more tears?

Frog is number 38 in the Medicine Card Book, and it says this about him:

"Frog teaches us to honor our tears, for they cleanse the soul. If you were to look at where you are today, would you use any of the following words to describe your condition: tired, overloaded, harried, frustrated, guilty, itchy, nervous, at a loss, empty, or weakened? I so, take a break and allow yourself to bathe in the waters of Frog medicine. This could mean a long, relaxing bath, disconnecting the phone, yelling 'stop,' or taking in deep, cleansing breaths. The key thought is to find a way to rid yourself of distractions and to replace the mud with clear energy. Then replenish your parched spirit, body, and mind. Call to Frog and find peace in the joy of taking time to give to yourself. A part of this giving is cleansing yourself of any person, place, or thing that does not contribute to your new state of serenity and replenishment.

At times, all of life's activities can be overwhelming, and everyone occasionally needs a break. Contrary Frog can signal one of these moments, but can also portend a time of feeling waterlogged. In feeling waterlogged, you may be dealing with too many emotions or feelings. This is to say that 'the world is too much with you,' or that you have immersed yourself in one idea or activity to the exclusion of all other facets of your life. If this is the case, a break from routine is suggested. Hop to other lily pads or visit other ponds for a while."

Well, I guess that says it all. Let's see, tears? Yup - got those. Tired, overloaded, at a loss, empty, weakened? Yup - got those. Taking care of myself? Uh - not so much that. Cleansing myself of people that don't contribute to my serenity? Working on that one, but it's tough. Overwhelmed and waterlogged? Need a break? Too many emotions or feelings? Immersed myself in one idea? Guilty as charged. So there you go, Mom - I got it - you sending Frog to hop and rustle against my reflection so I can get some help right now. I'm trying to take care of Dad, and of my sisters, of my kids and Steve, then I stop a moment and look at myself and think, 'what have I done to take care of myself, what have I done to work with this grieving process?' and I realize the answer is ... not much. So that stops today. I'm taking some time each morning for Mom Time, so just sit and be with her, and her energy, and her memories, and see what comes up. I'm going to honor her, and our time together, and our time to come, and just see what happens. I'm going to stop running so fast, and see what happens when I stand still for a while. I admit - I'm a little nervous - I like movement - fast movement usually - but I'm willing to do this, in the spirit of being open and always looking for expansion and suppleness in my life. Wish me luck!

cleansing

Bill and I stayed overnight with Dad. I still can't get to sleep very well, so I open the basement window to let some cool air in. Then I hear it - a rustly quiet thumping noise. I don't think much about it, then hear it again in a few minutes - thuh, it sounds like. It sounds like it's coming from the egress window. I turn on the light. I can't see anything, reflected against the window. I shut off the light - now I can't see anything. It's 11:40PM - I go back upstairs - Dad's reading the end of "Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress," one of 7 of my favorite all-time books I've brought up for him to read. He gives me a flashlight and I go outside, and shine it down the window well. Okay, I'm a little nervous - you just never know what you'll find - bunny, robber, but there it is, looking right into the window, a little green frog (oh, with yellow spots and a big mouth - Mom's favorite joke!). I sit on the ledge and carefully bend over, with a portable broom and scoop and scoop the little guy into the scoopy thing. I lift him out and place him gently back away from the edge. He takes two hops... BACK into the window well. He must think the well is the lake and the window the water. So I sit back at the edge of the well and repeat the process, then carefully walk him down to the bay's edge and let him go. He just sits there, looking up at me calmly. I go back to bed, and as I lie there, I think, 'this happened TWICE - it must have meaning,' then I think of the Medicine Cards, and how frog means cleansing, and I think I will look that up when I get back to Fargo to see why Frog has hopped into my life at this time. I'm sure it means something, as everything seems to, these days.

I'm anxious to get back to Fargo, to see if we can calm down a little. Steve called this morning, missing us. Maybe everybody's feeling this strangeness these days, as if something has shifted, and nothing will ever be the same again.

South Dakota

We're here. I must say, the middle part of South Dakota looks awfully like the middle part of North Dakota, but once you hit 90, after Wall Drug, wow. It's so hilly. I don't mean to sound silly (or rhyme), but I haven't been here in 15 years, and I can't remember any part of that trip except Methusala, the 135 year old tortoise at Reptile World (she's still there!). Yesterday was a strange day - almost 100 degrees (that's not the strange part), but driving around and feeling SO exhausted and yes, queasy again. I keep wondering what's wrong with me, then I think maybe nothing's wrong with me, I just haven't slowed down a single iota since Mom died, and my body's probably just protesting a little. I don't blame them (yes, I call my body "them," as there are several distinct parts that talk and work together, so it's a multiple relationship). I'll try to rest and be a little more mindful when I get home later this week.

