Happy New Year?

In a few short hours, 2010 will be making its hasty exit while 2011 clamors to take pride of place. 


New Year's Eve has never been an occasion that I'm particularly fond of. Going out was always too fraught with stress ... reservations that were never properly honoured, the battle to capture a taxi... it always made more sense to stay in at my Mum's. 


This year will be the first New Year's in a very long time - gosh, we're talking decades - that I haven't marked this milestone in her company.


Unlike many people my age, I never had an issue with spending these holidays with my Mum. She was always so much fun to be around. She loved to play board games, eat calorie-laden naughty foods that you only cook up on such nights, and don silly, sparkly cardboard hats festooned with 'Happy New Year'! We would all struggle to keep our eyelids from closing prematurely but somehow, someway we would just about make it. New Year's Day was always greeted with a brunch of epic proportions: pancakes, bacon, toast, a frittata... and lots of Christmas cookies. We'd watch the Rose Bowl parade, play more games and dip into some of the DVDs that we received from Santa. 


This year will be the first New Year's that I am at home - at my own abode. I really cannot shove 2010 out the door fast enough, for this year was the one that took away my beautiful Mum, and for that crime it has surely overstayed its welcome. 

Coping: The Great Book Search (Part 2)

Thanks to the kind heart of one of my dearest friends, I finally feel that I've discovered a book that is helping me with my grief. 


'Visions, Trips and Crowded Rooms: Who and What You See Before You Die' by David Kessler has been a godsend to me. 


It's beautifully written, and has been an amazing comfort to me. Kessler handles the topic of leaving this world for the next with sensitivity and compassion. I only wish that I had found this book before my Mum passed away. 


I always be grateful to my dear D who gave me this insightful book. xo

Skip the Popcorn, Just Bring Tissues

Dealing with the loss of a loved one can be difficult at the best of times but when Christmas arrives in all its finery on your emotional doorstep, your heart is inevitably greeted with even more painful moments. 


Take movies for instance... most motion pictures created for the holiday season are full of warm remembrances, love-filled reunions and clarity of thought -- all subjects that are difficult to embrace when you're missing someone who you will never see again.


As much as it feels out of character, I've chosen to avoid some of my usual December celluloid picks ("One Magic Christmas", "The Homecoming", "The Christmas Box", and "Little Women" - the Liz Taylor version, Mum's favourite) because I'm just too raw for their stories right now. And let's not forget the animated Rankin & Bass classics - they're even more of an emotional minefield ("Nestor the Long Earred Donkey", anyone? "Ears, Nestor.").


The common thread in all these movies: their themes, all so beautiful and moving... and yes, I watched them all with my Mum. She loved each and every one of them. Atop of my avoid-at-all-costs TV viewing list is "The Family Stone". The last part of the story, after all the hilarity and family hi-jinx... well, if you've seen this funny yet touching film, you'll know why. The tree decorating scene at the end... heartbreaking, and right now too close to home. 


So for this year while I *try* my best to partake and honour Christmas like my Mum would want me to, I'm sticking within the cinematic safety zone of Will Ferrell's "Elf" and "Love Actually." I'm not sure yet how I will fare with these flicks. I'm a big softie, and can cry at just about anything. Yes, I have been known to tear up during both of these favourites, but at least I'm hoping that I'll be able to stir clear of a full-fledged waterfall. I can't promise, but I'll try. 

Christmas Without the Merry

I was told it would be tough.


The first Christmas following the loss of someone so deeply cherished and loved.


I feel like I'm inhabiting someone else's body. Christmas is my favourite time of the year. Always has been. Normally, my tree is up just as our city's Santa Claus parade is wrapping up on TV. I strive to send out Christmas cards no later than December 1st, and search the shops early for the perfect gift wrap, and bows. Cookie baking is a joy, especially as my annual batch of chocolate chip just happen to be my Mum's favourite.  


But not this year. 


Dragging our tree out of storage and painstakingly taking a full day to decorate its branches - my heart wasn't in it. I was happy to be reunited with all my favourite baubles but they deserved more than me going through the motions while I hung them in their pride of place. Instead of hopeful anticipation, I felt sad, detached. Melancholy. 


The tree has been up now for a few weeks and surprisingly, I have all my shopping done (albeit from all online sources - I didn't have the heart to dig through all the cheery crowds in person). On the surface, this holiday appears to be just like all the others. The outside packaging is full of festive spirit and no one is none the wiser. Inside, however, my heart aches from the constant weariness of missing my Mum. All the tinsel and fairy lights wrapped around my tree won't make it heal anytime soon. And those cookies? I haven't been able to cross that threshold yet. Without Mum to enjoy their warm gooey brilliance, it all feels somewhat half-baked. 

There is No Escape

I just got back from my first proper vacation in four years. 


I've been anxious about travelling this year. The deep desire to disappear for a spell has been gnawing away at me but simultaneously, the notion filled my heart with dread. How would I feel several time zones away from home? Would events of this year seem clearer? Would I come to accept my new Mum-less reality and return home ready to start a new chapter without her? And who would be waiting at home to hear about my adventures upon my homecoming? Travel has wonderful healing properties - doesn't it?


In the past when I've packed my cases and gone off into the far blue yonder for a spell of exploring, it always felt like my Mum was there with me. Before I departed, I would make sure she had all my contact details. She was my first port of call when I actually arrived - a phone call home to her from our hotel, the first action I took to let her know we were okay. Part of the pleasure of going somewhere was to find the perfect keepsake to bring back for her. Mum didn't travel much preferring to stay grounded at home, so it was a treat to bring back stories, photos and souvenirs for her, to show her what we had discovered. She loved all the minute details, hearing what we ate, what we saw. Reporting everything back to her felt like reliving the experience over and over again with her approval making it all the more sweet. It felt like she was there with me every step of the way.


