Category Archive

We watched We Are Marshall tonight. Highly recommended for those nights when you just want to cry, but can’t get anything to make you cry?? This movie will take care of that for you in a jiffy. Best line? “Grief is messy”.

I did good today. I actually make good food choices all. day. long. Huh. Weird. I keep reminding myself that I can eat crap if I want to. I know this sounds weird, I do. But I have found that if I tell myself I can’t, if I take away my choice, I end up wanting to rebel. If I ask myself to please make the better choice, but hey, if you really want it, the other one is there and go for it… well, hopefully I will make baby steps towards the better choices, every day.

The new WW tag line is “diets don’t work. WW does.” I get all pissy and defensive every time I see their stupid commercial. WW failed for me I failed WW three times. I beg to differ. It is a diet, like it or not. It works for some, but someone help me out here- do the words at the bottom of all their success stories still say results not typical?

So far, I’m liking baby steps. Much less pressure.

Wow. I find when I blog every day I have way less to say. Huh.

This morning I walked out of my door into freezing cold. I almost walked into him or her. It was a little bird, on the sidewalk in front of our apartment. He was just sitting, and I almost walked into him. There’s no way something wasn’t wrong, because he didn’t fly away. I thought something was wrong and he was probably dying. I looked at him as I walked away, and as I drove away. I couldn’t think of anything to do. It is the circle of life that sometimes birds die, but I also felt like I should do something. I wanted to save the bird. I couldn’t bring it inside, because - well, her name is Rory. Bring the bird to the vet? I don’t think so. So I drove away.

And I cried. I cried. I thought- I don’t know what to do. I want to save you, or be there with you, but I don’t know what to do.

When I told co-workers I was leaving, I tried not to show how happy I was. I was so ready to be done. So tired. So burnt out. So, so, so tired.

Then I started telling my kids. One after one- I have something I need to tell you.

One after one, the next question was always the same.

Why?

It’s one thing to explain it to coworkers and foster parents. They may be sad, but they can understand. They understand burnt out. They get emotionally drained. They tell me you need to do what you need to do. I would nod my head and agree. It was time. I told myself you need to go before one of your kids or families pays the price for you being burnt out. My foster parents had a range of reactions- tears, lots and lots of questions, disbelief at my next move (insurance?!?!?), and understanding, compassion, and support.

It’s one thing to tell them.

It’s a whole other thing to answer why from my kids.

How do you tell them? How do you explain to a six year old that you can’t walk around carrying his pain anymore? The pain that he deals with personally every day- how do you explain that?

How do you tell a fourteen year old you can’t fight for him anymore? That you’re running out of energy and can’t fight his battles for him? How do you explain that you are scared that you won’t be able to fight the way you have for the last two years and that he will end up paying the price for that?

How do you explain to a thirteen year old that you are leaving, again, and that she’s going to have to have a new worker, again. How do you respond when she tells you how much she hates changing workers, and tells you that she tells you everything, and won’t have anyone else to do that with?

How do you help an eleven year old understand that you can’t finish the work you’ve started with her, because it’s time for you to go? What do you say when she asks why? I just don’t know.

I don’t know what to tell them. I don’t know how to explain that I can’t carry their pain and fight their battles anymore. I don’t know how to reconcile the fact that I can’t be there for them,  yet I ask them to live with their histories and their pain every day of their lives. I don’t know how to explain the personal toll that my attachment to them, my passion for helping them, changing their lives, has had. I don’t know how to help them understand that the toll has become too great, at least for a time.

I’ve always wanted to be a social worker. There’s never been anything else for me, besides mom. I knew I wouldn’t fit anywhere else. I just knew. There’s always been a passion inside me to fight for those who are helpless. The bird, the children. I’ve always wanted to rescue them. As I became a little more experienced, a little less naive, I realized that I couldn’t rescue them. But I could show them someone who cared, I could be someone who was willing to fight for them, I could advocate for them. If I changed their lives in some small way, if I saved one of them in one way, it would be worth it.