We went to Watiki Water Park the night we came here, and I've noticed an interesting phenomenon. When I'm surrounded with a lot of people, especially when they're laughing and having a great time, I get overcome with sadness over Mom, missing her. I've noticed this before, but had to sit with a towel in front of my face so I could cry quietly and not feel too stupid. It's getting better, really it is, but when I look in the mirror, especially in the morning, I look kind of like hell. I've got dark circles under my eyes, and my eyes look smaller. I'm not just saying this - Bill mentioned it, and he just doesn't lie, little enlightened being that he is. Sigh. Enough of that. What I want to say is that the trees are beautiful and clean and the mountains are steep and I love to look over the edge and admire the scenery (when I'm not driving). People are friendly, and we're meeting people from all over the country. People love to talk and connect, and I love that about life. I love reading Harry Potter to Bill, and wrestling with he and Steve, I love laughing about speaking Pig Latin and not understanding what anyone's saying because we've made up a new language, I love holding hands with Bill and Steve and walking, sharing this life with these two amazing men.

There are 6 family members who are my heart, my blood and my center - Mom and Dad, Steve, Kari, Erik and Bill. I have something planned, but the basis is these 6. I'll keep working on it, and share when I've figured it out. The sky is cloudy (maybe that will lower the temp? Please?), and we are heading to breakfast, then off to our day. I'm still wearing my white Converse tennies, and my Chicos blue jean capris, and Dad's hat that he gave me. It's all stained, but it's Dad's, so it was on my head most of yesterday, and will probably be there today, as well. On with vacation - I'll try to write as soon as I can.

death and rebirth

This appears to be a summer of death. No, this isn't a depressing entry, but a rather beautiful one. Mom's dying wasn't unexpected, it was beautiful, and I've written about all of the amazing things that have come out of it. Mostly the closeness that I have with three of my sisters that I've never felt before, or the incredible outpouring of love that I continue to feel from friends and family.

But an interesting thing has been happening lately, and it goes so far beyond ordinary synchronicity that I must note it here. First I noticed that I am becoming obsessed with pearls lately. I go onto the Mikkimoto website to find "Pearls in Motion" necklace like Marietta has so we can be twins. Then I find a strand of pearls that I want to buy matching sets for Kari and I for Christmas, and on and on. Then Melissa tells me that I will meet someone named Lucine - when we look up the meaning of the name, and you got it - pearl. Then I think of Randy Pausch, and how I respect and admire him. I'm writing a column next week about all of the people who inspire me. He was on the list. I went to his website to see if he was still alive. As of a couple days ago, he was. He died this morning. No coincidence.

It's as if I'm IN this current of Oneness, and I'm never out of it. Everything is flowing easily and together. I call Marietta while she's on her cell phone with Peggy, who later calls me while I'm on the other line with my other sister Nancy, while Marietta then calls Dad, who's sitting right next to me. On and on. Like the ribbons on a Maypole these currents of thought and love twine around all of us, connecting us, reminding us that we are never alone - that we are connected to each other, we are a part of each, we belong to each other. And all of this? Beautiful, simple and beautiful.

I'm floating on a slow river, laying on a raft with one hand in the water. I don't care where I'm going, I'm not pushing anything, or looking beyond the next week or so. I'm getting a lot of "things" done, but I'm not planning much of anything. Sure, I may still be quieter, more distant and withdrawn, but I am different, and that's a really good thing. Mom? I miss her with every ounce of my being. I see here everywhere here at Dad's, in the roadrunner needlepoint picture I pass on my way to the laundry room, in her handwriting on the notebook of presents received, on the embossed stationery we are using to write thank-yous to everyone for the memorials. I sigh. I'm not crying so much. I know she's dead. I know she's gone from this physical plane, but this transition is easier than I supposed it would be. I don't think my health is too affected. Probably more so from the past year that I was driving back and forth, all of those nights in the hospital, all the worrying and pre-grieving. To be here? It's actually fresh, clear, clean, pristine, even, and the view is panoramic. There aren't any other people here, where I am, but that's okay - I'm not alone.

a little better

I'm feeling a little better today. I can't tell you why, other than I slept kind of deeper than I have since the end of May, and that's GOT to be a good thing. I was still upset about the whole "now I'm close to Dad" thing with this other person, but smart, best friend Missy Pooh shed some really good light on it for me. She said that people sometimes don't know what to do with someone who's dying, so they run away. But afterwards they do what they can to make up for it, whether that's taking care of the living person, or whatever. I understand that - I still don't know where this person was for the past 16 years. Mom wasn't dying that whole time. Oh well - I guess it's not for me to figure out - it's not my business. It's their's. I kept thinking of the story of the prodigal son all day, and how I felt like the eldest, staying, doing all the work, while the youngest took his inheritance, squandered it, then came back, and the dad got excited and embraced him. Now, wouldn't I want Dad to do that for me, if I had walked away from him? Sure I would. So what's the difference? I'll have to think about it - I wish it wasn't so hard sometimes ot do the right thing. Sometimes I just want to be a bitch.

