his back child support--not unusual. It was a pretty substantial amount of money. This guy, though, wanted to keep a relationship with his daughter. Long story short, it came down to what he was willing to pay to maintain his relationship with his daughter. He asked, "How can you put a price tag on that?"

Good question. 

I looked at the amount and thought that I'd willingly spend 10 times that amount for a 10 minute conversation on the phone with Katie. I'd beg, steal, and borrow that. 

30 times that for an hour holding her. 

A hundred times or more that amount to have her back. Even in a wheelchair. 

How can you put a price on something priceless?

Rocking my baby

The scent is strong today. I'm sitting in the rocking chair, thinking about rocking my baby. There is a little bit of baby powder in the scent today, and it lingers more. It's been about 20 minutes now, fading in and out. 

I'm weeping, but there is a teeny bit of happy in there. She's with me. 

I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep. 

It smells heavenly

I smell things. I don't know how to say it otherwise. 

Sometimes when I'm sitting still I smell a lovely scent. It's not always the same scent. However, it's always fresh and sweet and a bit floral. 

At first I thought it was my perfume, but, while it has a hint of lavender, it's not all lavender. Then I thought it was my new laundry detergent, but it's more floral-y.  Then I started noticing that it's always similar, but it's not always the same. 

Sometimes I smell it when I'm around a candle, but most often I'm not close to a candle. I thought it was some new soap that I bought, but I smell it even when I've put the soaps away upstairs, and I'm downstairs. It makes no difference where I am in the house.  I smell it even when I'm not at home. 

It's familiar and comforting, and I want to bury my nose in it and sink into it. Sometimes it lasts for minutes. Usually it's just a passing breath. 

Katie loved lavender like I do. She had soap and deodorant and spray for her body and her pillows. 

She loved fruit and ate everything in season. 

It's not a scent that I associate with Katie as she was. 

I'm starting to wonder if it is the scent of Katie as she is now. 

Grief books

I've started reading grief books. It's hard as you might imagine. It's hard to read about grief when you're living grief and it reminds you of your grief. But id think there may be value. 

One of the things this last one says is that you are a different person than before.  To wit:  My relationship with Katie has changed. It's not the same as before. I have to accept this change and the change it causes in me to evolve into a new person. 

I ahould develop new routines and habits. I should expect my personality to change (ever hear the expression "get better or get bitter"? I'm hoping for personality improvement here).

I need to practice more love. 

I need to develop more patience. 

I need to give myself more fully. 

I need to prepare for more change, because it's coming whether I want it or not. 

I'll never be the same as I was before. Now what am I going to do about it?

What you miss when it is gone.

This past weekend I was with three of my Other Mothers at a house by Lake Michigan where we could just enjoy each other. All the kids were safe and with people that loved them; we were able to be together. 

At one point we were talking about the kids when they were young. Going to the grocery store. All the hats and mittens and boots. The judgemental old ladies.  There was agreement that they wouldn't go back. But I would. In a heartbeat. 

What a difference a few seconds makes. 

I'd take the Velcro baby who wailed when she was put in her seat so I could shower--the fastest shower in whole world. 

I'd take the five year old who embarrassed the cashier and me at Joann's when she explained what divorce was and how it affected her. 

I'd take the snarky teenager who was embarrassed to be seen with me in my gardening clothes even if we were just going to the garden center at Home Depot. 

Perspective. 

Think about this, friends, when you wish this age or stage was over. 

I hope I don't turn into that old lady at the grocery store who says that you'll miss this when it's gone as you try to put coats or mittens on screaming toddlers. 

If I do, you know why. 

Talking to God

I've been talking to God lately. Ish. Maybe it's better to say that I talk "at" God. It's a brief conversation usually that goes like this:

"I miss you, God, but I'm still mad at you."

Short and pointed. 

Weird thing is, I figure He understands. 

I figure Mary understands even more. 

I am pissed as Hell. This is not what I signed up for.  I pinned hopes and dreams.  I loved with my whole damn being. Without reservation. Without thought to how much it would hurt. And I would do it AGAIN.  But shit, piss, fuck, damn it HURTS. 

THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANT!

I don't want the sympathy. 

I don't want the anger. 

I don't want the pain. 

I don't want tears and panic and anxiety and depression. 

I just want two, COUNT THEM--TWO, precious daughters with me. 

I don't understand--I will never understand--why. I don't want to even try to understand, because I HAVE BEEN CHEATED. 

Katie Light

I took this photo this morning. Maybe soon I'll be back to more words and less pictures, but this is another photo post. 

I'm looking at that pretty purple light. It's easily explained as a reflection of light off the lens. That's scientific. 

But I didn't notice it when I shot the photo on my iPhone. And the longer I looked at it, the more I decided that it's Katie Light. 

I was standing at the door out onto my roof taking a photo of the snow. 

(Seriously, it's been 50 days of measurable snowfall this winter.  It's March 25th.  I digress.)

I wasn't taking a photo of the morning light. I was wishing I was taking a photo of spring instead of snow. I've said that I feel like I live at Winterfell.  

And then here's this beautiful streak of purple light in my photo. 

Katie is with me. 

Kintsukuroi

It's the art of fixing broken pottery by using gold to fill the cracks. 

In this way you can take something that is broken and make it even more beautiful than before. 

This randomly popped up for me on an unrelated search, and I like it. 

Maybe this is something I can do with broken pottery shards. 

Maybe this is something I can do with my heart. 

Portraits of grief

#selfie

Only one child

How does one cross the chasm from having two children to having, in practical terms, one?

I have two children, but only one living. 

I have two daughters, but only one is with me. 

How will I ever reconcile that?

March 11th

I'm just thinking about March 11th. 

13 years ago I was wild with anticipation, ready for the baby to be born. Katie was so ready to see and kiss her baby sister. 

Today Libby is bracing herself to have her first birthday without Sister. I'm bracing myself for that and the 6 month mark that comes on Thursday. 

The Dells

Couple things. 

I'm at the water park. I keep looking at girls that are 15. Maybe 16. I wonder about them, their lives, loves, boyfriends, grades in school. Such brilliant, beautiful girls. They don't even know how brilliant or beautiful they are. 

They're wearing bikinis that make them uncomfortable, one hand on their tummy to hide any bulge. They toss their hair up casually in a bun that's just a bit too done to be casual. They try not to look at the boys, letting their eyes slide over any male, studiously avoiding eye contact. 

Beautiful girls. They've already figured out what makes boys tick. They don't know what to do with it, though. 

Brilliant girls who haven't figured out what makes them tick inside, though. Unsure. Towels wrapped, but strategically. Standing, looking at the moms with the mom belly and the toddler. Worried that will be them. Afraid no one will ever love them enough.  

I miss my beautiful, brilliant girl. 

It's been a while

Thing have been busy as life goes forward in fits and jerks. "It's like you're always stuck in second gear."  That should make me smile. Maybe it does a little. 

Divorced now. Check. Trying to move on. Check. I know I made the right decision. He proved it yet again last week as we were trying to get the final stuff done. 

I am selfish. I have to be. I can't waste my scarce emotional energy. I choose to only be around people who help recharge my energy. If someone is draining it, I cannot be around them. I know enough to know that I'm too emotionally fragile for such shit. I feel like a leach saying it, but I need you for the emotional recharging. Your love. The cards you send. Letting me sit with you quietly. Reminding me that you loved her, too. Letting me cry if I do. Feeding me. Oh such love goes so far to help me feel (something closer) to whole. 

Then I can share my energy with Libby when she needs it. She has more energy than I do as a rule, but when she's drained, it's GONE. It's hard to manage for her. It's hard to manage for me. That's when I draw on those reserves you've given me. 

Lots of things have made me think and cry lately. 

I almost had a conversation with Katie that didn't tear me up inside. 

I had an art therapist tell me that it is okay to break stuff if I feel like it. She also told me that I should also take the stuff I break and create something new. I don't know what to think about that. 

I keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

Time slips

Time is slipping. It doesn't feel like February. It doesn't feel like much time has passed at all. It just feels tired. 

It's coming up on six months. A half a year. That's a half of a year of my life, and I have no real idea where the time has gone. 

No real idea. 

I'm upright. I breathe. My nutrition has improved. I cry daily, but not usually hourly. And I have nothing real to show what I have done in six months besides just survived. 

Surviving is hard work. 

Blah days.

It's a blah day here. The weather is icky. My mood is icky. 

I'm working on good things. Or at least trying to rephrase as good things. 

I had thought that the rain would melt the snow. And it has. In places. Not on my slippery driveway. Now I'm hopeful that maybe the snow will cover the ice that is bound to form and make it less slick. See ... hopeful. 

It's just generalized funk. 

I feel like the Peanuts character Pigpen with his floating cloud of dust. Except mine is sadness. 

What made me cry

At the dentists' office, what initially made me weepy was when I told the dentist, "I've been through worse."

Just figured that out. 

Another place I cried

I cried today at the dentist. Bizarre. 

My silly tooth was beyond saving and the dentist had an opening, so I had it removed today. I was numbed. That stung a bit. Then I was numb. Then he pulled it.  Then I cried. Heaving sob kind of cry. Not for the tooth. That was a relief. The poor man didn't know what to do. He and the sweet assistant kept assuring me that it was okay, but there I went, sobbing and apologizing. 

After the dentist left I told the assistant about Katie. She had lost a fiancé, so she got it. I finally got it together enough to walk out, pay, and leave. 

It sucks to have such little control over your emotions. 

Now you know.

If you don't already know, here's a fun fact:

Grief screws with your pain receptors. 

I was told this early on. Many people told me to be careful if I fell or something. It is fairly common for grieving people to have broken bones and not know until much later. What I didn't think about was my teeth. 

My best guess is that I probably had a tooth break sometime. I have no idea how long ago. There was no pain. A couple of times it seemed a bit twinge-y with cold. I started using using Sensodine. It's been longer than 6 months (a year, maybe? I haven't been paying attention) since my last visit to the dentist. Yesterday I had a twinge in the morning, but didn't think about it. Last night it really hurt, but I used some hot salt water, brushed my teeth, and still fell asleep. This morning I woke up without pain, but with half (okay, a quarter) of my face swollen. Very swollen. 

Now, thanks to the dentist on call, I'm on antibiotics. Tomorrow I will get an appointment to see what the root cause is and how to fix it. 

I'm just kinda stunned that I really had no idea this was coming. 

I had made the appointment with the doctor. I knew that was important. Who knew I should have had an appointment with the dentist?  And if you knew, why didn't you tell me?

Mentally, I'm having good and bad days/weeks. The five month mark passed. I made it through Valentine's Day.  Somehow life goes on. 

In my head I've been having imaginary conversations with strangers.  I'm trying to figure out how to tell people about Katie. I'm trying to figure out how to say or type Katie without getting choked up. How to tell people kindly. Is that weird?  But it can catch people off guard. People that I don't know well enough to know if they know are the hardest to talk to. My mailman knows. I don't think the neighbor across the street does. 

I'm again struck with the desire for formal mourning clothes. A black wreath in the window. Something. 

It sucks

It's been a roller coaster week. Some good. Some still unknown. Some, well, pretty shitty.  

My bras have made several attempts on my life this week.  I thought we were through with this nonsense. Reality is that although it feels like an assassination attempt, it's really just my being über sensitive again. If it weren't damn cold, I'd probably be wearing a lot less clothing. I am back to the hoodies again. It's pretty bad. 

I melted down multiple days over a light bulb that didn't even burn out. A long time ago probably early October the bedside lamp was turned on in Katie's room and it has burned ever since. I come home and see her light in the window and I talk to her. Sometimes it's just goodnight. Sometimes it's a conversation. I panicked when I thought that the light might burn out. I had to be rescued by my Other Mothers, Joslyn, specifically. 

I don't know why it's been hard. I know why the tough moments were tough, but I don't know why my panic started. My crying is a constant in life; it's not something new.  I don't know why I'm losing sleep. 

