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Monday, February 13, 2012

Healing: A Month Later

Thank you,
To the family, friends, and co-workers who have poured your hearts out to my family and I, thank you. Your support has been immeasurable and overwhelming each and every day for the past couple of weeks. Heck, even before these past couple of weeks, people who hardly knew my Mum, my Pop or I were stepping up and contributing in ways that only the Westside of can do. Gift cards, meals, or rides were given generously to us. For that I thank all of you a hundred times over.

Thank you,
To everyone who came to my Mum's memorial service on Friday. I know my Mum would be upset knowing we held a memorial service for her, but while we all celebrated the beautiful life which she led, people were able to begin finding closure for the friend which they lost. Thank you for making that service remarkable and a true testament to my Mum's life.


Hours. Hours that have turned into nights. Nights slowly becoming weeks as I've stared at my laptop here trying to find something to write about, and it seemed fitting that it only begin with those "thank you's." By no means are those extensive or compelling enough to truly express how appreciative my Pop and I are for everyone who has reached out to us during this time. Time has passed to remove us from my Mum's passing and the healing process has begun, or at least that's what we're supposed to believe. Healing is difficult to quantify and then even more difficult to qualify on how "healed" someone may be after something.

I'm going to try and express life after the memorial service.  The thoughts, emotions, and events that have led me to this point and where life might be heading. These things aren't necessarily coherent or tangible, so I'll do my best to describe them in ways that can be related to on some fundamental level.

After the memorial service, I moved back home with my Pop after having lived with a friend of mine for a couple months. In so many ways this simple act was bittersweet in itself. My slightly regained independence was abandoned and replaced by the security of knowing I was at home where I grew up. I have the opportunity to spend time with my Pop and make sure that things are taken care of for him, but spend every day and night in the shadows of my Mum's life she had in this house. Our home isn't just where I've lived since I was in fifth grade, but the home that my Mum spent her childhood in as well. Having spent so much time in this house with someone, you at times just kind of expect them to drop in through the door after having made a trip to the grocery store. But they don't, and you're left waiting with a  hint of anticipation building in each moment of complacency.

Movement is the name of the game right now for me. To stop and sit is the invitation of letting yourself feel everything that's going on in the world, and I'm afraid of what the consequences might be of that realization.  Momentum provides the force to keep moving forward and to stop could mean not starting again. Just like Newton stated. All you might really want is to stop and digest the things that have happened to you, to process the emotions you're having, and to find the comfort you need to move towards the future.  While this is all you may want to do, you aren't afforded that opportunity because despite your world coming to an abrupt stop, the rest of the world keeps turning and moving. Bills still need to be paid, work still needs to be attended, and life still needs to be lived.

I've taken on the responsibility of running the finances for our house after my Mum passed, and it's been a process of trying to figure out what bill is due when and what gets paid from what account. Next comes grocery shopping and household chores. Sundays are laundry and shopping day, and my general excuse each week for trying to get life back on track before the upcoming week. The rest of the week is some combination of attempts of trying to remain sane and accomplishing something to get things a bit more in order.

The moments that are the hardest are also the most bizarre and inexplicable. They can be tied together by the common theme of quietness and that moment where one allows themselves to lapse and think. Times at work while working on a machine alone for a few hours, drives that last a little too long with a song that has just enough reminiscing, or a dark room at the end of the day as you lay down for bed.

It hits you then. The first few times it's like you were smacked by a large wave from the ocean, or a switch flipped and you're nothing but an incapacitated mess. Slowly it lessens and you're just left feeling empty and exhausted like you just acknowledged the nine hundred pound gorilla you've been carrying on your back.  All I try to do is think of how proud my Mum would be of my Pop and I for pushing through like we have, and know that she wouldn't want us to dwell on her passing. It may not be much, and often times it isn't enough, but at least that is something.

Then there are good moments and days. Times when you feel adequate and happy because of the people you surround yourself with or enjoying something you do. It's hard to say that I live from a moment like that to the next, but they help to give you a bit more of that momentum you need to keep going day in and day out. Nights of catching up with old friends for the first time in months, or a genuinely relaxing Sunday in good company on a beautiful day. You grow to appreciate the opportunities that are afforded to you and begin thinking there actually may be something to "carpe diem."

