A New Site -

Hi!  THANK YOU so much for coming to this blog.

I'm continuing the same blog on a new site.


Please join me at http://spillingover.com/ 

ciao!

Beginning of the End

Now is when it started.

The middle of March.

The previous September, my parents went to Hawaii for their 24^th wedding anniversary. (A fortuitous decision, given that my mom would be dead before they could celebrate their 25^th).   I remember mom’s excited anticipation while planning and her pleasure afterwards describing the beaches, crystal clear water, and tropical fish swimming through her legs in the ocean.  

Shortly after that trip, she started feeling ill.   An ambiguous ‘not feeling well’.  Insidious.

She was diagnosed with depression sometime around December. She told me matter-of-factly, “They think I’m depressed.”  I found it strange, since she never struggled with depression before.  I knew she internalized her feelings, but depressed?  I remember her as generally happy – even though she was quiet and pensive, with a tendency to worry.  Apparently, all the pain was in her head.

I was busy in my senior year of high school with swimming practices before and after school, a part time job, babysitting, youth group, swim meets, and friends taking up all of my time.  I can’t help but feel awful I was gone so much, all while she was feeling so bad.

In mid-March, she came home from a doctor’s appointment; I think it was a Friday.  I think it was a Friday because in all my memories, everything big, save her death, happened on a Friday.    I was in the kitchen, leaning against the sink when she told me she needed to go to the hospital.  After all this time, our family doctor did a physical exam.  He must have palpated the ridiculous angry rock-hard mass growing with abandon on her liver.

Did I drive her there?  So many details forgotten and lost. 

A week in the hospital for testing.   

Another Friday.   

I picked out my outfit deliberately.  Dark blue thrift store jeans that made my legs look thin. The navy j.crew henly Chris bought me for my birthday. A white tee underneath.  Purposely casual, well worn, and comforting. I chose those clothes knowing they would be the clothes I wore the day I found out my mother had cancer.

I wanted to stay home from school.  I wouldn't be able to concentrate.  Could I stay home and come to the hospital when they had the results?  An ominous sign, my dad let me skip school without objection.  A battle not even remotely worth fighting.

Have you ever experienced a time when you see each moment pointing you to something that is about to change your life forever?   So clear it has to happen. Too clear for your hope, beyond all hope, that it wont?

March 15^th is that day for me.

Did I drive myself to the hospital?  

I remember being at her left side near the window.  The door to the hall on the opposite side of the room.  My dad was on the other side of her bed.   Did I ask?  Who told me?    None of it matters. 

It’s cancer.  It’s fast growing.  She will start chemo right away. 

I can’t remember if I cried at her bedside, but I remember being pleased I wore my hand picked “for when your mom is diagnosed with cancer ” outfit.  I looked like me, I felt like me – this seemed important because nothing else about me would ever be the same. That outfit marked a before and after. 

At some point, thinking I was holding it all together; I excused myself from the room to walk around.  Fooling no one, I probably walked no more than twenty feet before I found a bathroom in the hall and desperately shaking, I barely shut the door before I collapsed. Heaving sick and crushed, my searing tears pooling in the toilet and on the floor.

Every year.  The middle Friday of March.  It sneaks up and smashes me again. 

So unbelievably sad to recall the beginning of the end.  The beginning, which really started way before. And the end, that doesn't actually ever end. 

Too Nice to No

Discussing friendship, I gently probe, trying to get at the heart of the issue.   I ask questions, offer suggestions, even try role playing.   Finally, exasperated, she says “But I’m too nice to say no!”

Well.   Isn’t that insightful?   My little eight year old has figured out, in her young age, in her own words, she is a people pleaser.

Sitting at the breakfast table, unassuming in our pajamas, we have struck life-lesson gold.

  

Let me clarify:  My daughter has no problem saying no to me.  She has no problem bossing around her brothers. In the security of unconditional love, she asserts herself with ease. 

Even her dad will run smack into a foot stomping no every once in a while. 