I kept hearing the song "All For the Best" from Godspell today, as well. I didn't think about it until I paid attention to what I was singing. Here are the lyrics that kept running through my head:

Some men are born to live at ease, doing what they please,
Richer than the bees are in honey
Never growing old, never feeling cold
Pulling pots of gold from thin air
The best in every town, best at shaking down
Best at making mountains of money
They can't take it with them, but what do they care?
They get the center of the meat, cushions on the seat
Houses on the street where it's sunny..
Summers at the sea, winters warm and free
All of this and we get the rest...
But who is the land for? The sun and the sand for?
You guessed! It's all for the best...

Don't forget that when you go to Heaven you'll be
blessed...
You guessed! It's all for the best.

You must never be distressed
Yes, it's all for the....
All your wrongs will be redressed
Yes, it's all for the....
Someone's got to be oppressed!

Yes, it's all for the best!!!

So I'm feeling like others are rich, taking it all, and I'm oppressed? But when I get to heaven I'll be blessed, and all my wrongs will be redressed, and yes, it's funny if you've heard that line, "someone's got to be oppressed!" really it is, go listen to it, it's like a vaudeville show, making fun of everything, because after all, it really is just one big game, isn't it? A big party? A big play where everyone's just acting out their parts? First I'm rich, then I'm poor, then I'm happy, then sad, then angry - one life after the next, always different, always shuffled around. It's just that it feels really up close right now, and it's harder sometimes to step back and detach from the drama, but right in this very moment, at 6:26PM, I'm feeling pretty centered and okay, so that's a real blessing, it really is. It makes me think that I will actually make it through this current storm that I'm walking through, not able to see my feet in front of me, or the road before me, holding my hands over my eyes so they won't get stung by the flying sand. I'll make it, I know I will...

distant

My sister called - we compared notes. I've changed - she says her family says she has, too. I asked Steve if I'd changed. "Yeah," he said, "You're more distant and withdrawn." "I am?" I asked. I didn't think I was. I wonder if it's permanent, these feelings, or if it's necessary. I almost have to withdraw, distance myself from others - they weren't there, they don't understand how I feel, even if they had parents who've died - they aren't me.

Well, no one else IS me, but you know what I mean. How do I feel? Oh, a little angry - someone who ignored Mom for most of the past 5 years is now all about being with Dad, and that hurts me - it's disrespectful to Mom. I'm still protective of her. I don't even care if you didn't like Mom - respect her and cherish her and honor her. That's all I ask - I don't think it's too much, is it? Unconditional love? Maybe I'll have to unconditionally love this certain person (it's hard to do the right thing sometimes).

I sure wish I could sleep. I cleaned out Bill's toy room today - filled two garbage bags full of junk. Where does all this stuff come from, and why is there so much more, and why can't I just shovel the whole lot of garbage in my house into a dumpster? Why do I think everything is so precious, so needing to be kept? I'm tired of things, too much stuff. Too much. Do I seem distant to you? I'm right here, but I'm quieter, more reserved. I don't like to joke or laugh all the time. I notice that. But I'm still fun, really, I am - I think. I don't know what I am right now - feeling full, but not having eaten all day. Tired, but having slept a little bit last night, sad, but nothing really to feel sad about, restless, not knowing why. And distant? Sure, probably I am, withdrawn, too. I think I'll lie low for the rest of the summer, see how I feel in the fall. Maybe lie low then, too. Who knows for sure? It depends on how I'm feeling. I don't think I'll be like this for the rest of my life, just until it stops hurting so much to miss Mom.

black duck

Billy by the guest cabin (before the fireflies came out!)

Billy and Uncle Jerr on the 6 wheeler - hang on, boys!

We started out at Summerhill Farms - wild rice soup and pie. Then up to Bemidji Woolen Mills. How many more mittens and hats can one family buy? Well, a few more, it appears. Then on to Uncle Jerr's and Aunt Helen's house at Blackduck. Uncle Jerr is my dad's younger brother, the only living blood Dad has. I love Uncle Jerr - he looks like Dad, and even sounds like him. They built a cabin near the original site of the cabin that Dad went to for most of his life, right at the edge of the wilderness. Helen had cooked an amazing tarragon chicken, and we ate it all up. Billy Boy was his usual charming self, we laughed a lot, we went out for a boat ride, then Jerr let Bill ride behind him on the 6-wheeler to our guest cabin. We came back at 10 so Billy could do the Trust Walk on the path to their home (he made it!), then we turned off all the lights at our cabin to watch the fireflies. Gosh, I love fireflies almost more than anything else on earth (besides fingernail moons) - they're pure, unadulterated magic to me. We tried to catch one to put in a jar, but it was comical watching Bill and me out on the lawn - it's lit, grab it! It's dark, where did it go? There it is - grab it. It's dark, where did it go? Over there... on and on. We gave up. Then we heard the loon - another lovely sound. We went to bed with the almost full moon shining through the window. And no sounds. No noise. No highway in our backyard, no light pollution, just... quiet. I loved it - my soul felt so peaceful.