I feel like I’m not only leaving a job, but that I’m cutting off a limb. I feel like I’m walking away from a part of me that has always been there. People joke that I am going to the “dark side” and I don’t know what to say. I feel like I’m walking away from such a huge part of who I am, in order to save the rest of who I am. This is something I still don’t completely understand. I know on several levels that it’s time to go, that I personally need a break and a change. I know that I need to focus on other parts of my life right now, and that while I am still pouring my heart and soul into these kids I cannot focus on the things that I need to elsewhere. I know, but I don’t understand.

I know. It’s a lot of emotion for someone changing jobs. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe I’m overestimating the impact that me leaving is going to have. But I see the look in their eyes as they asked why. I hear the frustration they feel at finally finding someone they trust, only to lose yet another social worker. I feel the pain of having to say goodbye to someone yet again.

I feel guilty for causing any of them any kind of pain. It’s one thing to be the bearer of bad news, it’s another to be the cause. I know, I know I need to do what I need to do.

I want to save you, but I don’t know how anymore and I’ve run out of energy trying.

Why, indeed?

In three states, in four cities, four women made the same thing tonight.

Used to be it was just one woman serving it to the four, plus a whole lot of others.

Tomorrow, in three states and four cities, a whole lot of people will taste it.

It doesn’t sound like much and it sure doesn’t look like much- it’s pink.

My grandma’s grape salad is the best, though. There are two things I cannot do Thanksgiving without- my grandma’s grape salad and my mom’s applesauce nut bread (Shannon- 2T of butter).

When I moved out to CA for college, those are the things I made. I didn’t care about a whole lot else. I brought it with me wherever I went.

So while I was not looking forward to cooking, as I pureed the cranberries to sit overnight, I got a little teary-eyed. Thinking about the other three woman who were thinking of her and probably getting a little teary eyed too.

My friend who lost a very close aunt today said she was trying to figure out how to honor those we had lost this year as we sit down to eat tomorrow. She chose to buy a pretty candle, and will light it before they eat in honor of her aunt. I thought the sentiment was sweet, but not for me. As silly as it sounds, I’ll honor grandma by making her grape salad. I think she would like it better than a candle.

Four women. Three states. Representing so many more. All missing her.

November has typically been a hard month for us. My husband has lots of painful memories of November, and he usually struggles through the month. Every year it gets better, and we can breathe a little easier.

Right about the time he stopped needing to crawl into a dark corner for the month, it became my turn.

For a long time the grief, depression and anger subsided. I felt whole getting through the day. It felt a little bit easier. I could think of them without crying, without not knowing what to do with myself. I could talk about them.

Then I started realizing that I was having a tough time with all of that. It started getting tougher to get through the days. I started thinking about what happened more. I started getting more snippy and snappy and out of sorts and… sad alot. I realized it was the end of October.

I realized it was almost November. I told Khalil that I would like to crawl into bed now and come out in 2008. Clearly 2007 has been the worst year of my life. I used to hear people ask what was the best year and what was the worst year of your life. And I used to think I didn’t have a worst year. I knew there were years with best parts and worst parts, but not a whole year of best or worst. I now know what a worst year feels like. It’s when you feel like from the time the clock says 12:01 on January first, on through every day, you just can’t wait for the year to be over. It’s the year when every time you turn around the hits keep coming. It’s the year when you never really full like you can take a deep breath of pure air and just smile and be happy.

I now know what that feels like. This has been my worst year.

I realized a few things about November. First of all, it’s November. Which is always hard and I always dread.

The second thing I realized about November is this: the nightmare I called my life for six months started the day before Thanksgiving. That day I brought my grandma to the eye doctor. She had some loss of vision and wanted to get it checked out. The day is a bit fuzzy for me, but I remember being scared that she was not going to be ok. We didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of the brain tumors that eventually killed her.