Like any mother does, I blame myself.   Since she was little, I've encouraged her to think of others first. Think of their feelings, try to be nice, don’t be selfish.  As the oldest myself, I should know better.  I have demanded too much of her and often disciplined when I didn't get it. 

I consider her natural thoughtfulness, her innate gentle and caring ways.  Born little and sweet, she has always been a joy. She is a gift.  

I've encouraged my daughter to lean into her natural tendency to defer.  Because it doesn't really matter who plays what, who sits next to whom, or who is in charge.  Just enjoy being together and play with your friends!

Nature and nurture synergy.  

When kids are little, a mom’s influence wraps around every part of her children’s lives.  When it comes to playing, we make them take turns, show them how to share, say things like Everyone gets to be the Queen! and OneTwoThree:Switch!   

Eventually, thank God, they learn to play on their own.  Thrilled, we grant independence and before long, we shove them out the door and find ourselves now saying things like Work it Out! (And maybe even throw in an honest I don’t Care! or Go Back Outside!)

Like letting them brush their own teeth, it’s only when the dentist calls you over to see all the food hanging out by their gums, you realize maybe he isn’t actually old enough to do this all by himself.  One fastidious child is reliably Up-Down-All-Arounding , while the other is actually just staring in the mirror, sucking the toothpaste off his toothbrush for two minutes, before calling it a day.  Parental supervision is still necessary.

So how does a parent teach a self-proclaimed pushover to stand up for herself?  Like most mothers, I have no idea what I’m actually doing.  I start by asking more questions.   

Do you ever want to say no?  Do you feel like you SHOULD say no?  Do you ever wish you said no?

My mom-alarm is ringing. At eight, not saying no means she continues to be The Dog every time they play pet shop at recess.   At 15, not being able to stand up for herself has altogether different consequences.    

Teenage risk taking aside, how many times, as an adult,  have I felt the cringe of wanting to say no or the panic of needing to say no?  How many times have I heard nearly identical ‘I’m too nice to say no’ declarations from women five times her age?

More questions.  Do you think only mean people say No?   Do friends ever get mad at each other?  Is being nice the same as being a good friend? 

I don’t want my daughter assuming friendship is one sided and that she’s being a good friend by keeping up a facade. 

I want her to recognize when she consistently feels a subtle but painful sting saying no brings.  Each sting small and harmless, and even harder to acknowledge — but a deep unhealthy wound develops in what she assumes is a good friendship. 

It’s not our job to “fix” bold and controlling friends, young or old.  But responsibility lies in identifying a friendship built on nothing more than the shifting sand of subjective niceties. 

Accumulating unsaid No’s is destructive and dishonest.   Seeming so innocuous, resentful Yes’s betray no one but yourself.

As she grows, I want her to cultivate friendships with people who give and take, who compromise and see other points of view.   I want her to be confident enough to seek out genuine friendship.  I understand I still have a roll to play in teaching and modeling this type of friendship.

Honey – I love that you’re kind and sweet and thoughtful.  Other people love that too, and I'm positive you will know many friends in your life.  Please pursue deep friendships, even when they take time, that are built in truth and love.  I hope you will understand, even when it’s hard, the nicest thing you can do for a friend (including yourself) is to be brave enough to be honest, especially if that means saying No.

Joy in my Joy

A friend told me about a young girl, despite being diagnosed with terminal cancer, who wished to continue attending school.  I was shocked that the girl’s mother agreed.   At the time, it didn’t occur to me that a mother desires her child to feel normal, especially when circumstances are not.

***

Two weeks after my mom’s diagnosis, I left for Florida.  Unlike typical senior spring break trips, I went alone and stayed with my Aunt’s family.   Besides simply getting out of Ohio, my plans included spending time with my cousin and getting as tan as possible in five days.  

Because my cousin, already in college, had classes while I visited, some friends of ours invited me to the Keys to snorkel.   A road trip, a wet suit, and boating sounded perfect. 

Though I was an accomplished pool swimmer, I panicked as I hit open water for the first time.  I couldn't breathe right; my heart was racing… and those stupid fins!  Not wanting to drown or get back in the boat, I anxiously started kicking towards the reef.  Once my adrenaline subsided and I relaxed,  I observed the astounding beauty of life below the water. 

