A truth has been revealed to me. I AM KATIE’S MOM!
I became Katie’s mom 32 years ago today. I was her mom then and I am her mom now. When she died two years ago I didn’t realize I could still be her mom even though she is not here. At that time I felt I had lost much of who I am. I lost my identity when I lost my daughter. My mother once described it as losing even more, she said, “losing Katie is like losing a big chunk of our own bodies, bigger than if we had lost an entire arm”.
It was recently pointed out to me that I am able to mother her still, not only while she was alive, but also in death. That is earth-shattering to me. I am not sure what that will look like, but I think since her death I have been mothering her by sharing her story. Her story did not die with her, it is up to me to share her life, her death; her effect on me and on you.
She taught us so much while she was living, and has taught us even more with her death. The lessons are the same. I learned about grace, perseverance, patience, and courage by watching her struggle with delayed milestones, bullies, ever-present hunger, and frustration. I am learning how to live with my new struggles. An example is how I have called upon her lessons to get me out of bed every morning. Once I decide that I must get out of bed, I put one foot on the floor, then attempt to get my other foot close to the floor. I’m still supine with my head on my pillow but bent at the waist to a near ninety degree angle (much like a broken Barbie doll chucked aside for a newer version) waiting for the strength to hoist my body upright, which I know I can do because I am a warrior! I am finding my new identity. I am a broken Barbie doll warrior. I am the teller of Katie’s story. I am Katie’s mom. I was her mom and I will be her mom until the day I die.
Today, I celebrate Katie’s birthday by becoming her mom once again. I’ve missed her.
written: April 26, 2018. 32 years after Katie’s birth.
I have not done any lap swimming or water aerobics since December… until last night.
I have used a myriad of excuses to keep me from my beloved chlorine, but all of them could have been wrapped up in one simple excuse; I am so tired. Fatigue has been my most debilitating symptom of grief since my daughter died last year. The debilitating fatigue has mainly manifested itself by making it impossible for me to get dressed. (I’m sure there is some psychological meaning behind it, such as, “If I get dressed I have to face going into the world alone, without my ever-present sidekick.”) I have learned tricks I will share for other grieving mothers so you don’t have to figure this out on your own.
*When you finally sit up in bed in the morning, lift one foot to put through the leg hole of your underwear
*put your sock and shoe on at that time
*proceed to the other leg…(that way you only have to lift each foot once)
* wear skirts
*don’t forget your shirt as I did during one of the very early days back to work. Standing on the back porch with the strap of my tote bag crossed over my bra just didn’t feel quite right. It wasn’t until after I had locked the house and turned to go to the car that I realized what was amiss.
My dear co-workers know that I don’t have the ability to both shower and dress in the same morning, they have told me clothing isn’t optional and have put up with a non-showered me all year.
Tonight I swam laps. When I reached half the number of laps I would normally accomplish, I could no longer propel myself forward another inch. I stopped and spent the rest of my paid time doing water exercises. Last night I returned to water aerobics. Mid-way through the class, the instructor noticed I was struggling and proclaimed, “You need to come more.” I didn’t disagree. The chlorine smelled wonderful, the aches in my arms and belly suggested there might actually be muscles somewhere in my body, and my water friends are true. She is right. I need to come more.
I had to stop for gas on my home. I wished I was wearing a large sign that said, “Don’t judge.” My lovely water friends leave the locker room put together in fully appropriate attire, whereas I look like I just rolled out of bed and got hosed down on my way to Wal-mart.
~”When everything is moving and shifting, the only way to counteract chaos is stillness. When the surface is wavy, dive deeper for quieter waters.”
365 days from the death of my daughter and what do I know of grief? I know there has been wailing and gnashing of teeth. I think that is supposed to reference what hell is like. Perhaps grief is hell? The gnashing of teeth has been so strong at times I thought my head would explode. Primordial wails erupt unexpectedly from the depths of my being ending in shudders and gasps. Tears have covered my cheeks until the skin was raw and cracked. There have been times when I could not stop rocking back and forth, as though the constant movement proved to myself that I was still alive. Sleepless nights are wound together with sleep-filled days. Energy is something I marvel at and envy in those who can actually shower and dress in the same morning.
I often hear in my mind, the second beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount – Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. This is a truth I know about grief; comfort comes in many forms, from many places. When God says he will comfort me, his methods are limitless. I think every sense has been used to bring me comfort. Smell: whiffs of fresh shampoo upon being hugged, sweet or savory scents as food being brought to the house was uncovered, calming oils in a steamy bathtub, heady floral scents from bouquets, chlorine as a locker room door is opened, sweet baby smell while nuzzling a grand baby. Taste: piping hot coffee (decaf, of course) with an ample amount of cream shared over late night philosophical conversation, Chinese entrees from every section of the menu, Mexican meals filled with laughter and finished with empanadas, licorice handed to me while I am driving, an open-ended offer to pull out anything from the fridge to the kitchen island. Sight: loved ones packed en masse in a funeral home room, tears of others who loved my sweet girl, heartfelt writings on greeting cards, a smile, unique creations in Katie’s memory, Facetime or videos with my grandchildren. Sound: text beeps, phone rings, Facebook dings all representing someone thinking of me, songs bringing remembrance of concerts and car ride radio playing, laughter. Touch: the light touch of a hand on a back, a massage, a hug, an arm to lean on, a hand to grasp, a kiss on the top of a head, tiny fingers wrapping around one of mine, an arm to tickle, little lips on my cheek, being wrapped in a cozy blanket, more hugs. He has used you all to comfort me, who mourns.
Earlier I posed the question, “Perhaps grief is hell?”,the amount of comfort I have received due to the grieving proves that can’t be true. Perhaps grief is love? If grief is caused by missing someone, someone you loved, there would not be grief if there had not been love. Queen Elizabeth I said, “Grief is the price we pay for love.” Which begs me to wonder would I give up the love I experienced to not have to endure this grief? No way! In fact, the love I knew during Katie’s 29 years makes this grief seem insignificant in comparison to such great love received and given during her lifetime.
Katie taught me endlessly from the moment she was born, but what might not be as blatantly obvious is how much her older brother, Jacob taught me along the way, too. I could list various things I learned from both of them: things like patience, perseverance, graciousness, and humility, but none of it compares with the most important lesson I learned from them. Katie, whose epitaph will describe her as “well loved & loved well”, and Jacob, who used those words to describe his sister, but they could just as easily describe him; these two children of mine taught me love. One would think a mother would simply, intrinsically know how to love. True, there is that mushy, loving feeling which happened right upon my first sight of my babies, but the love they have taught me is the love which sustains life. A love which gives purpose to life. A love meant to be spread to everyone you meet. The love they have taught me is love fresh from heaven. These two children of mine love in the way I imagine Jesus loves. On this day, the first anniversary of Katie’s death, Jacob made a project honoring her. It was filled with love. It taught me what grief is. Earlier I wondered if grief was hell. Then I pondered that it might be love. I now have the answer. Grief is love. Grief is most definitely love.
And you know what? I can live with love.
click on these words > Jacob’s project on youtube, you’ll want to see this