14 posts tagged “mom”
Shirley didn't suffer a stroke last week. She had seizures while she was in the emergency room, yes, but it turns out she has a brain tumor.
I went to the hospital to see her on Saturday. She was in excellent spirits and looked great, only annoyed to be hooked up to all sorts of contraptions. She was patiently waiting for her Sunday morning surgery when they would remove most of the tumor (not all because it's located in an area that affects her motor skills), but she was otherwise anxious to get home and back to her regular routine.
We found out from Todd, her son and our friend, yesterday that while the surgery went well, the cancer was far worse than the MRI showed. It had spread to several other areas of her brain, and while they plan to proceed with radiation therapy and chemo, the doctor has estimated that she has two years.
A part of me wishes that someone told me Mom only had X years left, but at the same time, I'm very glad for my mother that she went quickly and didn't endure a prolonged process. That was something she really feared.
Shirley, my friend's mother, is in the hospital tonight. She felt a tingling in her left arm and called 911 right away. After she arrived at the hospital (which happens to be the hospital where she works as a nurse), they flew her to Florida Hospital downtown. I'm not sure the time frame in which it happened, but she had some mild seizures, too. Apparently, x-rays showed some minor lesions in her brain, and she'll have an MRI done tonight. Tomorrow morning they'll have more information.
This is especially hard for me because I lost my own mother earlier this year to a massive cerebrovascular hemorrhage. I can't help but wonder what might have been if Mom knew the signs, if she had a mild stroke instead of a massive one, if if if. But, of course, she didn't, so my sister and I need to make sure we're educated and know the signs for ourselves.
But more than focusing on Mom's death, I am just hoping praying that Shirley is doing okay. In my heart, I know she will be. Shirley's dad died earlier this year (not long after Mom), and her mother still misses him terribly.
God may have a sick sense of humor, but he's certainly not cruel.
Some of it is fun. Some of it involves a last-minute project. Some of it is because I've been completely uninspired all day and procrastinated for most of it.
Well, not completely uninspired. I've actually done quite a bit. I just don't feel like buckling down and doing all of it.
Anyway, the fun homework (which is all I will discuss) is part one of a sewing project!
Back in February, after I got back from the Philippines, I asked my friend Nancy if she would teach me to sew. Nancy used to sew for Disney World back in the day, and she made a number of clothes for her kids - and she's been sewing since she was about 9, so I know she knows what she's doing.
I gave myself a year to learn to sew. If I mastered the mechanics of sewing and successfully completed at least one project, I would ask my sister and father to bring back all of my mother's patterns, her sewing machines and paraphernalia, and all her fabric. If not, it was agreed they would donate all of her things to a local high school in the Philippines.
So, at the end of February, Nancy and I took a trip to the store and looked at patterns. I picked out a pattern for a bag, and she helped me select proper material for the project. But then things got insanely busy at work, and between hectic workdays and sick days and vacations, we didn't get a chance to really look over the pattern until this afternoon.
Now I get to bring home the pattern and fabric and cut out my pattern. I'm very excited about it; I've been wanting to learn to sew for several years now, and I'm more motivated than ever to learn. Sewing was something my mother enjoyed, and she was incredibly skilled at it. Sharing in her craft - even posthumously - would bring me more joy than I can express.
And she had some really cool sewing things, too!
I've been finding my mother in the oddest places.
Let's rephrase that. I find myself reminded of my mother while listening to what I once thought was "safe" music. And it's a little unnerving.
Last night, I broke into tears while driving home when "Gone Away" by the Offspring played on the radio. Then this morning, "Wake Me Up When September Ends" by Green Day made me tear. Just now, My Chemical Romance's "The Black Parade" caused me to reach for my box of Kleenex.
Typically, those three bands wouldn't reduce me to tears. I think I would be more apt to sob while listening to Morrissey, Joy Division or Natalie Merchant.
I guess it goes to show you that Punk has heart, after all.
Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 62.
The last time I talked to her, a week before she passed, she told me she was looking forward to filing for her Social Security benefits. "Already?" I asked, completely incredulous. (My mother never looked her age, and I could never remember how old she was without needing to do some quick math.)
"I'll be 62 in March," she said. "I can file for my benefits, and I don't care if I don't get all of it. I'm not going to be like your Lola and wait until I'm 65 and die before I get a chance to file!"
How cruel is irony?
My heart feels like it's caving into my chest. I know of no other way to describe it. It's a very heavy feeling.