So, that's how it goes these days. One minute, one hour, one day, so on and so on. I'm sorry for everyone that I haven't gotten back to here in the past month or so. Between a broken laptop, said laptop out for repair, and all other shenanigans I haven't done well on keeping up with messages and such. I hope everyone  is doing well and healthy despite the crazy weather we've had here lately (sinus are running a-muck!).

Monday, January 2, 2012

In Memoriam: The New Year

Why do we write? Some write in order to definitively state their goals, and lay out plans for achieving those goals in very organized and calculated memorandums. Others create scripts that carry us through the spectrum of emotions and beliefs to make us feel something we may otherwise couldn't or wouldn't. Then more write articles to chronicle the recent events of the world, or to express their point of view on a matter that may be trivial tomorrow.

To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure for what reason I write a blog.  A significant part for why I may write this is so that I can process and work through these thoughts and emotions. Though, I think that I write for many of the same reasons that I stated before. These entries in this blog are statements of my goals and plans, not in any obvious or apparent manner, expressed publicly so that I'm held accountable for them.  What I write hopefully causes some sort of response from you, but not necessarily in a sympathetic way. These things I write, with any luck, let's you live a little bit more of the human condition and find closure with the world outside. And I obviously write this blog as an effort to mark the things going on in my life and the world.

Do me a favor, it takes six and a half minutes, listen to the song "What Sara Said" by Death Cab for Cutie.

I'm the only child of two amazing and compassionate individuals who have dedicated theirs lives to two things: each other and to me. My Pop is brilliant and hilarious with a sense of humor steeped in irony and wit. He's striven to do everything within his power to provide a life for my Mum and I that was better than his own growing up as a kid. The man is unrelenting in his determination to give us the means and opportunities to live a high quality of life.

My Mum is the rock which our family has been built on, and she provides us uncompromising love and support. I'll openly admit that I'm a "Momma's Boy," and can say honestly that she has been the best friend I've ever had.

When I came home one day after school while in the first grade, I promptly told my Mum that I wanted to play the viola. She had asked me why the viola and if I was serious about actually playing a musical instrument.  Now of course, six year old me didn't bother to tell her the reason I wanted to play was because my friend at the time said that's what he wanted to play. My Mum probably already knew that, but fueled the fire to play the viola by taking me to rent an instrument. Then signed me up for the orchestra in school. Then found me private lessons to attend. Then got me an audition for surrounding orchestras. Then let me take a job at the local violin maker's workshop. Then she drove me to all these places. Then I stopped playing the viola after 12 years. Then my Mum admitted she just enjoyed seeing the happiness I got while playing.

My Mum worked as a nutritionist in a clinic serving underprivileged areas of Cincinnati for several years, but then quit working for the most part when I was growing up. Recently she worked as an instructional aide to special need students in a local elementary. It's easy to say that she is a compassionate, people person, but it's hard to convey to what extent her empathy went.

I've been living the song "What Sara Said" since Christmas Eve of this year, and I've lost my battle with Breast Cancer. Desperately, I wanted to fight to the bloody damn end and give everything I possible could. But it wasn't me who was feeling the pain. I couldn't trade places. I couldn't be the one to endure the physical pain of the disease and treatments, but I'd give anything if I could.

I rang the New Year in by watching fireworks burst over downtown Cincinnati on a crisp clear night while standing in the fourth floor chapel at The Christ Hospital. It's one of the most beautiful things I ever saw, but all I could think of was the irony.

My Mum's blood pressure had taken a dive and she could no longer receive pain medicine.  She had been in the hospital since Christmas Eve and already made one trip to an intensive care unit. They transferred her from the oncology wing she had spent the past couple nights, and moved her to another intensive care unit to keep a closer eye on her. I spent the night on a recliner in the corner of the room, and left in the morning to go get my Pop. After consulting the doctor, my Pop and I made the decision to make my Mum as comfortable as possible, and place her in hospice care.

A good family friend of ours took me in the hall after the decision and told me that I live a life that is my own, but I build a monument which is my parents achievement. So as my parents have paid it forward for me, I intend to do the same.

I lost my battle with Breast Cancer, but my Mum won her's. She never once complained, didn't make excuses, and never showed us that she was scared. I love you Mum.


In Loving Memory of Linda Hughes
July 5, 1952-January 5, 2012