I lie. I do know why. The base cause is that my baby is gone. And that breaks my heart. Over and over and over and ...

Pain and anger

For those of you worried that I'm not saying what I need to say, you're probably right. 

But I can feel it burning in my belly. 

There is an anger that is starting to catch fire. 

Early on I said that I wanted to throw things--dishes--against the wall and smash them, but I didn't want to clean up my mess. Now I just want to throw things. I don't care about the mess. I just want to throw things and scream. 

It. Isn't. Fair. 

Someone needs to hear me scream. I want whoever caused my baby to die to know how much I hurt. They should have to listen to my screams and crying. They should have to feel my pain when I try to help Libby. They should have to feel how my heart tears when Libby asks me to be careful and not die when I'm going somewhere. 

No one who hasn't done this can know what I feel, but whoever was in charge needs to know how I hurt. 

I want someone to know.

Distractions/deserving

I'm looking for more distractions lately. I don't know if that is good or bad. It just is. It's easier to just mindlessly watch anime with Libby (or read or play solitaire or stare into space) than it is to blog. 

Maybe it's not that I'm looking for more distractions. Maybe I'm just more easily distracted. 

I think deep thoughts when I'm in the shower. I even say to myself, that's where your next post should begin. But once I'm dry and dressed, it's gone. Kaput. 

People have shown me random acts of kindness lately. Sometimes it's from someone close. Sometimes it is a stranger.  From these people I've heard several times some variation on "you deserve it/you look like you deserve it." That's kind of weird. The random lady who used her freebie coupon to buy my cafe au lait at Starbucks said I looked like I deserve a cuppa coffee. Not needed, but deserved. 

How do I look deserving?  

Do I have some sort of brand on my forehead? (I've blogged about thinking I need a sign announcing my loss.  Did I secretly implement it?) Does deserving mean I look like I've won/done/accomplished something and should get a reward?  Seriously, I don't think I look like anything but that I've survived.  I feel like one of those bedraggled survivors of some terrible storm with my hair standing up and my eyes haunted.   I feel like I should look that way from the outside. I hope I don't. I hope I look like I've got it a little more together than that. But I'm not *that* hopeful.  

I'm just lost. And I'm at a loss. 

Im still looking for a way to deal with the pain. 

What I need to say.

Sometimes a blank page is too much. I look at it and wonder how I will ever have the words to say what I need to say. Go ahead. Hum John Mayer. I am. 

A long time ago Joslyn quoted the lyrics. And, I'll be honest, probably half the time that's on repeat in the soundtrack in my head. Someday, if anyone wants to know, I'll try to write about the whole soundtrack. Not tonight. 

Tonight it's about needing to say things. A lot of the time I don't want to say things. I don't want to blog. I don't want to talk. Most of all I don't want to cry. But I need to. I need to get things out of my head. 

I have a friend who is an artist. About 3-4 years ago he started making some very ugly art. Okay, I'm not an aficionado of more modern art (I'm partial to Impressionist), and I am sure that there are people who appreciate his more recent work. For me, though, the colors were too bold. The lines too sharp. The subject matter was dark or obscure or...ugly. It was cubist and surreal and subjective and interpretive. It's no real secret that I'm not taken with these works; I've told him. He had some beautiful work that he had done prior to this period that I really liked, and I wanted to know why the change. So, you know me, I asked.

He told me that these images were some that stemmed from his childhood. They had started haunting his thoughts and work. He knew that he had to work through it; he had to paint these images in order to move on, whatever the path might lead. 

I get it. I've got to work through the ugly.  

I've got to write the terrible/beautiful things. 

I've got to say the horrifying words. 

I ... need to say what I need to say. 

I don't have to like it. 

"Even if your hands are shakin'

And your faith is broken

Even as the eyes are closin'

Do it with your heart wide open

A wide heart"

Watch out, Krissi. Germany Trip 2015.

It's official. Unless something happens, Libby is going to Germany. And I am going to Germany, too. 

