“The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart: The secret anniversaries of the heart.”
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I received a notification the other day alerting me that I’ve been writing this grief diary for one year. It’s hard to believe, not just the passing of time, but everything—all of it. Still.
I genuinely think that once you hit adulthood time accelerates tenfold. When you lose someone you love, time takes on a new trajectory — one where the minutes move mind-numbingly fast and painfully slow simultaneously (on top of everything else). This is the ferocity of grief.
During the past year, I’ve written twenty mini-blog posts here and a million more in my head. My motivation to write this grief diary has always been about healing and gaining clarity. I’m sorry to report that I have achieved neither, however writing is what I do. It’s my coping mechanism, how I process my emotions, and a way to remember her.
Mom would expect nothing less.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
A Mom’s hug lasts long after she lets go. -Author Unknown
Sometimes I’m lucky enough to see my Mom in my dreams. This happened the night she died and it has happened a handful of times since. Often times I see her in family settings, with us (her children) and almost always in her home. This time was different.
We were gathering for a big celebration…the whole family…not just us kids but also the grandchildren, her siblings, Dad’s family and friends as well. Whatever the event, it was cause for great joy! Everyone was excited and I was waiting for my sister so we could get things started. As usual, we found ourselves in the kitchen preparing food. There was much laughter and an easiness to the day. It was exceptionally sunny outside which was ideal because the occasion was so huge that we were preparing to have people indoors and out.
As the event wound down, we were enjoying the mild temperatures outside. In between storytelling and laughter, I saw my Mom. She was right there in the mix. I was both surprised to see her and felt an assurance that she should definitely be there with us. I went to sit next to her. The afternoon carried on and soon everyone was picking up glasses and plates…cleaning up to mark the end of this happy occasion.
I turned to her and asked her for a hug. Almost as if she was aware of the circumstances, she said, “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to hug…you know….” It was as if she knew she was no longer with us and wondered if Heaven had a rule about angels hugging the living. I smile thinking about this because my Mom (like myself) is a rule FOLLOWER. She didn’t want to make a mistake or do anything that would cause trouble. I said, “I think we should do it anyway.” This makes me laugh out loud because I (like my Mom) am also a little bit of a rule BREAKER. I quickly grabbed her and hugged her tightly.
I’m sharing this because I could actually feel the hug. It was her hug…all of the things that I remember but there were differences, too. She seemed smaller than I remember. Frail, too. It was like hugging my grandmothers. I was immediately concerned about hugging her too tightly, but that fear quickly subsided. I was hugging my Mom! I was hugging an angel and I wasn’t about to let go!
All good things come to an end, and unfortunately, so did that hug. She looked at me with a smirk…almost as if to say that we got away with something special.
Yes, Mom. We certainly did.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
“Count your life by smiles, not tears. Count your age by friends, not years.”
Is there birthday cake in heaven? I really want to know.
It’s been two years since you died, and I’m trying to resist the urge to phone or text to see how you’ll spend your day. It still doesn’t feel right, you not being here.
You would have been 65 this year. In some ways, it’s a milestone and maybe even the last one short of turning 100. As much as you loved working with kids, the idea of retirement was very much on the horizon. We talked about what it would be like to have more of the day to yourself and to have time to do the things you wanted. We talked about visits and taking in more of the grandchildren’s activities. Collectively, our family was about to enter a busy season of high school and college graduations…and after that new jobs, weddings, etc.
Instead, on your birthday weekend, we were together…as part of the second annual March to Remember to honor loved ones lost to COVID-19, those dealing with long COVID symptoms, and the medical community who continue to work hard as we go through this pandemic. Your granddaughter organized the Garden City portion of this national event. You would have been so proud! There were hugs, tears, memories, sorrow, laughter, joy —and eventually pizza, but no cake. We miss you, Mom. Happy Birthday. You are loved and so dearly missed.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
Never underestimate the power of chocolate. — Author Unknown
I’ve been baking again. I love to try new recipes…especially the ones that combine my favorite sweet treats. That’s how I stumbled upon my family’s current favorite — S’mores Rice Krispy Treats.
