Blessed, Stressed, a Little Bit Depressed

February is not my favorite month. For a couple of reasons.

 First, there is Valentine's Day (or "Galentine's" for the defiantly lonely) which I don't hate for itself but for all the whining that comes with it. For a few days, I have to listen to ungrateful lovers (he or she isn't this or that), singles who just don't appreciate enough else about life (I'm taking the day off work so I don't have to see all the flowers and gifts), and the greedy people who use the day to guilt their S/Os into spending money on them. What about spending a little extra time instead of money? What about just being thankful that you woke up knowing that someone loves you more than they love anyone else in the world? I'm simpatico with a comedian who joked that the best thing about Valentine's Day is all the candy that goes on sale right after. Last year, up until November, I still had a stash of those red heart-shaped boxes of Almond Roca from Walmart.

The real reason I don't like February is that, in 2015, I lost my big sister.

When you lose your parents, it hurts. When you lose any family member, it hurts. Losing your big sister - your only sister - hurts in ways you can't even explain. My sister was my best friend. She's probably the only one in this world who knew almost everything - good, bad, and embarrassing - about me.

For over 2 weeks, I sat with my sister, "Mike", in her hospital room, not thinking I was going to lose her. She'd been so sick for so long that hospital stays were normal. We had spent a lot of time she and I, getting to know nurses, doctors, and lab techs. There was one sweet little woman who had worked janitorial duty on two of Mike's hospital stays. She would come by on her break just to chat with us and offer to pray for Mike. Up until that last stay, Mike and I would make a game of trying to guess which staff member was which among a crew: the funniest, crankiest, newest, most outgoing, etcetera. We made up nicknames for the staff. There was one doctor that tended to a patient across the hall from Mike and we called him "Chief". He was young and energetic and had a long ponytail. He was an indigenous Alaskan and he proudly wore a necklace made of leather and ivory. I had a little crush on him so, of course, I always looked the other way if he paid me the slightest attention. Mike thought that was hilarious and threatened to rat me out to the hot doc. Of course, she was having severe problems keeping a clear head so she forgot the threat about 5 minutes after she made it.

Mike seemed about to get better. She was still not doing well cognitively, but the doctors had figured out why and they were going to fix it. She had to have another couple of procedures - one surgical - and then would be able to go home. I was already planning to treat her to a Starbucks coffee.

Life is better enjoyed than planned. I'm so glad that Mike and I enjoyed most of those last days. I'm so thankful that she came out of her brain fog every now and then to talk about something good - her kids, our nieces and nephews, and things we were going to do once the weather got better.

What still amazes me is that I knew but didn't know. That Mike wasn't coming home that time. That she was never going to sit in the passenger seat and critique my nervous driving. That we were never going to buy both wafer Nutter Butters and crunchy Nutter Butters so that we could split and each have some of both kind. That I was never going to call up from the kitchen to say I was making coffee and did she want a cup. That we were never going to trade that secret sister-glance because someone said something weird. That I was never going to be able to call her when I felt like I just needed to hear my sister's voice.

I knew enough that I didn't leave her except for one night during that last hospital stay. I knew but I didn't know. I knew enough that I prayed every time I got a quiet moment. I knew but I didn't know.

Mike came out of that last surgery well enough, but something happened during recovery. She never did wake up and after a couple of days in ICU, she died.

I have this one photo of Mike. It was taken right after we had said a prayer and right before she went into that last surgery. I don't often look at this photo but I keep it for her kids and grandkids.

She ALWAYS had a smile on her face

I hate February so much. I don't even like to look at the calendar during the month. I don't have to. My heart knows that I lost my sister on the 28th.  I miss her so much that today I feel like I can't take a deep breath. I am sad and lonely and depressed to the point of curling into a ball on the sofa. I miss my sister,

Still, I am blessed. I am blessed that I had such a sister. I am so very blessed.

Peace
Free

The Beautiful Mattie Powell

When I am heartbroken, my instinct is to write. Today my heart is in pieces.

My mother's best friend (and the woman I claimed as my Godmother) passed away on this past Friday.

Mrs. Mattie Powell ("Miss Mattie" to me) was one of the sweetest and most beautiful women I ever knew. I'm talking beautiful inside and out. My siblings and I always called her "pretty Miss Mattie". You read in fiction about women who only getting more beautiful as they age, but Miss Mattie was the real thing.