Why the separateness? Because Libby is convinced right now that I'm going just so I can ruin her freedom in Europe. 

But what she doesn't get is that I want to be on the same continent as she is. Just in case. Better still to be in the same country. I won't bother. I will only speak when spoken to. I won't mention sunscreen once!  I just need to be there. 

It's weird. Things happen. I know. They happened. 

Lightening probably won't strike twice. The odds are very slim. 

I'm just going to be there. What I really want is for her to experience life and a new world. I don't want to worry when she does. 

Can I blog at Starbucks?

I'm capable.  I just don't know if I can do this with my dignity intact. You know. Without crying.

It's cold outside. I feel cold inside, too. I need to get away and take Libby. I want to go someplace warmer. Someplace greener. 

I need to warm my fingers. Maybe tan my toes. Mostly, though, I need to breathe a little easier so that I can learn to live again. 

I don't know why that sounds like it would be easier away from here. 

(To answer the question, no. I can't blog at Starbucks and not cry. Thankfully, I was saved embarrassment when the Rabbi arrived for our coffee klatch.)

Really, though. Away would not be easier than here. Away is just different. Different without you guys.  And you guys in person are important. (And you guys far away are equally important.)

Yesterday Amy D came and stayed all day (until it was time to pick up Lib). What a blessing! Then today was a card from Rae Lynn (far away). Tomorrow I've got Joslyn and Ali and the grad school crew. 

That helps. A lot. 

Your calls (even when it just goes to voicemail) and I hear your voice. Your texts and FB message letting me know you're thinking about me. Your cards in the mail. Showing up randomly on my doorstep. Your blog comments. 

Huge. 

They let me know I'm not alone. I don't have to run away. I am loved. 

One foot in front of the other one

I'm tall. I remember when I really became tall. I had a hard time knowing where my feet were in 10th grade without looking.  Like a lot of tall people, I started watching my feet when I walked. 

I'm watching my feet again. I may tell myself that it's because of the ice and snow. Really it's because it's comfortable. 

It's easier to look at the near than the far. To look down than up. To focus on the immediate, not the distant. 

There is too much out there at times. It helps me to limit my stimuli. 

Focus on my feet. The middle distance. Somewhere besides where the pain lies. 

Something like life

I feel better today. That's on the relative scale of my life now.  Don't anyone get excited. 

I almost feel like I can see a glimmer of life. 

Honestly, that makes me cry, too. 

I feel overwhelmed. It's big out there. And that bigness is Katie-less. And I don't like that. 

Someone asked what is one thing I'd like to do. I'd like to travel with Libby. I always wanted to travel with my girls. I still want to travel with my girls. Just now I have just Libby. That hurts. 

There's a reality setting in that I want to reject. I can no longer live that little bit in unreality and disbelief. 

What I think about myself

I volunteered at the courthouse all day today.  Okay, not completely a full day, but I was there in the morning before 10 and left about 3:30. And it felt good. 

It was good to get out of the house. It was good to help people.

I like to think that I'm someone who focuses on others and on making the world a better place. I haven't done much of that lately. 

I have always thought of myself as an extrovert. Now, I'm more turned inward. I don't think this is a forever change, but it is now. 

I think more until I can't think anymore because it hurts. 

I was talking to Libby before she got out of bed this morning, and I was stroking her hair.  And I wept because I was thinking about the last time I stroked Katie's hair at the funeral home. 

Walking

I've started walking.  It's a part of my plan to try to get ready.  For what I still don't know.  I kinda think that just the activity of it--the thinking, processing part of it, the putting one foot in front of the other repetition--may be the journey or at least the metaphor in physical terms that I need. 

I"I'm not going to be stuck forever. See, I can still walk."

My life metaphor is now from surfing. I've heard surfers describe how it feels when they're crashed under by a huge wave. Maybe you've seen the scientific illustration and you have it in your head. Maybe you've seen the scene in the movies. 

It's the one where the surfer is crashed under and struggles to the surface only to be pounded under again and again and again in this awful, frightening cycle. 

That's been life since September 13. 