My mother wasn't a perfect person. I know this. She had her quirks. (Don't we all?) Some of them were more palatable than others, but they were just Mom's way. And you simply didn't rush Mom into altering her behavior, either. She was amenable to change, but, like most of us, it was best if you allowed her to make those changes on her own terms.
I've inherited many of those quirks, both the good and the bad. It's natural - one learns by example, after all, and Mom was the only mother I'd known. Everything I've learned about housekeeping, motherhood, and taking care of the family, I learned from her. Is it perfect? No, and I know this. Are there a lot of things that can and should be changed? I'm sure there are. Like Mom, though, I need to be allowed to make those changes on my own terms.
What I cannot stand right now is criticism of my behaviors - my quirks - especially those I shared with Mom. I know cerebrally that the person offering those criticisms (constructive or not) is not attacking Mom (or me, for that matter), but emotionally, it feels like an attack on Mom, my memories of her, and the legacy she left me. I can feel my blood pressure rise, my hands clench into tight fists, and, for lack of another outlet, I find that I burst into tears because the other person will not stop.
The first time this happened, I was on the plane coming back from Manila with my sister. I was sharing with her an ironic anecdote. You see, Mom had a recipe on her refrigerator for pan de sal, a traditional Filipino bread. Years and years ago, I was in search of such a recipe, but at the time, Mom said to me, "That's too much work. I just go to Magnolia and get pan de sal when I want it, and it's much easier." So it was very ironic, then, that here she is, actually in the Philippines, and she has a recipe for pan de sal on her refrigerator.
Rather than seeing the irony in it, my sister instead tried to solve the perceived problem of not having a Filipino bakery nearby (which really isn't an issue) and suggested that the next time I visit her, I purchase a few dozen pan de sal and store them in my freezer. When I reminded her that I don't have enough room in my freezer to do so, she then asked, "Then what are you going to do when you make the recipe? It makes 30 pieces!"
Honestly, I hadn't thought that far ahead. The recipe was written in Mom's handwriting. She didn't have the oven temperature or baking times listed. I was thinking that it would be a nice recipe to test out with a friend and figure out the missing elements via trial and error.
Then my sister offered a major blow: "You take on too many projects, Eileen. That's your problem. You take on too much."
She might as well have added, "Just like Mom."
Last night, my husband said something very similar in reference to household chores. He didn't say, "Like your mother," but the particular things he was referencing were things I specifically learned from Mom. And, just as I did flying over the Pacific Ocean, I lost it.
Mom wasn't perfect. I'm not perfect. I'm doing my best, just like I think she did. Somehow, she was able to get a lot more accomplished than I can, with less help from my father than my husband offers me. I think a major difference, though, is that Mom had help in looking after my sister and me when we were very little. Mom had help from all sorts when it was just my sister; they immigrated to the United States after my sister was more than a year old. And she stayed at home with her in those early days, which I don't have the luxury of doing. When I was born, and Mom was already back in the workforce, my lola, her mother, lived with us and took care of me during the day and in the evenings, affording Mom the opportunity to cook and clean and do all those other necessary chores.
There are a lot of chores that need to be done around our house. Basic things that should be done each week, like changing bedsheets, Swiffering the floors (especially now that Baby C is super active), vacuuming the areas where Baby C spends a lot of time, cleaning toilets, cleaning bathrooms, etc. Could I have been doing any or all of these last week instead of sitting quietly on the couch playing solitaire? Definitely. Did I want to at that moment? Clearly not. Housework isn't something that relaxes me, and the one thing I need to do at night is try to let my brain unwind so that I might be able to fall asleep on my own and possibly even sleep fitfully.
So, rather than getting up and cleaning the house, I sat on the couch, Palm Pilot in hand, and played a few dozen rounds of soliaire.
Just like Mom did in her later years.
I don't want to feel guilty about what I believe are core housekeeping competencies - or my tendency to always want to do more - right now because these are things I've largely picked up from my mother. My mother, who was the first person who ever loved me and who, until the day she died, knew me better than anyone ever could or ever will (including myself) because she was the only one there from before the very beginning. My mother, who taught me to the best of her ability, which, for better or worse, included some quirky behaviors. My mother, who was the first person I ever loved, the first person who made me feel safe, the first person to offer me true, unconditional love.
My mother, whom I will never see again, and whom I miss so very much.
I don't want to feel guilty about being like Mom. And I don't want to be criticized for being like Mom, either. Mom was who she was, and I am who I am largely because of who she was. Do I think some of my behaviors need modification? Absolutely. But I need to make those changes on my own terms.
Just like Mom.