It will forever be one of my favorite days.  A day filled with water, beauty, excitement, and sun.  I remember nothing from that vacation save the snorkeling trip and coming home really tan.

**                                   

                                                                                               

Not knowing how life was about to change, it was easy for me to leave and enjoy being away from my family. When I left for that trip, did my mom know how quickly my normal life would change forever?   

No longer the carefree teenager, I now see through my mother-eyes, and my perception of the whole thing changes.

If I knew I was dying, I would keep my children close.  I would be scared to let them out of my sight.   Selfishly, I would cling. I would obsessively write, record, talk, prepare, and plan.  I’d pull them out of school and make memories. I would turn Family into a verb.  I would make dying some of my best work.

This would never actually happen, of course.  Because rarely does one get to choose how good she is at dying.  

Faced with the uncertainty of life and death and time – my mom just let me live.  I continued to leave a sleeping house for early morning swim practices and then be in school all day.  I swam after school and worked three evenings a week.  I attended youth group and swim meets.   Homework, church, and friends filled any remaining time.

When in the world did I spend time with my mom?  If I realized she was dying, maybe I wouldn't have been so busy?  If I wasn’t so busy, would I have realized she was dying sooner?

**

When I got home from Florida, she touched my cheek and smiled at my tan.   I tanned so easily compared to her milky skin.  She grew up with an old-European mentality that people who worked outside (hard laborers, the poor) were tan.  She quickly learned the American association between a tan and the luxury of vacation.   

I told her my snorkeling adventure and remember her smiling.  I hold that smile in my mind, looking at it from a different angle now. 

I have given this smile to my own daughter.

A mother’s smile that holds a secret.  Not living vicariously, but flesh-of-my-flesh understanding.

She was joyful in my joy. 

Her heart content because my heart was too.  

***

Easter, the last time my mom went to church, was a few days after I got home from Florida.  Early April in Ohio, snowflakes fell as we took family pictures in front of our house.   It’s hard for me to revisit those pictures. All of us in our Easter best and winter coats.  My sun kissed face contrasted against their winter white skin and my cachectic mother swimming in her clothes.    

Seven weeks later, she died.

My trip and Easter are a continuous memory, two parts making up the whole. The ache of reality butted up against one of the best days of my life. Without pretense or obligation, she let me live.  She allowed me freedom to sweetly and simply Enjoy Life.  

Half and Half

I fall into bed, exhausted.  What’s the date tomorrow?

The 30^th.

I sigh.  I knew it was coming up.

He asks, “Is tomorrow the day?  How many years has it been?”

It takes me a bit -- Oh God. Eighteen.  It’s been eighteen years.

I curl on my side, unprepared, yet knowing what is coming.  A wave of grief hits so hard I start to shake.  What I reign in, keep deep, lets loose.  No almost-pretty gentle crying.   This is dreadful heart-ache crying. 

Unlike my brother and sister who met this milestone years ago, tomorrow marks my half and half.  I have lived half my life without my mother.  I did not expect this matter of fact to re-break my heart.

I will never be able to add to our days together. For one day, they will be equal.  After tomorrow, I will only add to my days without.

It’s the 30^th and I let myself be sad.   I allow myself to sift through memories and linger.  

Just today.  I cannot live in the past. I do not look back often. Too much time has passed for that.

The other day, my oldest son asked me what would happen if I died.  “What would we do without you?”

Caught off guard, I turn away, slapped. I try to talk, but need a second to breathe.  I turn back to him.  Shaky, I say “You’d get through it.  It would be hard.  Maybe the hardest thing you ever do. But you’d get through it.” 

As he does, he presses, “But what if you die before I’m a teenager?”

I sit down.  My sister was eleven when our mom died.  My daughter is already eight. What if I only have three more years?  

I look deep in those five-year old blue eyes, and try my best to sear my mother-love into his soul.  I pray he understands the depth of my love and will know it for the rest of his life.