Third, it’s the start of the Holiday Season. Halloween comes, and then it’s all about the HOLIDAYs! People start asking about Christmas shopping and what your holiday plans are. The truth is, I literally don’t know how to face the holidays this year. I’m sure when they come I’ll grin and bear it. But I don’t really want to. I want to, as I said, crawl into bed and just skip them. I’m not entirely convinced on why I can’t. That would be one way to get through the season. My memories of last year are tainted. My dad came on Thanksgiving. He was not feeling well, but my stepmom wanted to come and I wanted him here. He spent the meal time asleep on our bed, and then they went home. It was sad, and I remember feeling sad. I remember so desperately wanting him to enjoy the day with us. Christmas Eve came, and we always spend that with my dad and my stepmom’s family. It was fun, but it was a tough year because you could just see how sick he was. It was also Christmas Eve of 05 when we realized he looked sicker. So Christmas Eve 06 was a painful memory of how healthy he looked when we thought he looked so sick. Because now he really looked sick. But I remember treasuring being there. Christmas came, and we talked alot about Christmas. Because my mom, sister, and I were scared it would be the last one we would have with my grandma. And it was. It was the last I had with both of them.

This year is the first without them. And my life comes full circle. I’m heading back towards the day that started the hardest months of my life. And I’m scared to death. I don’t know how to walk through all of it. I don’t.

************

I wrote this about a week ago, but didn’t post it. I’m figuring it out- you walk through it by putting one foot in front of the other. Every day. That’s the only way.

When you’re young, before you realize there are other people out there, parents are your world. We rely on them for everything- our basic needs, and our emotional needs. They feed us, change our diapers, potty train us. They apply the band-aids and kisses. They tell us everything will be ok, that they are here for us. They make everything better with a single hug, smile, or kiss. I’m always amazed at how magical kissing a child’s ‘boo boo’ is. To a child, a kiss from a parent is their world. Children haven’t yet learned that there are other people in the world, their parents are their world. They wake up to their parents, and go to bed with them.

As they get older, other people start to enter their realm. Aunts, uncles, child care providers, teachers, friends. They start moving farther and farther away from parents to explore relationships with these other people. All the relationships are built in the framework that they have created with their parents. If the framework was abusive, children are mistrusting. If the relationships with parents was nurturing and caring, children learn that the world is a safe place. They base their interactions with others on their interactions with their parents. They are the anchors. The little rowboats of children float away, but always come back to the anchor of their parents.

Kids get older. They move away from being infants and children and we call them kids and teens. Parents are edged out as their world increasingly becomes about peers, school, and themselves. Always, though, always, this is set in the framework of their parents. If children have a stable and trusting relationship with their parents, they are more free to explore their ever-expanding world. Always, always, even as they are edged out, parents are there. Maybe ever more in the background, but always there.

When we go to college, and move on, our world shifts away from our parents. We begin to recognize their wisdom and call for advice, and sometimes actually listen to the advice. Even as we begin to build our own world full of adult relationships, school, work, and futures with all the potential, we move back to our anchors, our parents. We may push them away, still like a teenager thinking we know everything and better than they do, but nonetheless, we begin to listen. We look for their approval and while we deny it, their love and approval colors our decisions. Again, they are ever there.

As we move on, our relationships with our parents can grow to mature. They are parents but also friends. They are less of rule-makers and more of supporters. Always, always our anchors.

I don’t think I realized all of this until I lost one of my anchors.

Parents remind us of who we are. Our whole history is attached to them. Even if you don’t call or see them for a week or a few months, they are there. Always, always there. Happy to hear from you, telling you they love you. They are us. The fact that they are a phone call away, a drive, and always willing to be there when you need them is comforting. Whether we know that or not.

I know that people of all ages have parents die. Obviously this year was when I had it happen to me. It still catches me by surprise. I wonder if it still surprises me because I didn’t see him all the time. He was a few weeks to a few months between phone calls. He was a wave on the road as we passed each other. He was at holidays and special events. He wasn’t every day or even every week. So I don’t feel the pangs every day. I feel the loss of the anchor more than I feel the daily emptiness. I feel it when I go to call him to say hi, or ask a question. I had a dream where I needed to find out about loose electrical shocks. (It made no sense, but he was an electrician.) I kept suggesting we call my dad, and everyone ignored me. I can’t remember if we did or not. It’s that emptiness that makes me suck in my gut and can bring me to tears.