Well, I haven't quite "talked grief to death", but I'm at least on the right track. As far as being unable to sleep, apparently it's perfectly normal for my brain to be unwilling to shut down right now; there's a lot going through my mind. And, as it's only been less than two weeks, I really can't expect myself (nor should others expect me) to get back to "normal" right away.
I told her I've been writing a lot about this. She said that probably explains why I'm doing much better this soon after Mom's death than most people would.
Oh, and the anger, resentent and bitterness that I'm feeling? Perfectly normal. And it may go away for a little while, then come back with a vengeance, too. No telling.
I don't feel like a weight has been lifted or that my heart is any lighter. And I don't feel any closer to reconciling what I know in my head and what I feel in my heart. But I'm still glad that I went. I've been reminded that death is something no two people will ever handle the same way, and my feelings are very valid and can't be handled the way that our "replacement culture" would try to "patch" it.
For right now, going through the motions is the best I can do for those around me. But she also told me to make sure I allow myself to cry from time to time. It's a natural reaction and a valid response to death, so I'm entitled.
Last, she reminded me to focus on the living, namely my father. Everything I would want to share with Mom, I can share with Daddy instead. Everything I wish Mom could see, I'll have to show to Daddy.
I think staying close to Dad will be quite therapeutic, really. I'm looking forward to his return to the country, and it will be even nicer that he'll be a short plane ride away!
This has been an awful year. Just terrible. By far the worst year ever.
This month has been the absolute worst. I honestly don't think it can possibly get worse than this.
I'm going back into therapy on Thursday. I'm really looking forward to it. I haven't been to a therapist in about seven or eight years, and I really shouldn't have stopped going when I did. If I kept going back then and learned how to deal with my grandmother's death (she died in '82 or '83), I probably would be in a better emotional state now.
Or maybe not. I don't know.
I'm not sleeping at night. Lord knows I'm tired enough (I keep wanting to fall asleep at my desk at work), but for some reason, my brain doesn't shut off at night until after midnight. Nights, in general, are the worst. After Baby C is down for the night, after Chris has gone off to bed, after the dishes are washed and the toys are put away, that's the worst time. That was my normal time to call Mom and check in with her. Last night, I called Ethylene to chat with her. It wasn't the same, but it filled a little of the void.
And then once I'm asleep, I don't sleep very deeply. Not at night.
I'm just really struggling right now.
I have a meeting with my boss tomorrow to go over my annual review. Blech. I hate review season. I communicate enough with my boss to know where my strengths and weaknesses lie, but it still doesn't make me like review season. Especially right now.
I'm an emotional time bomb. The slightest thing sets me off, and I'm not entirely sure why. Little annoyances that I was willing to "deal with" (read: overlook) a couple of weeks ago now are major triggers for me. I have Mom's general disposition, and I know it, so it's better if I let people know what's on my mind rather than keeping it bottled. Contrary to popular belief, I actually do keep quite a bit bottled. Just because I'm extremely verbose, that doesn't mean that I don't keep things close to the chest. I keep quite a bit close to the chest, just like Mom did. And I refuse to let my blood pressure become a major problem, so I have to let it out.
The problem, of course, is that "letting it out" does not translate to "let go". There are a lot of things that I just will not completely release. Maybe this therapist can work with me on that, too.
Breastfeeding isn't going as well as it was in January. The six days I spent away from the baby were particularly difficult for my body. No matter how much I tried to express, I knew it wasn't enough to keep up with Baby C's needs, and that was another element of disappointment for me. On the plus side, he's doing okay with a formula/breastmilk mixture, so it's not a complete disaster. Besides, he turned 10 months old today, and he'll be able to start regular milk in another 60 days. But he'll need to ease into cow milk gradually, too. In the meantime, I need to stop beating myself up that I can barely produce five of the eight ounces he needs each day. (I was producing 12 before I left the country.)
I'm feeling very angry. The 5 Stages of Grief are Shock/Denial, Inward Anger, Outward Anger, Depression, and Acceptance. I'm done with shock and beyond denial; now I'm very angry. I'm angry about a lot of things. Some of it is related to Mom; some of it is completely off-topic. And I'm really angry at a lot of different people, too.
My mother-in-law came down last week to help Chris take care of the baby. I'm so very grateful for her help. Honestly. She said that when she arrived Sunday afternoon, she felt like she should have come the day before because it looked like Chris was struggling.