I wouldn't change my first half, and I cannot change my second.   No longer in halves, I pray for insight – How should I live this ever-growing part of my life?

If I have three, twelve, or fifty more years, my Half and Half itself marks my choice to live intentionally with hope, confidence, faith, and purpose.  

My Tears

My tears are not under my control. They have become entitled and act as if they own themselves.  Ever vigilant, they wait patiently, collectively ready to burst forth.   Like a sly little army, they can quietly build an unbalanced liquid wall that inevitably tumbles down my cheek in any given situation.    

You could find me tearing up (or straight-up crying) at my children’s piano recital, over a handmade card, while singing at church, on my couch during a commercial, while laughing, or any other time where emotions could possibly be felt.  

I see them now a bit like I see my children – as much a part of me as they could possibly be, from my own body, yet with a will of their own.

Although my tears can appear at any given moment, for any given reason – I want you to know that I rarely cry truly sad or mad tears.   (To be honest, I know that if I start those kinds of tears, they won’t stop easily).  I have seen dark days, but my life is largely filled with hope and contentment.   

My tears appear because of the Beautiful, Meaningful, or Worshipful.  Because My-Heart-Hurts-For-You-and-With-You.  Because of the Gentle or Joyful.  

I am painfully aware that my tender heart empties tears so it can continue to beat and feel and share and not harden.

The tears I cry now are a consequence, a privilege even, a prize won after contending with the overpowering tears of grief and fear. 

Because I have experienced my own deep hurt and I work in an environment which catapults families into horrible nightmares of the unknown, the natural empathy with which I was born magnifies and translates into an acute sensitivity to what is Good.  To Small Graces.  I bear witness of Blessings big and small. 

My tears the tangible reminder that there is love, joy, goodness, peace in the midst of a troubled world full of heartbreak, loneliness, and suffering.

My tears used to embarrass me, but I no longer fight with them.   They come unannounced and unassuming.  Although I am at their mercy,  I embrace them. For they are a signal.  

          Pay Attention!

          This is Important!

         This is Worthwhile!

         This is Beauty!

         This is God speaking to you…

I will cry for commercials, yes.  (I’m an easy target, and I don’t care how much or how often my kids and husband laugh. Those commercials are made to be sweet and sad, and they ARE, and I FEEL it).   But I will also share your hurt, your joy, your struggle, my joy, and (if it’s safe enough) my own hurt, and my own hopes with my tears.

Beautiful depth-of-my-heart tears make me simultaneously vulnerable and invincible.  Once they are loose, I cannot hide.  Yet they fortify me, as they point me to observing God at work. 

Flying Low

There is a momma cardinal in this picture.  Can you find her?  She blends in SO well, minus her bright orange beak. (This is like my red lipstick, right?) 

I sat at my kitchen table, and watched her fly from across the street. She flew so low – not more than two feet off the ground – I thought she was landing in the middle of the yard. 

She flew at that “altitude” all the way to the feeder by the window.  Straight to the bird feeder, between waves of torrential down pours.  She was soaking wet.  All business, this bird.

It’s crazy weather.  Rain all day and night, flash flood warnings, severe thunderstorms.  I am settled in at home, many things that I should be doing floating through my mind. I really just want my kids and husband to come home safely.  With weather like this, I want the essentials (my family near me) and am thankful for the basics (shelter, food, warmth). 

This momma cardinal reminded me that sometimes, during storms, we mommas have to fly low.  We have to be all business, essentials only. 

Our wings might be wet from our struggles -- what life has rained down on us.  

We need to be ready to land at anytime.

ANY time.

There are other days and other seasons for flitting around the neighborhood beautifully and gracefully.  When the storm has passed, there will be time for making beautiful nests and melodic song.

But for now, in this storm, it’s necessities only.  And it is enough.

Don’t be ashamed to fly low, soaking wet, blending in with your surroundings during your storm.   Do what you need to do, (because that is often all you CAN do), and don’t worry what other people think. 

I PROMISE, your wings will dry and you will fly higher another day.