Most of you know I lost my Mom to cancer. I also recently lost an aunt to cancer as well. It isn't fair. It isn't right. These women were in their early 50's, had children and grandchildren. They were loved. They were part of our Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year traditions.
After mom died, it was nearly February before I could take down the Christmas decorations. Every time I picked up a piece of the ceramic village, I couldn't breathe. I would set it back down and tell myself I would put it away as soon as I was able. Each day for a month, I would attempt the task. It never hurt less, but the repetition helped numb me enough to get these things put away.
Mom was in the hospital when I went to visit her after she moved to the Vancouver, Canada area. Although she had moved in late July, the passes across the state were dangerous to attempt, and it wasn't feasible until the weather started to clear in February 2013. Her house was just as she had described. Her touches were all over the exterior.
Once inside her house, the Christmas decorations were still up. She had become too sick and frail to put any of the decorations she lovingly put out, away. Every single piece: from the girl figure skating on the glass pond in the village, to the baby Jesus in the manager, was a reminder she wasn't going to be back. Normal was dead.
The second year (last year) was a bit easier. I decided to view life differently. It was an experiment of sorts. I decided I wasn't cheated out of a normal life with my Mom. I got to see her from the time she was still a teenager. I had been blessed with the most time. I had given her grandchildren. She loved us girls, but let's face it; she LOVED being grandma. I told myself that she would want us to be thankful. She would want us to be together. She would want us to be happy.
I pulled out her holiday silver and set the table with the nicest dishes I own. I sewed special napkins for people to write on. I decided that I would make new memories. I would forge new traditions woven from old ones.
This year, I will put those napkins back out. Life has changed a lot this year. I am not blind, nor ignorant to that. Families blend and change. People leave us and pass on. Those that are left here have an important choice: live in the past and fear the prospect of venturing out, or look to the future. My favorite song is by Danny Gokey (from American Idol). The song is called "Hope in front of me." If you have never heard it, here is a link to youtube https://youtu.be/O5GFiDdGGGM. It is my hope that you will choose to press on. I had to pick up the pieces mom left behind and integrate them into the future. You want to know something, it is working out pretty well. She was a pretty amazing person. The best part of having a future is this: by keeping her in my heart while pressing toward the future, is that there are times I feel her so strongly by my side that tears spontaneously roll down my face. Not from pain, or pity but from overwhelming peace and contentment.
I do not have a mother. But I do have two father figures. I do have in-laws. I do have my grandma. I have friends that love me. I have my siblings. I have my health. I have my kids. I have our neighbors, and the people we have collected along our journey. I have enough. It is not normal, but it is enough.
United States Copyright date November 13, 2015. No part of this blog post, nor posts in the past may be used, transferred, translated, nor altered in any way without express written permission of the author.
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