She left on Saturday. Before she left, she hugged me very tightly and said, "Be angry. It's okay to feel that way. You need to let yourself be angry and work through it." Then she told me to take care of Baby C and of Chris. I wanted so desperately to ask, "Who's going to take care of me?" I feel like half of my spine has been removed from my body; I find myself going through the motions every day, going over mental checklists so that I remember to do basic daily functions (basic hygiene, eating, getting dressed, remembering my shoes, getting out of bed). If not for the baby, I would probably sink into a very deep depression. As it is, I know he needs me, and that's the primary reason I vault out of bed in the mornings.
My baby blues were a lot like this, only much milder. And I could call my Mom, and she would tell me to get dressed, to eat something, to take care of myself so that I could care for the baby. I could call my sister and selfishly have a little freak-out moment without needing to worry about her emotional state. There were also dozens of articles that I could access to help me deal.
I'm sad.
I'm angry.
I'm tired.
I want a do-over.
Did I mention that I'm looking forward to going back to therapy on Thursday?
Weird.
My mother passed away last week. On Friday, to be more specific. Friday, February 1, my father's 65th birthday. She was only 54 days away from her 62nd birthday.
(I've turned off comments because I know that my neighbors would want to offer their condolences (because that's the kind of awesome neighbors I have) but, quite honestly, I don't know that I can read anymore sympathy messages right now. It sounds horrible, I know, but I think those who have experienced this kind of loss can understand where I'm coming from. And if not, well, it's my grief, and this is how I choose to handle it.)
The phone rang at about 4 o'clock Friday morning. It woke us, but as we were hoping it was a wrong number, we didn't move right away. Then the machine picked up, and whomever was on the other line hung up and called right back. Chris got up to answer the phone, and he brought it to me, telling me that my sister was on the line.
"Are you sitting down?" she asked.
"Yes, of course," I replied. "What's wrong?"
I heard her take a deep breath before she said, "Mom passed away last night."
All the events after that are a big blur. I remember Baby C was crying (probably in response to my yelling, "No!" repeatedly into the phone), and I went into his room to pick him up and hold him. And then my sister's words rang through my head again and I sank to the floor, still holding him, wishing - no, praying - that it was a horrible misunderstanding and that my sister simply mistranslated my cousin's husband.
My sister called back and I asked her if she just misunderstood everything, and she told me that she wished that were the case, but sadly, it wasn't. And PS - we need to go to the Philippines. Immediately. Thankfully, my brother-in-law had the presence of mind to call his company's travel agency, and he booked flights for us.
So, my sister and I mimicked the Amazing Race and jumped on planes in our respective home cities to meet up at LAX and hop onto a Philippine Airlines flight that would take us to Manila. All I kept thinking during that first leg was, "I need to get to my sister. I just need to get to my sister." I ruminated a bit, too, and wrote down some thoughts (which I will post later), and cried quite a bit. At the end of the flight, though, I felt better, though I was still in complete shock over everything.
After meeting friends for dinner at the airport, we then proceeded to the Philippine Airlines counter and checked in. About an hour later, we were on the plane (in Business Class, which I highly recommend for transoceanic flights) and preparing ourselves for the longest 16 hours we would ever endure. Now, my only focus was on getting to Daddy.
We arrived in Manila and stood in line at Immigration for what seemed like an eternity. It was chaotic; the line we joined was actually two lines merging into one - and the Immigration Officer at the end of the line was the s-l-o-w-e-s-t man ever. We didn't check any luggage, so there we no bags to claim (this was done on purpose - we had no idea what Daddy would need us to take back to the United States), and once we passed the slowest man on the planet, we rushed outside to look for Dad. Or any of my cousins. Or any of my cousins' husbands. My sister said the neatest thing about going to the Philippines is that when you get out of the airport, you're greeted by a sea of faces that all look the same, but then you find that one beacon, the one face you recognize, and you know that you're not alone.
Well, there were no familiar faces in the crowd outside the airport. We searched in vain until finally, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very familiar figure arguing with the airport security officers and gesturing wildly at my sister and me.
Daddy!
We ran to him, our carry-on luggage trailing behind us, and hugged him fiercely. My sister burst into tears upon seeing him. He gathered our bags, and we stood at the curb, waiting for my cousin's husband to arrive with the car. Once inside the car, he relayed to my sister and me the story of how he found Mom's body, how he knew his efforts to resuscitate her were in vain but he still desperately needed to try, and how she was pronounced dead on arrival at the Manila Hospital but he still insisted that they try to revive her, as well. The head doctor told my father that she had passed three or four hours before he found her, so there was truly nothing that could be done. Later that day we learned that the preliminary autopsy results showed that she had a massive cerebral aneurism. Two days later, the actual cause of death was listed as a massive cerebrovascular hemorrhage, also known as a stroke.