As a consequence, this spring/summer we have been buying a lot of Hershey bars. While I am more of a savory snacker, I do remember eating my fair share of candy bars back in the day. All of this reminded me of my Mom, not because she had much of a sweet tooth, but because she always let us pick out candy at the grocery store. I can still hear her saying, “Get four,” for the four kids in the family. These sweet treats would get rung up by the clerk and then handed back to us. I can only imagine how we beamed coming out of the store…all smiles.
My Mother was always generous with us. She shared everything. Candy, soda, tea, ice cream, gum…you name it. Even in adulthood, if I said I liked something you can bet on my next visit there’d be a little surprise for me. When she stumbled upon the cool salad tongs, they showed up as gifts at Christmas. The Rachel Ray pot holder, Yeti cups, cabin socks, cutting boards, etc…if she came across a great find you were also going to be blessed with it. She shared recipes, parenting tips, laundry hacks, and wisdom on a variety of topics. Looking back I see this as more than a sweet personality trait, it was love and she shared it well. I am grateful for the way she modeled generosity not only in my upbringing but to everyone who knew her. I miss this.
I see you in the candy aisle, Mom. Thank you.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
This has been a hard month…for a lot of reasons. Missing my Mom on Mother’s Day and knowing that the two-year anniversary of her death is just days away. It sucks. I’m trying to brace myself, but preparing for sadness isn’t easy. Mostly it involves trying to steel your emotions, hold back the tears, and tiptoeing around difficult topics. Notice I said trying because that’s all you can do…try. The reality is that my emotions will get the better of me, tears are inevitable and every topic has now become difficult. Then you add what happened in Texas.
What does that tragedy have to do with losing my Mom? A lot actually. My Mom used to say that one loss builds upon another. I didn’t get it at first. The worst part, she explained, was that the losses seem to pile up so that when you suffer a new loss you quickly relive the past losses as well. Sort of like an ugly, emotional scoreboard in a game you can never win. The school shooting in Texas just added another tally mark.
The daughter of one of the teachers killed shared this Facebook post, both a tribute and a love letter to her mother. My heart breaks for all the senseless loss, for a young woman without her mother and for so many parents without their children. My Mom, too, loved kids and not just her own. Her work life was a testament to that.
These senseless tragedies are adding up, the losses are in fact building upon each other. Everyone has opinions, but solutions feel so out of reach. Unfortunately, in two weeks this will just be another news story…until the next time. I know this firsthand as I was a TV reporter in Jonesboro, Arkansas when the Westside School Shootings took place in 1998. Twenty-four years later and it’s just the same news cycle repeating. Loss building upon loss. Like I said, it sucks.
Memorial Day is coming up. The anniversary of my Mother’s death is this Monday. Funerals are being planned for 19 little angels and their hero teachers. There is so much grief…. Still, I’m ever hopeful that things will get better and be different. I am willing to do my part and I will forever be looking for the win. Mom would want it that way.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
You never get over losing your mother, you miss her for the rest of your days.
There’s a heaviness to Mother’s Day. What is meant to be a day of appreciation often comes with expectations and emotion — both good and bad. For those of us who are without our mothers, Mother’s Day looms larger than ever. I can feel the anchor drop the second I turn over the calendar.
I don’t know how to act…especially when I still feel so numb. I would imagine this doesn’t make me much fun to be around. The holiday used to mean that I didn’t have to cook (silly, but a big deal to me)! Mother’s Day was handmade cards and cookouts. It was flowers at church. It was the exchange of joyous texts. It was a phone call with my Mom where we both celebrated each other.
To make things worse, I feel guilty for feeling like this. It doesn’t honor my Mother’s memory to be sad on what is supposed to be a day of celebration. It’s not fair to my kids to have to try to cheer me up on “my day.”
There’s no shortcut here. It’s been two years and it still feels just as bad. Self-care gurus tell you that it’s ok to have all the feelings. Good advice since I can’t seem to stop them.
It’s been said a million times, so I’ll join the chorus — love your mother while you can.