I don’t know how to handle it still. I don’t break out in tears, but I am dreading the holidays, in all honesty. I have hated this whole damn year, 2007 has sucked, and I don’t want to deal with the 2007 Thanksgiving or Christmas. I am going Christmas shopping today and I couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t until I started mentally preparing my Christmas list that I realized why I didn’t want to go- it was because there are people missing on my list, people that it would be silly to buy gifts for because- well, because they’re dead. I want to fast forward from now until January, when I can start a whole new year over and have some hope that it will be better.

One of my anchors is gone, and the emptiness just doesn’t quit.

Last night I was all kinds of “off” and just couldn’t figure out why. Was snippy, didn’t want to get off the couch. Wanted to lay around and pretend like that was all I ever did.

This morning I figured out why.

I was listening to my Nickelback CD, and this song came on. I listened to this song alot back in March. A. Lot. I would blast it in my car and belt it out. It made me feel alive, made me want to be alive. The phrase “Amen I, I’m Alive”- I would sing it over and over. It felt like everyone was dying, and I needed a way to stay connected to life.

The song came on in the car, and I realized.

It has been six months since you have been- not alive. The other day Khalil asked me to go grocery shopping with him. He rarely does this, but he did this time. I went, begrudgingly (I’ve never liked grocery shopping in general). But I got to the store and it hit me like a ton of bricks. This is what I used to do with you every other weekend. I still know your habits and could probably get the main things off your list. Veggies from the salad bar. Tomatoes on the vine. Milk in the purple jug. Aveeno. There was a reassurance to getting certain things every week, but also trying to find the new things that you saw commercials for that our grocery store never carried. The spray salad dressing. The pain stuff you wipe on your forehead.

You had fallen, and had black eyes. You didn’t really make a big deal out of it, but I was sad. These were some of the last pictures we took with all of you, and look at those black eyes.

Rory was still little here, and was smelling your hair. You were laughing hysterically, which was cracking us up. It was so funny, but especially because you just loved cats. You always asked about Rory, and always loved on her when you came. You indulged me my little stories about her and laughed at all the parts where other people just look at me like I’m crazy because I’m talking about my cat like she’s a person. How could I not? It’s in my blood.

You were really happy at your 80th. So surprised, and happy. I’m glad we did that for you. It was also your last birthday.

This is you with my other Grandma, dad’s mom. You guys were really cute together, sitting there holding hands.

Look at that. Four generations. That’s a nice picture. We’re lucky to have you.

That is the smile I remember best.

I love you and still miss you.

It’s weird when you go to therapy. And you think that, if handed a question, you’d say one thing. Then out of your mouth pops this whole other thing that was totally unexpected.

Like, for instance. You are supposed to say something to your dad. You think that you’d probably tell him you miss him.

Instead you tell him how sorry you are.

Huh. If nothing else, therapy sure is food for thought.

It’s the little, day to day incidents that get me.

It’s when I walk into the grocery story where I took you shopping every week. And go in the side we used to go in, and am confronted with the salad bar. And have to fight the urge to fill a plate exactly how you would want it, which you would tell me every time, despite the fact that I knew it by heart.

It’s when I drive by a motorcycle, and pick up my phone to call you. It’s not until I see your name that I realize you’re not there to call.

It’s when I drive by where you lived. I was there so often, I can’t even stand to drive by it.

It’s when I see a red or grey van. With a working guy inside, doing the kinds of things you used to do. I still look to see if you’re the one driving the van- sometimes you were, and it was always fun to beep and wave, see your smile of surprise, and your wave. It’s realizing I’ll never see that wave again.

It’s going to Panera. And being tempted to get the Caesar salad- without chicken-, broccoli cheddar soup, and a hazelnut coffee. Not because it’s what I liked there.

It’s having to stop myself when someone mentions they need a good electrician in our area. Because I no longer know one.

It’s the fact that I don’t think I’ll be able to go to Outback again. I always hated it there, but went with you. Because you loved it. And if they ever put one in town, I think I’ll cry. You so wanted one in town, and if they put one here you won’t be able to eat it.