Death, funeral, funeral, breathe! First month anniversary, her birthday, breathe! Second month mark, thanksgiving, breathe! Cookie exchange, first Friday the 13th, Christmas, New Years, breathe!  And all the thousand smaller waves crashing me down in between. 

I was in that cycle. Barely time to breathe before being dragged back under like a rag doll. 

Probably why blogging was so hard. I was focusing on breathing. It took all of my concentration. I had to go old school back-to-the-basics. Drink. Eat. Pee. 

Now I'm walking. And starting to think, little by little. No headphones. I like listening to the sounds of life. 

Wonderful

Here is what I'm thinking of. It came from Joslyn from my last post. If you remember she came up with the entirety of the Kabir poem. The first two lines are:

"Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat.

My shoulder is against yours."

Here is what she had to say about it:

1. 
   JHegelmeyerJanuary 11, 2014 at 10:05 PM

   I love those first two lines...just beautiful. It is about spirituality, about God, about Katie's presence, about friendship, about whatever it is we are looking for.

   Reply

I love the thought of Katie' shoulder against mine. We sat like that often, leaning on each other. It was one of the best things about her growing into her womanhood. She was no longer a child on my lap and hadn't been for several years. She became someone I could lean against. The relationship was evolving into a new stage that fascinated me. I could see her at 24, catch glimpses of the mother she would be at 34, see her smile as a grandmother. 

It was like a shimmer. A hologram where you can see both, one just a shimmer on the edge of the other. 

And I could see her heart. She had an old soul. Beautiful and kind. She dreamed about the kids she would have and what she would do with them. She was stockpiling ideas of places to go on her own and places she would go as a mom with her kids.  

That's something I haven't let myself think about.  I can't think about what she would have been.  She would have been wonderful because she was wonderful. 

Thinking

I saw this on some sign at my salon when I was there last. 

*******

Tell me, what is God? He is the breath inside the breath. 

Kabir, 15th century, Varanasi. 

*******

That's one of the things I've been contemplating lately. I've been in such a spiritual dry spell. I'm not angry with God. I'm just numb. I find comfort in the physical motions (crossing myself), but my prayers are like dust. I sometimes think that he's close enough to touch, but it don't have the energy to raise my arm. I don't even know if my fatigue is mental or emotional or both. (I mean that I know that my life is full of the fatigue of both, but metaphorically, I'm not sure about this instance.)

But this quote (which I cannot find through a simple internet search--someone else can tell me if they have better results. I really don't care if it's accurate because it has struck a chord within me) gives me comfort. 

I don't have to worry so much about praying. God is the breath inside [my] breath.  When I'm breathing, he is there. When my breath is for good and my words are kind, he is there. When my breath is of anger and my words are ugly, he is still there. He is in my breath. He is the spirit and the life within my breath. He is within me. Even when I don't feel him because of my hurt. 

New Year

A few things. 

I cry every time I hear Auld Lang Sine. That's the biggest reason I wanted to be home NYE. I didn't want to hear the song and cry. I can be a downer at home. I don't have to ruin it for everyone. 

I read Wild by Cheryl Strayed over my trip to Oklahoma. I'm struck by a couple of things from the book. I feel like there should be some outward manifestation of my grief. I talked to my friend Mary about it at lunch on NYE.  She was struck thinking about how mourning clothes are an outward symbol of mourning, how she always thought that was oppressive (so did I). Now I'm thinking that I get mourning clothes. It's so that people know without you having to tell them. So that people get why you're so screwed up inside. 

Second point is that I want to do something. What I don't know. So my resolution is exactly 31 days long. Day 1: walk a block, do one sit up, do one push up. Day 2: walk two blocks, do two sit ups, do two push ups. You get the pattern.  I figure this is not what my final plan is, but it will give me time to think and will get me ready for whatever it is. 

The holidays are behind me for another year. 

I realized on the 27th that I found out that I was pregnant with Katie on a Friday the 13th. Friday, February 13, 1998. We had laughed that we should have waited until Valentine's Day to do the test. (Libby was the 4th of July, 2000.)