Miss Mattie and my mother went through a lot together. I'm not privy to a lot of what they talked about, but I know that my mother (who was a very private woman and who didn't easily use the term "friend") trusted Miss Mattie more than anyone else I knew.

Miss Mattie's husband passed years ago. He had taken such good and loving care of her that, although she worked outside the home, she had never had to drive a car. She didn't like to drive, but she finally had to learn at a later age, it was my brother Chubby who taught her how. She never did like driving but she had the cutest little black and silver PT Cruiser that was perfect for her. The colors matched her hair and I always thought she should have personalized her plates to read "Silver Fox"!

My sister, Mike, adored Miss Mattie, as did we all. After Mama died, Miss Mattie was the one friend of Mama's that Mike held close to. Miss Mattie never called my sister by her nickname "Mike". She had her own nickname for her of "Mikey".

When Mike passed away, Miss Mattie was fighting her own health battles but she came to the service and she spoke. I was in such a daze of grief then, whether people could see it or not, that I barely heard much of what Miss Mattie said. I do remember that she shared how whenever she came to our house to visit, my mother tried to make her eat. If Miss Mattie wasn't hungry right then, Mama would still insist that my sister send her home with something for later. Miss Powell remembered this as my mother always instructing, "Mikey, make Mattie a plate."

Now that my mother, Chubby, "Mikey", and Miss Mattie are gone I can rejoice that they are all in Heaven together. At rest and with no more pain or tears or suffering. That is the only joy I can get out of losing the people I love. Like I said, right now, my heart is in pieces but those broken pieces are in Heaven.

I am praying for her family and know that they will be okay because they had a queen for a mother, as her daughter said, and their mother is with the King of kings now.


Peace
--Free

Things No One Told Me (About Grief)

As I get ready for church this morning, I am feeling low on faith and strength.

I saw a quote yesterday: "A woman without her sister is like a bird without wings."

No one ever told me that I would feel this way after losing the person closest to me. When my mother passed away, that was a different kind of grief. That was grief shared. With Mike.

Unlike other women my age, I didn't spend a life with husbands and kids of my own. I spent a life with my sister and my mother. We always lived with or near each other. We were a team of the family women.

After Mom passed, Mike and I became more than sisters. We became a team of two. We were each other's strength when relationships failed, when job stresses overwhelmed us, and when life did what it does and went into little surprise tailspins.

At one of the loneliest times of my life, when a marriage had failed, I remember looking out of the bedroom window at the sky. I was thinking of how big this world is and how orphaned I felt - in a strange state with an abusive husband and no family of my own around me. I was thinking that I had one thing on this earth that would get me through: my sister. She was somewhere on earth, under the same sky, and that made everything bearable.

No one ever told me that grief would ebb and flow. That I would go from feeling numb to feeling new every sensation of emotional pain that ever could be felt. No one told me that I would sometimes feel paralyzed by my loss, unable to function, barely able to breathe. I didn't know that I would catch scent from one the hats Mike wore or catch sight of some of her belongings and then just die a little.

Last night, I sat looking out the window, thinking that I no longer have Mike somewhere on this earth and under the same sky.

So, I am going to church this morning, feeling orphaned and wingless.

No one ever told me this is what grief feels like.

Peace
--Free

Sad (In Real Life)

I feel so sad at this moment, that I am almost physically ill, but I have to write this post. All I have at a time like this are my words. I don't even know if I can get through this post without making myself feel worse, but I'm going to try. This is my memorial to my friend.

I've lost the best friend that I never met in person, but who has been such a big part of my life since just before I got sick. If I had never gotten to know Perry,  I don't think I would ever have gotten as well or have ever been as (mostly) happy as I learned to be. And all I got was a mass email notification of his passing. I keep asking myself if I would feel better right now if he had just disappeared from my life? Then, at least, I could imagine him still here on earth and okay and just on one of his crazy bike trips. Or somewhere doing all the other brave and amazing things he liked to do - things I would never do: snorkeling, skiing, camping in some weird and strange place...

Perry, what will I do without your phone calls and emails and little encouragements? What will I do without knowing that you are somewhere out there in the world, rooting for me and just being there?

Because I never met you "in real life," I don't know what to do with this pain I feel at losing you. You were here and now you're just gone away. I feel cheated.

I have, vaguely, wondered before what happens when people who connect online lose touch. At least I am lucky enough that someone thought to contact me. I don't know. I might have preferred just not knowing.