I was fine until we entered Fargo again, then I started feeling heavy, and tears sprang to my eyes. Why? No reason in particular, but I thought it was interesting that I hadn't cried about Mom for almost two days, until we got back home. Maybe I need to leave more often? Maybe I shouldn't leave for a while? It's interesting, anyway, but I'm glad we got out for a little trip, seeing as there are only a few more weeks of summer left. Sigh.

Mr. President...

the strange dreams continue. Last night I was friends with the President, only it wasn't George W. - it was a younger, dark-haired man. He was very kind, and we just liked hanging out together. This isn't the first strange dream over the past weeks. I can't even remember any of the others - they fade with the morning sun. I still can't sleep - Billy got up at 7 this morning and wanted to stay up. I wore my cute blue and green dress for two days in a row. Even I'M starting to worry a little. I sat and needlepointed for three hours, couldn't seem to get going today. I DID make the rhubarb crunch to bring to Uncle Jerr's tomorrow, but I feel like I'm swimming underwater, and I can't come up for air.

I went to the street fair, but in the midst of the people I suddenly felt all alone, lonely, even. Is that silly? I thought, "None of these people knew my mom - none of them know she's gone," then I started crying (again). Thank goodness I was wearing my sunglasses - you can't see my eyes. I'm fine, really, I am - it just feels like a strong pair of hands is holding me down, and I know that's the description of depression, but I'm not depressed, really, I'm not. I've got a lot of energy, but I just want my mom here. I want her with Dad - I know he misses her, and I try not to take on his stuff, too, but it's hard sometimes when I'm so empathetic and I love them both so much. How to navigate it all? One breath at a time, one thought at a time. Now it's okay, now I'm sad. I still miss her. I say it out loud, and Bill says sagely, "Don't think about her." Well. I hadn't thought of that before - maybe I'll try it.

What could that dream possibly mean, if anything? That I have dreams of grandeur? That I think I'm cool enough to be friends with the President? Maybe it's just a dream? I liked it, I won't lie, I like being friends with powerful people, if only in my dreams. In the meantime, I pick my way carefully over this current terrain. It feels like I could fall off the side of the mountain if I don't watch what I'm doing, so I try to stay as conscious as possible, and try to remember to breathe.

The Death Diet

Take one mom, well, take MY mom, away, then look at a plate of food and try to eat. Try to think about food, try to put the fork to your mouth, try to chew. Then try to swallow. Then try the whole darn thing over again. And again. Try to calm your stomach and intestines down to a normal routine, try to care about eating, or sleeping. Try not to run away from your grief.

I lay in Kari's bed, needlepointing one of the pictures Mom had given me when she couldn't see to do the work anymore. Steve came in, all happy and peppy, trying to cheer me up. He kept at me, teasing, until I rubbed his shoulder gently and asked him if he was okay, if there was anything he needed. He said no, then asked me if I was okay. He just sat there, seriously (which is sort of rare for him), until I started crying. I thought I was okay. I told him I needed him to gentle with me for a year. He asked if I was serious, and I said yes. He said, "You can't outrun grief," and I said I was in pretty good shape, so I'd probably be able to run for quite a while. Washing the car, mailing the packages, grocery shopping, cleaning and organizing, never stopping, my brain zooming along into the early hours of the morning, shutting off for a few blessed moments until it turns on again. I can hear my head buzzing.

Then I realize when I'm stressed out I organize my outside world, as if that somehow will calm and organize my insides. It doesn't, really, but it sure makes the outside world a little neater. I'm keeping up with my deadlines and obligations, responsibilities and duties - Bill got his absessed tooth pulled this afternoon, with me holding his hand and telling him to belly breathe. I'm baking sausage, peppers and penne pasta for dinner (Bill's favorite) and baking rhubarb crunch to take to Uncle Jerr's on Saturday. We're going to Chitra and Ajit's barbecue tomorrow night, and hopefully Carolyn's party tonight. Am I running? Maybe, or maybe I just want to be doing things. Okay, I'm probably running, because when I stop to just sit, I start thinking about things. I may call the funeral home to see about grief counseling, or call Tom or Mary Holtey - I know they know what's what. I probably need some help dealing with the trauma of the last year.