Hold tightly to what is good. Romans 12:9
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
My Mom loved lilacs. Not just the color, but the smell. She really wasn’t a big flower person, but she always pointed out the lilacs. It was fun to see her go in for a big sniff and the smile that would follow.
In each of the homes I have lived in, there have always been lilacs. I don’t know how or why (I certainly didn’t plant them), yet there they were. Late bloomers and always a surprise…at least to me. When we moved into our present home in 2019 a bright green bush burst forth with tiny purple buds one late spring morning. Lilacs.
Of course, I immediately snapped a million photos and sent them to my Mom. What were the chances? Another lilac bush in the backyard! I had to wait a day for a full bloom and then I went in for the sniff. Lilacs.
When my mom was sick with COVID-19 in the hospital in May of 2020, our lilac bush bloomed. I sent her a photo not sure if or when she might see it. I was surprised when she responded almost immediately. She texted back, “They look beautiful. I love lilacs. They smell so good.” I told her that I thought the blooms were a good sign. She ended the text with a heart emoji. It was the last text she ever sent me.
Of course, the lilac bush bloomed in 2021 and it’s preparing to bloom again now in 2022. I can see its familiar bright green hue. I know that I’ll take a deep sniff when the purple buds open, but lilacs don’t bring me the joy they used to. Instead, they only remind me that life goes on. With resignation, I’m trying to accept that.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
This week I saw my Mom in a dream. I walked into her house and immediately heard laughter. Within a few steps, she and my sister came into view. They were sitting at the kitchen table playing cards…probably “speed.” They were giddy…and competitive, but having fun! She was wearing a blue Kansas Jayhawk shirt and white Capri pants. Mom looked at me and smiled.
I have been thinking about her lately. We’ve been watching a lot of college basketball and she loves the Jayhawks as much as I do. Frequently, she would visit around this time of year and we would buy KU t-shirts together — gearing up for March Madness!
The photo included in this blog is from four years ago. We were cruising in my swagger wagon on our way home from the mall with four of her granddaughters in tow. If I remember right, it was a good day as we were all together (and we bought KU swag). What a beautiful coincidence that in the photo, she’s wearing a blue KU t-shirt AND her beautiful smile. I miss that.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
I made beans this week. I’m not sure what sparked this “event” as I am the only person in my house that likes beans. I’m also referring to this as an “event” because I’m pretty certain I haven’t made beans in a year…maybe longer.
The whole process is somewhat nostalgic. My childhood was filled with memories of making beans. It was actually a regular chore in the summer. My Mom would write it on the daily to-do list alongside vacuuming and dusting. I can still see the list…her handwriting on the backside of an envelope.
As I live with grief, I’ve been searching for answers to help the process. Mostly, I’ve been disappointed. Nothing really helps. The one thing that seems to bring some peace is the idea of doing things that remind you of the people you’ve loved and lost. While it’s not painless, there’s honor in keeping a loved one’s memory alive in this way. So as I sort the beans, rinse and season, boil and then simmer (all through a few tears and sniffles), I feel connected.
Connection feels better than loss.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
When you’re sick, you want your Mom. I know I do. Never mind that I’m in my forties, left home at 18, live hours away, and have a family of my own. There’s something about a mother’s presence that puts your soul at ease. I know that if she could have been here with me, she would have. While I was sick, I imagined her calling and texting me to make sure I was drinking enough water (using her straw trick), staying in touch with my doctor, and offering prayers and encouragement.
As desperately as I wanted my Mom when I was sick, I know that she also wanted her Mom when she was sick, too. This fact breaks my heart. Thinking of her in the hospital, all alone…I’ll never get over it. Never.
My beloved grandmother (her mother) passed away while I was sick. I didn’t get to go to the funeral. Another heartbreak and once again I feel like there’s so little closure and there’s barely been a moment to grieve.
My body is healing now. I try to cheer myself up thinking about them reunited, a mother and her daughter. It makes me cry…both happy and sad tears. The two most important women in my life are gone, but together.
I don’t know exactly how this heaven thing works which probably sounds strange coming from a Christian, but I have faith that God makes things right…somehow…as only He can.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere is a personal grief diary as I process the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.
Empty Chairs, Everywhere 