It’s when I go to the restaurant we went to when you and mom were first divorced. It’s different- Mexican now- but I still remember so much about that night. It was awkward, and sad, but I now realize how hard you were trying.

It’s remember how much you loved Dairy Queen. Knowing that I got that from you and mom. We are an ice cream group.

It will be Christmas Eve. We always spent it with you guys, and I don’t know what I’ll do this year. Sit home? It was hard figuring out how to split holidays, but it ended up working out. Christmas Eve was always fun at your house. Where will I get pierogies now?

It was when the baby daffodils came out. They were one of your favorite flower, and every year at some point I made it a point to buy you some. You were always so grateful, for the littlest, most silly stuff.

It’s when the car starts to make funny noises. As much as I love Khalil, he’s not a car guy. I’d call you, and you’d lecture me about not changing the oil, or keeping the gas full. But you’d always come get me if I needed you to.

It’s when no one asks about Rory. You asked- every time. And I always felt like it mattered to you. You loved cats, even though mine put you in the hospital that one time when you met her. You still loved her.

It’s going to be when we have children- your grand and great-grand children. Neither one of you will be here, and my children would have been so blessed to know you guys. You both would have been so proud.

It’s the moments when I think of you, and how much I loved you. It makes my heart ache to know that you’re not still here with me.

Often times I will be talking about something a friend of mine said, and whomever I’m talking to will ask where I know that friend from. “Oh, my board.” They know who I am talking about, in general at least. For almost five years now I have been a part of an online community. We started on a public message board and not too long later migrated to a private one. We have been there for each other, virtually, through thick and thin. We have had weddings and divorces. Babies and infertility. Deaths and tragedies. Joys and laughter.

But today something happened that hit all of us. Never as hard as the person whom it actually hit, but nonetheless.

One of my friends, a person I consider a friend despite the fact that I’ve only met her a few times in “real life”, her husband passed away. He had a very unexpected and tragic death. And I can’t imagine.

I cannot imagine the pain. I now know the pain of losing my father and grandmother. I cannot, in my wildest imagination, fathom the pain of losing a husband. My heart cracks into a million pieces every minute I think of my friend and her babies. I don’t know what to say or how to reach out. There is no way to make this better. I have so many feelings and reactions, but tonight I don’t want this to be about me. This is about my friend, her pain, her loss.

We are all holding our loved ones closer tonight. Tonight, a community of women who has known each other for a long time, shared far more kind words than sharp words, and held each other up through time, is grieving together for one of our own. If you’re reading this, know that we are here for you. Know that there is nothing we won’t do to hold you up right now. We love you.

It’s amazing what a day will do for you. Yesterday it took me almost two hours to get out of bed. I knew I needed… just, a day. So I took today off of work. I crawled out of bed at 9am. It felt like heaven to not have to get out of bed. I watched a movie, ate breakfast, and sat around for the morning. I didn’t clean, or pay bills, or run errands in the car. I did walk to the bank, but I took my camera. It was the most peaceful hour I remember having in well over six months. I took pictures. I narrated my pictures for my photo blog, but don’t think that I will narrate them there. I let myself be creative, and calm. I found the beauty in my surroundings, hoping to let that beauty carry over into the rest of my life and my perspective on things.

Between the work that I do and the things that have happened in my life lately, everything has felt ugly. Grey, brown, depressing and ugly. I have had trouble getting out of bed. I have not wanted to do anything. I want to lay in bed and just.. sleep. Today I let myself wander. I let myself do whatever I wanted to do. I didn’t press to meet a to-do list. I didn’t have anyone demanding or asking anything of me. I was able to just be. Something I’m not sure I’ve done in a very long time.

I think this is one small baby step towards beginning to take care of myself again.

My husband scanned in this picture for me for something else. I love it.

Yes. I’ve been a slacker.

It’s just that… sometimes I don’t know what to write. Do I really want to talk about being sad? About not knowing how to manage the sad? Not so much. So I just don’t. If I ignore it, perhaps it will go away? Doubtful, but one can hope, no?

I’ll get there.