Unfortunately this trip was like no other I've ever experienced. Instead of gathering keepsakes to bring back to her, I carried an overwhelming sense of melancholy in my stomach. Going away to England didn't make me feel better about this year. Despite my Mum never setting foot in the country, being in London made me miss her even more. That quest for clarity? If anything, I felt even fuzzier about everything far from home. I continually would spot something I loved and have this incredible pull to tell her. Under normal circumstances I would have. I'd be straight on the phone - long distance, be damned - giving her the scoop immediately. Instead, there was no one on the other end of the phone line. My behind the scenes traveling companion was no longer with me. 


The infamous notion that you can run away from your worries, or troubles is an attractive idea but I sincerely doubt that it is feasible. Grief and despair just end up stowing themselves away in your luggage. There is no escape. You just end up taking them along for the ride. 


My trip was a long time in the making and I'm ever so thankful to have had the chance to disappear for awhile - even if the respite was felt only physically, not mentally or emotionally. If travel works its healing magic by making you think more deeply, or question where you are going, perhaps it has done its deed. All I know right now is that I seem to miss my Mum more than ever, and searching the globe for answers didn't do the trick. There is no escape.

Coping: The Great Book Search

It's been six months without Mum, and my attempt to find books that I can relate to on the subject of grieving has left me weary.


I've searched Amazon, and numerous stores in the quest to find *something* that even remotely echoed my sentiments and emotions, and I haven't parted with a single dollar. The closest I've come to unlocking a kindred spirit book-wise was 'The Heart Does Break', a stirring collection of essays by Canadian writers. While not every account spoke to me, several did especially Jill Frayne's achingly beautiful piece. This publication ~ one that I discovered before my Mum died ~ is still a lone presence on my nightstand. 


I'm not religious, and only somewhat spiritual. The majority of the books on the market cater to this segment of the population. I wish there were more accounts of the grieving process that didn't revel so much in abstract ideas, or fantasy. I'm thirsty for reality, even if it hurts. Such tomes could possibly prove to be a more gritty and less comfortable read, but I would welcome them - warts and all. In my experience, grieving isn't pretty. It's suffocating, dark and cold. Focusing on another world (heaven?) is a comforting notion but I yearn for a more tangible reflection of the process too. 

Coping: Words that Hurt

Bookshelves are tumbling over with etiquette guides to all of life's major events: births, engagements, weddings, even divorces but there's a lack of guidance when it comes to death, and grieving. Unfortunately, there are no lessons on how to behave when someone dies, or how to deal with those who are left behind. Sure, it's not the most happy of topics to study, or discuss, but I wish there was some sort of protocol as to what should - and shouldn't - be said. 

"Isn't it time you moved on?"     "Feel better -she's in a better place"


"How long are you going to be like this?"                   "Life goes on."


"Get over it already"                              "You can't live in the past."


Just a sampling of my particular non-favourite phrases said to me, or others that I know - all of us members of the club of motherless daughters. Perhaps the people who uttered these 'words of wisdom' thought it was better to say something... even if it was somewhat misguided? I can understand the discomfort in speaking up when someone dies. It's horrible. I'm not a fan either, but a simple "I'm sorry" is always a good choice especially when the alternative can sting - even unintentionally. 


Sticks and stones can hurt but words can too.

Milestone: Six Months

It was fitting that on the six month milestone of my Mum's death it was raining - nonstop, bucketing down. 

The weather was somewhat poetic - mirroring what I was feeling at this half-way point of my first year without Mum. 


A few months ago, I figured that with time I'd feel more settled, more accepting of my Mum's passing.


I still think of Mum most hours of the day. The six month milestone was very difficult, not only the day itself but the lead up to it. Missing her so very very much. Six months on, not much has changed. 


I wish that I could hear her voice one more time.


I wish that I could sit beside her, feel her warm embrace and soft skin.


I wish she was here to enjoy the glorious Summer just passed.


I wish for so many things.... 

For Mum

Love you, Mum. 


Dido's 'Grafton Street'

Mum Loved: Summer

For some reason this month, I'm finding it harder than usual to accept Summer's gradual exit. I'm notoriously an Autumn girl. I adore Fall clothing, sports and the crispness that the air brings. Suntanning and perspiring profusely top my list of pet-hates. I actually begrudge the odd bit of tan that I do have - obtained by daily walks with my dog - being pale is what I *do*. But this year, I let all the goodness of Summer wash over me. I couldn't get enough - I finally made it my friend. 

I think the main reason for my brief sojourn into Summer bliss is down to my Mum. She loved the warmth of these months. She would spend hour upon hour in her beautiful garden, tending to its every minute need. Perhaps I was channeling her joy of the season in an attempt to feel her presence?

Mum's passing in March meant that she'd never get to prolong her love affair with the Summer. The fact that she was robbed of this small pleasure breaks my heart. She would have been so thrilled with the heat, and made due with the lack of rain. Summer last year she spent primarily in hospital, and once she came home, Mother Nature decided to give us a lukewarm August - definitely nothing to get excited about. 

A part of me thinks that perhaps this year, Mum pulled Mother Nature aside and told her to create a Summer that would make her proud - one that would get her loved ones outside, into the fresh air - and away from being stuck indoors feeling melancholy and alone. It's true that a sunny, warm day does raise the spirits - it doesn't erase the pain of missing someone so badly, but it does make you feel a little bit more peaceful and happy... even if it's for just a short spell.

The fountains and reflecting pools at our neighbourhood reservoir park are no longer flowing. I actually had to wear a sweater *and* a jacket for my afternoon trek with my dog today. Without a doubt, Summer is taking its leave, and it hurts this time more than ever.