I'd like to think that she went quickly and didn't suffer.
We arrived in Manila on Sunday morning and went straight to the funeral parlor where my mother's ashes were waiting. There were flowers everywhere, which Mom would have thought was a waste ("Don't give me flowers when I'm dead - give them to me while I'm living! What good are they to me when I'm dead?") but I'm sure would have secretly appreciated. We met with my mother's older brother and my father's oldest brother, then went to my parents' house in Pateros to get cleaned up and changed into appropriate clothes for the funereal mass that evening.
It was so weird to have people that I've never met - often with names that have never been mentioned to me - approach me and tell me how close they were to my mother and how often she talked about me. Whenever this would happen, it took everything in me to not blurt out, "Really? Because she never mentioned you." Instead, I would nod and graciously accept their condolences with an obligatory, "Salamat." After a few hours of this, I sat on a bench outside the room to get away from everyone's messages of sorrow.
The next day, we went to the ossuary and picked out a nice resting place for Mom's ashes. Mom made it easy on us. She had picked out a very nice church (the tallest in Manila!) where she wanted my brother's remains transfered when she and my father returned to the Philippines in 2009. We found a very nice spot underneath a beautiful stained glass window, and I know that she would have approved. Then we went to their condo in Eastwood City and had lunch at a Vietnamese pho restaurant, before returning home.
We placed Mom's ashes in the ossuary vault the following day, and my sister and I tried to clean up a little bit while Daddy entertained some of his friends. Daddy doesn't do well on his own, so we were glad that he was having people over. In the meantime, my sister and I uncovered a lot of food that had already gone bad but was still in her pantry. [sigh] Mom didn't know how to shop for a small number of people. She always over-purchased, and that was just her way.
The next day was Ash Wednesday and also our departure date. The Lenten season will always remind me of Mom because we had numerous conversations about my feelings toward abstaining from meat on the Fridays of Lent. It always seemed hypocritical to me, and it was further driven home when the bishop at the cathedral where we went to mass told the congregation that balut is really considered an egg, so that's okay to eat. Never mind that balut is kind of expensive for what it is, and, as a delicacy, is more of a luxury food than anything else (akin to sushi or lobster tail for us). Mom was a little disappointed that I refused to follow the letter of the law, but she was happy to know that I understood its origins and was happily following the spirit of the law.
Wednesday was a very busy day. We packed our bags, taking items of Mom's that we felt were appropriate to take (and that Dad was willing to let go) and taking those things that she bought for her grandchildren. She bought Baby C the most beautiful paintings of Filipino boys at play, and I intend on putting those up in the guest room as soon as I have that cleaned out and painted. She also bought me a little carved statue of a mother nursing her son, and I know she thought of me when she saw it because she was always asking how well I was nursing. We also took a short trip to SM, the Filipino mall, to pick up some things for the kids and thank you presents for our mothers-in-law who stepped up and looked after our respective husbands and children. Then it was back home to finish packing and cleaning.
Once we were packed, we said our goodbyes to the family in Pateros and went back to visit Mom's vault one more time. Then it was a mad dash to the airport, and my sister and I began our 24+ hours of travel back to our respective homes. I arrived early this morning, tired, hungry, and anxious to see my husband and son. Chris brought the baby with him to the airport, and it took everything in me to not scoop Baby C out of his stroller and smother him with kisses on the spot. My bags arrived (both checked pieces in tact!), and we headed home.
I'm still struggling with losing Mom, but I think it's getting a little better each day. I find myself having "conversations" with her; after all, we chatted on the phone like friends more than mother and daughter. And I'm really thankful that I had that kind of relationship with my mom at the end. I'm glad that I thanked her for the way she raised me every time I spoke with her. And I'm so glad that I heard her tell me that I'm a good mother and making good choices in raising Baby C.
My sister said she was hoping to feel Mom's spirit once we got to the Philippines, but I knew I wouldn't feel it there. Mom wouldn't have her spirit lingering with objects; she'd rather be with people she loved. So I knew I would feel her spirit when I'm with my son, like a guiding hand there to reassure me when I have doubts. That's how we were towards the end of her life, and I have tremendous faith that's how she'll remain with me now that she's passed.
I'll be offline for a while. Sitting in LAX as I write on my way to the Philippines. Chris and the baby are at home together this week; I'm so hoping my mother-in-law will be able to come down soon.
When I come back, after I get a chance to decompress, I'll write more about my sudden disappearance from the Blogosphere.