But it IS interesting to note that that 10 pounds of stress weight that I slowly put on last year has instantly vanished in the last 6 weeks, along with my appetite. Oh, don't worry - I'm eating all fresh vegetables and fruit, and lots of water, but that's about it. I just can't handle anything more right now. Maybe I'll start worrying if I lost another 5 pounds. The Death Diet, sheesh. I certainly wouldn't recommend it to anyone.

queasy

for the past three days. I'm thinking it's the new probiotics I'm taking, but John says he's sick, and there are odd bugs going around, so I get worried, then I think, "I have to trust. I just HAVE to. What other options are there?" I can worry, then get stressed then make everything harder, and what can anyone do about anything right now, anyway? It seems the only thing to do is lay low, get lots of rest, eat lightly and gently, take care of yourself. The queasiness? I feel a great separating right now, from those who have chosen the path of light, and those who choose otherwise. What's not the path of light? I don't know, but I sure as heck don't want to be on THAT ship when it sails! Imagine lifting up high off the ground - how do you feel? Surreal, dreamy, a little confused, queasy. Everything's getting swirled around, inside your head and inside the ground. Why? Maybe realigning everything to accommodate this new direction we're moving in.

I told Mags it's like having cold bath water. When you first put hot water into the tub, it feels uncomfortable because now part is hot and part is cold. You have to swirl the water around to get everything uniform. Same thing in our bodies as these new awarenesses keep coming to us. The pattern appears to be "I'm normal." Then "I feel funny." Then "I feel really great." Then back to just normal, then on to funny as the new stuff comes. And on and on. So what we might need to do is look at our pattern of how we go through things. Then when we feel a certain way, we can know that "Oh, THIS is where I am right now, then I'm going to be at this next place," and so on, so we get some sense of comfort from the unknown. Everyone goes through stuff differently, so it doesn't make much sense to say what I personally go through, as it probably won't make sense to you. I can only understand my unique process, and where am I right now? I think this stuff with Mom catapulted me up through a lot of levels, because I'm not reacting in quite the same ways to my life as I used to - I'm more neutral, less controlling (could it be?) of what's unfolding, trusting. That's the key word always - trust. When I feel funny somehow, whether it's a stab in my back, or a queasy stomach, or a heavy headache, I feel the worry think about creeping in, then I say to myself, "Is there anything I can do about this situation?" Sometimes there IS - I'm taking a B complex to replenish my body after the continued stresses of the past 6 weeks, I took zinc and some Oscillo tonight in case I DO have a bug. I'm going to bed early. Beyond those simple basic things of listening to my body, I realize that if I don't trust the process, it's going to be a VERY long and bumpy ride, and I'm just not up to that right now. So I'm letting someone else drive for a while, and I'm going to rest a little bit. It's a lot easier when you surrender to the All and let your beautiful life unfold itself instead of pushing it all the time. I only tend to mess things up when I do it that way.

Off to read some Harry Potter - I just KNOW Snape's still a good guy...

lost

I'm waiting for Mom to come home. She's gone somewhere, maybe lost, but she's out there - she's just not back yet. I'm waiting, holding my breath. My intestines are cramping, my stomach hurts, I still can't sleep. I think I'm waiting for her to come back home, I'm waiting to hear her voice again, I'm waiting to see her so I can hug her, stroke her arm, tell her I love her, and I'm happy she's not lost anymore. I'm waiting...

Well, that sucks, doesn't it? How stupid am I? I was THERE when she died, I was there when they lowered her urn into the ground, I've still got the sack of her ashes in my purse. Is this what they call denial? The realizations come gently, slightly, like sharp pricks with a knife, stabbing me just a little so that I jump, remember that she's gone and I'll never see her again. Then I cry. Like in church, singing the doxology, or with Dad yesterday, for no reason other than to say, "I miss Mom, Dad," and to see him wiping his eyes. Again. Again and again.

I'm assuming it will be like this for some time, gradual, unrelenting, bare. I'm tired, I'm lost, I don't want to pick up my life yet, write that article, write my column, book my clients, get Bill's absessed tooth pulled, on and on. I just want to curl up and listen to music and stare, and think about Mom, to just breathe her into me. I don't want to run away. I know she's gone, and it's all right, really it is - I'm doing better than I thought I would. It's just this pernicious stabbing that surprises me. It's powerful, and when it comes, I let it take me over, like letting the wave wash over me, I don't fight it, because I know it will be gone in time. Until it comes again. Then I'll be waiting for it, this realization, these feelings, this love for my mother. God, I love her. I miss her. I sort of feel lost without her. But it will be okay, it's okay right now. It's just different, that's all. And it hurts, right there behind my ribs, pulsing out in waves that ebb and flow, but never stopping. I'm drifting, a little lost right now...

I love people

It's a strange feeling, walking into Mom and Dad's church this morning. The last time was for the funeral last Tuesday. I've been pretty good about everything, but Dad started talking about Mom yesterday, and those last weeks, and my stomach started hurting again. Maybe I'm just pushing it all away right now, waiting for the chance to really just be with it all. I don't know.

As I looked around at everyone in the church, I was filled with this deep love in my heart, and it seemed to stretch out to my whole body, until I felt like a big love, uhm blob. I don't know what to call that feeling I had, but I felt tender, and so loved and included and grateful to be alive. We went downstairs afterwards and talked with everyone for almost 45 minutes. Dad's like a rock star, I tell you. I think how my priorities have shifted these past three years, from being totally driven to do my work and get it out to the world - they all need me! To relaxing and chilling out enough to trust that whoever needs my work will get it, and the rest of the time I can actually live my life. That's included spending the time just to be with friends and family - parties and barbecues and lunches and movies and trips to the park and picnics and bike rides and coffees. It's all so good, I can't even tell you. Connected and a part of, and loving every minute of it.

Has this past month changed me? Unequivocally, yes, in every aspect of my being. I feel like a great pole that has been pushed deep into the ground. Not so that I'm stuck, but so that I'm sturdy and strong and straight up. I can't get knocked over or pulled up. I'm here, deeply, and surrounded by a gaggle of people who love me, and whom I love, dearly. Even my casual friends. I'm hugging everyone, even strangers!

I can't believe what a great time I had at my 30th high school reunion. Everyone was hugging and laughing and telling me they loved me - Lynell calling me honey? Wow - I was overwhelmed. I couldn't quite understand it all, but I laughed my butt off with Rick, remembering our infamous double date (WE didn't date, but were with others). All the basketball girls surrounded Dad, who came with me last night to say hi (rock star status, I'm telling ya), and sharing memories. Perry Lee? Oh my gosh, the most popular boy in high school, telling me that our pool parties made his whole junior high a great experience. Chuck? With a cane, with MS, but still with bright eyes, telling me he was so thankful we could talk and hug. Amazing. And my grade school friend that used to punch my arm all the time? He was there, too, and we were so happy to talk again, after 30 years. Again and again. The pictures, the memories - some good, some not so good, but all precious. I didn't especially like high school (no one did, my dad explained), but I love these people. I love people! And it just keeps getting better.

I leave for back for Fargo tomorrow, after a dentist appointment (yay), then I can start my summer. I wouldn't have traded these past 5 weeks for love nor money, but I would be lying if I didn't say that my soul is tired, and I look forward to figuring out what my new normal is going to be.

I love my mommy (Bill does, too)

Sigh.

I can't sleep

still, and I'm wondering when it will calm down, when I can start my life again. I have nightmares almost every night. Not about Mom, just about bad things happening all around me. Sometimes I wake up, sometimes I don't. Some of my sisters are having them, as well. I got up at 5:30, and now notice that I have dark circles under my eyes, where there were none before. The big thunderstorm traveled right over us, but it was surprisingly comforting to hear the big crashes and rolls, see the sky light up white. I feel lost, I can't get my sea legs yet, or my land legs, wherever I am right now. I don't know. I head back to Bismarck tomorrow, and it all feels like one LONG dream.

Steve said I do a better job of running the house and taking care of Bill, but I know that I just love doing it, that's all. It's not that anyone's better, it's a matter of desire, I think. And what do I desire right now? Calmness, predictability, stability. I desire not to miss my mom every second. It's still inconceivable that I'll go for the whole second half of my life without hearing her voice, without having her in my life. I just don't get how I'll be able to do that. Maybe I need counseling or a support group. Maybe I just need my friends. Rock best friend Melissa is bringing over lasagna later today - gosh, I've missed her. I'm overwhelmed with the e-mails and cards from friends. I never realized how important losing your mother is. But now I do. And I'm grateful to you all, to everyone out there, whether you've lost your mom or not - it's so good to feel loved and supported and understood. My ex's sister even e-mailed to offer her best wishes and to thank me for going to HER mom's funeral. I told her, "I wouldn't have missed it for the world." I loved Leora, my ex's mom, like she was my own mom. She was kind, and generous, and so loving. Sigh. I love moms, as John Strand says.

So I start my day at 10:11AM, still in my pajamas, wondering how in the world I'm going to muster the energy to get dressed.

three things I know

We bury Mom today. The funeral's at 2PM. It's already sprinkling, the sky a dark gray. I woke up and said, "This is the day of my mom's funeral." I took a shower and said, "I'm showering for my mom's funeral." And on. I wonder if it will be like this for the rest of the day? Maybe the rest of my life? Ruthie checked us out at Target yesterday, and I told her my mom had died. Why did I tell a checkout clerk this? I have no idea. I just want everyone to know. She said her mom died in 2002, and her best advice to me was to take it one hour at a time, and to understand the grief will probably never totally go away. As I walked away, she said, "Remember, one hour at a time." Amazing.

There are three things I know from being here with Mom and Dad this past month:

1: the number of stoplights between their house and the hospital (7)
2: how to open bathroom doors without touching anything (pushing the handicapped button with my butt), and how to press the elevator keys (with the antenna of my cell phone)
3: that I have exactly one month's worth of clothes, if I don't repeat an outfit twice

I leave for Fargo tomorrow, but my soul is here, at Mom and Dad's house. It feels like home now, the trees across the road, the turtles on their log, the fake "deer" in the field (it's a stand, but Mom always called it her fake deer because it kinda looked like one - kinda), Rolling Cappucino, breakfasts on the deck. How can I go back to Fargo and start again, pick up like it's all fine? It IS all fine, don't get me wrong, it's perfect, actually, but there's just something, something. As I sit here, I realize I am waiting for something, and there's a hole in the air. All I can hear and feel is silence, and I realize I'm waiting for my mom. I'm waiting for Mom. I guess I'll be waiting for a long time, huh?

I don't know if it's better or worse to love someone so much. Your hearts become intertwined, but then it hurts so damn much when they go. I've decided it's still better to love someone with everything you've got, just totally throw your arms out, arch your back, and jump off that cliff. You may be smashed to smithereens when you hit the bottom, but god, what a ride.

poor little puppy

I was trying to get dressed to start the day. I stood in front of the bed, and something inside of me broke. I lay down with my face in my pillow and started sobbing, full out loud wails of missing Mom. After a few minutes, Bill came in quietly and lay down next to me, putting an arm around me, and putting his head next to mine. We sat like that for a minute.

"It's all right," I told Bill. "It's perfectly natural. It's good to let things out instead of holding them in." I sniffed.

"I know, Mom," he said. "But I thought I heard a dog in pain, so I was coming to check it out."

"A dog WAS in pain," I answered. He laughed. Poor little puppy daughter.

Mom's eulogy

Do not mistake Marietta Ekberg for an ordinary person. Do not think she as just a mother, or a wife, or a daughter, or a friend. Do not assume she was just a therapist, or a writer, or an inspiration to all who had the privilege of knowing her. It's true, she WAS all of these things, but it was the WAY she lived all of these parts that made her so extraordinary.

She was a mother who rocked her children, who held them and told them always that she loved them. She was a loving and devoted wife for over 63 years - she knew her husband's soul, and carried it with her, and will continue to carry it with her on her next adventure.

She was a loved only child, who knew from a very young age what was important to her - having a large family and loving them all. Mom was one of the most generous people I have ever known, and her kindness has inspired me in countless ways. From giving an elderly woman a ride in a blizzard, to later bringing her bread and checking in on her for years, to funding college for young people who might otherwise not have afforded to go, to setting up a fun fund for church members, to sending flowers and cards on friends' birthdays and anniversaries.

Her steadfast dedication to connecting with others and creating a better world are among her crowning achievements, in my opinion. Her positive attitude has been an inspiration in my life, as well. When I was well planted in grade school, she enrolled at NDSU and commuted to become North Dakota's first certified family therapist, no small feat with four children still at home. And even through her health challenges, she kept her sense of humor, joking with nurses and doctors. Last summer when she left the hospital, there was a group of nurses that all stopped by to say good-bye. Her favorite emergency room doctor called us after he'd heard that she had died, and told us how much she'd meant to him. That's how loved she is. She always said thank you for everyone's help, and was ready with her sweet smile. The day before she died, I told her I loved her as I was walking out the door, and she blew two kisses to me. Unbelievable. If I stop to think about it, I'm sure she touched hundreds of thousands of lives through her work, her friends, her writing, and community service.

There are those who are born and live simple lives, there are those who live smaller lives, and then there is Marietta Meyer Ekberg. She lived a good life, she lived a full lie, and I know she can hear me right now when I say, "Good job, Mom. You did it."

We will miss you so much, but I will especially miss calling you and hearing your voice. I will miss asking for your advice, I will miss hearing your stories (even if I've heard them before), I will miss you asking me if you can have one of my French fries, I will miss touching your soft skin and hugging you. But in this incredible territory of love, I know that we are always together. Death doesn't even begin to touch that. We know that you are still with us. And YOU know how deeply you are loved. I love you, Mom. Kiss Kiss.

good-bye, sweet mommy

At 12:40PM this afternoon, I had the gentle honor of stroking Mom's head while she breathed her last breath and started on her next grand adventure. It was surprisingly beautiful and sweet and gentle, and I'm so glad I was there with her. I know she knew I was there, even if she couldn't speak. What an honor. What a woman. She will be so sorely missed by all.

Her funeral is Tuesday here in Bismarck, at 2PM at our family church. I feel tired, like today has been a month, but my family is around me, and we are here with Dad for the weekend. Everyone else is taking a nice break at the lakes, but me? I want to be quiet, and be here, with Dad.