All day today, when I felt like I was so lost and alone in this world, I kept reaching for my phone to check for a message. From Perry. Every time I thought of something funny, or amazing, or scary - I wanted to tell Perry about it.

A couple of weeks ago, I felt so brave, coming here to a strange place. I felt like I was on an adventure because that's how Perry encouraged me to look at it all. This morning, I felt a big whole tear right into the bottom of my world. I'm not feeling so brave now. I'm not feeling like I can hear Perry's voice telling me that I can do this.

There is no more Perry on the other end of a phone call or email. There won't be anymore little bits of crazy humor from him to make me laugh. You aren't here to remind me that I am smart (when I feel dumb), or pretty (when I feel horrible), or tell me to get off my pity pot and just be thankful. You aren't here anymore to just help me keep trying to be a better person.

How can you just be so gone away from me?

I now have one friend left that I don't know "in real life" and I'm going to tell her right now and right here how much she means to me. For +Sandy Sandmeyer:

"I love you, Sandy girl! No matter where in this world you are,  and no matter what might happen to either one of us. you must know that."

Because Perry always ended our calls by saying something about taking care of myself or being good to myself, I didn't miss the chance to let him know how much he meant to me. He also liked to end conversations with, "In my heart, Tru." I hope he can still know that, wherever in Heaven he is, he is always in my heart too.

There are a lot of little memories that are going to one day make me smile when I think of Perry but, right now, I can't think of anything except that he's not here. One day, I will write about you but, for now, just rest in peace.

And, for any of you who knew Perry - or who have lost a friend - I'm going to encourage you with what is encouraging me. From 1 Thessalonians 4:13,

But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.

And, because this is my blog and my memorial, I'm going to go ahead and include one of Perry's secretly favorite songs.

Peace
--Free

Monday, Monday

You know how, sometimes, when something important happens in your life - like you meet someone special or something awful and life-changing happens - and later on, you can't forget how you were made to feel, but you can't remember the day of the week that it happened on? I've had that a lot in my life.

I can remember meeting my first serious lover and I can remember being asked for my hand in marriage, but I can never remember the day of the week it happened on. Of course, that's what calendars and diaries and old cards are for.

I won't ever forget, though, that it was on a Monday that my big brother died.

Saturday is my day to do laundry and change my bedding. It was on last Saturday that I was putting in my second load of clothes when my phone rang. I had a strange feeling. My stomach fluttered and hot saliva filled my mouth.

My sister was calling to tell me that I needed to get to the hospital. My brother, Chubby, was doing way worse than he had been the night before.

For some reason, I took the few minutes to finish setting up the washer for the second load of clothes - my whites - and putting the first set into the dryer. When my jeans were tumbling and my whites were suds-ing, I ran around to get my purse and keys. I drove like a crazy woman to the hospital.

I don't remember much about that Saturday or Sunday except that I was irritated by everything.

Monday, when we all had to realize that Chubby wasn't going to get better and that he was in a lot of pain, I left his room and took a walk around the parking lot. I got into my car and went home. Two hours later, someone called to see where the hell I was at. I was home, finishing my laundry.

It seems like a crazy thing to do, to go and change clothes from the dryer to hangars and drawers, from the washer to dryer, from hamper to washer. It seems crazy, but it was soothing and normal and like everyday living.

When I did get back to the hospital, I only stayed long enough to go and tell Chubby, once again, that I loved him. This time, he didn't squeeze my hand or look at me like he knew what I was saying. This time, he just slept or dreamed or was already breathing his way home to After.

I left and went over to my niece's house and held my great-nephew.

DJ didn't know that something was happening that was hurting so many hearts. He was tired and wanted to cuddle while refusing to actually go to sleep. He just lay in my lap with the back of his head against my chest, reaching back to put on of  his warm toddler-hands to my face while he sucked a bottle of milk. He didn't see the tears I was trying to hold back.

Some friends came by to bring cold drinks and paper plates and stuff for sandwiches and salads. They stayed long enough to let me know they cared.

My sister called and told me that Chubby was gone. She said that he had been given enough medicine so that he wasn't in pain when he left. She didn't cry - not then - because my sister is very, very strong and knew that I couldn't have taken her crying just then.

That was on Monday. I won't ever forget that my brother died on a Monday.

Peace
--Free

“You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.” 
― Anne Lamott


“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” 
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent