It seems a little odd that after almost 2 years of no blogging, that I attempt to bring back our readers with this blog…which has nothing to do with travel, but definitely is an adventure of finding yourself through heartache.
In past blogs I have written about my Mom’s illness and how close we are, or were…
January 2016 we found out we were expecting our 3rd baby. My Mom’s cancer was getting worse. She had lost strength, the cancer spread but deep inside we all believed she would beat it, like she has been doing for years. I was petrified of going to Orlando to visit due to Zika, or maybe it was really because inside I knew she wasn’t well.
July 18 was my brother’s 33rd birthday and my Mom had gone to Tampa to get a second opinion, as her regular oncologist said there was nothing more they could really do, and of course, we didn’t want to accept that. Well, the news was basically that my Mom had 6 months. I remember my brother’s phone call, before my Mom even called to tell me. I was driving home from the store with the kids in the car. I was only 3 minutes from the house and I called Adam immediately. He met me in the driveway and I collapsed in grief out of the car. Completely limp. I had never felt that. I thought that stuff was only what actors do in movies, but no.
My plan was to keep researching and to find something, there must be something. I was going to wait until the baby was born and then head to Orlando in October. Knowing she had 6 months, there was time.
But something inside told me we couldn’t wait. Just like when Papa was sick, Adam said ok, what do we have to do. My brother’s co-workers at Frontier pitched in their buddy passes and the 4 of us were on a plane headed to Orlando on the 23rd. We drove straight to the hospital and I was so not prepared for what I saw. My Mom was sick, and honestly, she was dying. We spent the next few days in a blur, staying at my Grandma’s home which was in the process of being sold, driving back and forth to the hospital, crying, having faith that this wasn’t happening, listening to doctors telling us the realism, and eventually having to tell my Grandma that her daughter was dying (a year after her son and two years after her husband), moving Mom to hospice and then watching her take her last breath on July 29th.
We never had one last conversation, she didn’t want to face that she was dying, and when she did and was, it was too late. She said she was worried about me, Adam ensured her he and the boys would take care of me. At the end, the morning of the day she died, she awoke..looked me in the eyes and just kept saying, “I.” I know in my heart she wanted to say I love you. Her eyes were tearing. She peacefully passed away just after the Rabbi had left the room. He and Dad said prayers together and Mom did open her eyes and watch. It was almost beautiful if you are able to use that word in this situation.
In the next few months, I had a baby girl, my sweet Avilene. My boys are growing, our hopes and dreams of the future are building… but my Mom is not here to share it with me. Everyone keeps saying she is here, she is watching, she can see…but I am not sure I fully believe in all of that. I don’t feel that she is here, watching. Not yet, anyway.
It has been almost 5 months that she is gone. My days are crazy, busy, noisy, filled with people and love, but yet, I feel so empty, lonely, lost. I am on a mild antidepressant for PPD, but at times, I do not feel it is enough. I don’t want company, but I don’t want to be alone. I want to talk to everyone, yet I don’t want to pick up my phone. I want to get the heck out of my house, but don’t want to leave. I want to run, but I don’t want to move.
It is so hard to explain, yet those who have been there, tell me they have all felt this way.
I was explaining it this morning to Adam, in the best way I can.
The tree is a beautiful living, blossoming being. With branches and leaves and animals that make it it’s home. It is all held up by a strong trunk with years of layers underneath, building its foundation. I feel like all of my leaves have fallen off, the color and beauty is gone. The branches are thin and brittle on the verge of breaking. I know one day I will be strong enough to bloom, but currently, there is so much cloud cover, that I don’t see the sun.