Good-bye, sweet mommy - happy trails to you, until we meet again.

again and again

Mom is lying on her back, her mouth open. Her stomach pulls with each breath. Her skin is gray around her mouth, and filmed with sweat. Her arms and legs are swollen to twice their normal size, dotted with purple and red. Her forearms feel like ice as I touch them with my gloved hand.

"Hi Mommy," I say, she mmmmmms and smiles a little. I know she knows I'm here.

She lifts her left hand to her mouth slowly, as if eating an imaginary popsicle. I get the white styrofoam cup full of ice chips and find the smallest one, scoop it into the white plastic spoon and lift it to her mouth. I touch her right shoulder with my other hand and lightly brush the spoon to her lips. She opens her mouth. "Do you want an ice chip?" I ask. She chews the chip and opens her mouth again. "Do you want another ice chip?" I ask. Again and again. And again. And again. 20 or 30 ice chips. So thirsty and yet so full of fluid, just in the wrong places.

Her gown is sticking to her right elbow where they couldn't get an IV in. I run the water until it is warm and soak a washcloth, then wring it out. I gently pull away a flap of her gown until it sticks, then lay the washcloth over the spot until the gown comes away a little. Again and again. Until the gown pulls free from her loose skin. Dad lifts up the gown and gently blows the spot dry. There.

I caress her head as I love to do, and tell her how much I love her. Dad says, "Your baby Susie is here," but Mom can't hear him because she's coughing. It's almost time.

today

They returned Mom's oxygen equipment yesterday. That was the first time I've cried in almost 3 days. Oh, and when Laurie called to tell me she was thinking of me (thanks, Laurie!). I cannot believe the outpouring of love and support I've received - letters, phone calls, e-mails, hugs. I know it's not just for me - it's for everyone who's ever lost (or is losing) a dear parent. I say it's like this horrible club that you didn't know was out there, but that you're grateful for. I'm grateful for all of you - thank you.

I leave at noon, and what I want to say is that I'm traveling to Bismarck for an event that has a known ending - Mom dying. I'm leaving my husband and son and will not be with them for a while, and that makes me sad. Usually I leave Fargo for a happy event - to see Mom and Dad. But this trip, it appears, to be doubly edged with toughness. There is no sunny side. That is difficult for me. I cried into Steve's arm last night as I articulated this feeling, and he said, "We'll still love you. You think if you leave us here, we won't love you anymore when you get back." I don't know how he had this thought, but it isn't true. Then I wonder if that's how HE feels, but I can't think about that kind of mirror logic right now. I can't even remember if Erik's detached garage opens with a key or a door opener. I forgot to pick up the groceries on Sunday, and had to drive back (sheepishly) with my plastic numbered cards to get them. The ice cream was a little melted.

I'm streamlining my thoughts, as I fall asleep gently last night, I remember that I want to take a copy of "The Prophet" and "Gift from the Sea" to read to Mom, then the thoughts start marching, and it's midnight before my brain finally slows down enough to shift into alpha state. It's almost over, I tell Bill. "How much longer is this home stretch?" he asks me. Well, two weeks from today I will be home again, no matter what, so that's something. I got the information that Mom would die before the next full moon, and I thought that was in the next few days, but no, the next full moon isn't until July 18th. Well that's a DUH piece of information if I've ever heard it! But it brings up an interesting point. Everything turns, everything changes, everything keeps walking slowly and steadily on, even if we want it to go faster or stop. We can't do anything about that linear time thing but watch it progress. Watch the leaves come out, green up, turn brown and brittle, drop to the ground. Over and over again. That's just the backdrop to the rest of life, and we decide what comes in front of all of that. Whom do we spend time with, what makes us laugh, what and whom do we love, how do we spend our moments? I don't want ANY regrets. I want to keep living consciously, taking responsibility for this precious life.

I don't regret one single thing with my mom, except for that one time I bitched about how hard I worked that one Christmas that we all went down there, two years ago, and I did all the cooking and cleaning so everyone could have a good time. I have martyr tendencies. But after Mom said three separate times how perfect a time it was, and I bitched that I had gotten too tired, I stopped, and told her, "Mom, I am rewriting what I've said these past times. It WAS a perfect holiday - I had a perfect time, and it was so great to be there with you and Dad and my family. I wouldn't have changed a single thing." So maybe I don't regret my words about that Christmas after all. Maybe it's never too late to rewrite history, OR your feelings or words. Am I at peace? Well, yes, but then I conjure up Mom's face in my head and I can see her, laughing, and I start to cry, just a little bit. God, I'm going to miss her. But peaceful? Sure, yeah, I'll get there. Spiritually I'm at peace; physically? I'm working on it...