I’ve been avoiding this. I really have. I don’t even know where to start with the swirling vortex of emotions that seems to be wrecking my insides, keeping my raw emotions constantly at the surface, tearing my stomach to shreds, and throwing my ability to discern hunger from sadness completely out the door.
My mom died.
I guess that’s where to start. I got a call a few minutes ago. It feels that way at least. It was 2 weeks ago.
Two weeks before Mother’s Day.
3 months after her 69th birthday.
2 days before their 50th wedding anniversary.
It feels like it was just a minute ago. Nevertheless, I got a call from my brother-in-law that night around maybe 10pm. I keep my cell phone turned off after about 8pm, so I can make the bed time routine happen for our 8 year old. It’s a process. He called the house phone to tell us that my sister and dad were on their way to the trauma hospital after receiving a call from our dad, who had received a call from the police that our mom had been in a car accident and was being air lifted to the trauma hospital nearest them.
She’s been airlifted before. It was a trauma, for sure. She had collapsed after dinner with a ruptured aneurism in her brain and had to be airlifted to Shand’s in Gainesville. Airlifted doesn’t mean good things. She survived that flight and surgery and recovery. That was an amazing time of fearful prayers and overwhelming emotions. This time, however, was different. Somehow, I just knew.
A million and two (I know, it’s ridiculous to exaggerate. But it really may have been that many, really.) things ran through my mind about what we would have to do as a family to handle her affairs. I wondered how my sister would handle the loss. I wondered if my dad was even fazed. He never seems to emote anymore. It had been decades since I had seen him cry like he used to. He was always ready to feel for the hurting, cry at a sappy commercial, hug us deeply.
Not important to think about right now.
I know they had told us about the family trust they had set in place. I need to gather the paperwork and see what I needed to handle right away. Who did she say to call in case anything ever happened to them? Do they have life insurance? Does a life insurance claim indicate what those crime shows always suspect? Would there be an investigation? Oh, God! Is my sister’s house in the trust? Will it have to go through probate? Did they ever transfer title, like they had been discussing/arguing/dealing with?
Mom handled all the finances and paid all the bills and handled the checkbook. Maybe there’s more than one. Oh, my.
Wait. I haven’t even heard back yet. It’s been a whole 10 minutes. I’m staring at my cell phone now, which is in my hand, while I am sitting up in bed waiting……….
I don’t know what to feel. Am I really thinking about all this when I don’t know anything about anything? My sister is texting from the car. Thankfully, my dad is driving. She’s night blind and not ok to drive most of the time anyway. They’re lost. We still don’t know anything about anything.
They’ve found the hospital. There’s been at least one fatality………….
I already knew earlier. But please, don’t let it be real.
She’s talking with the police officers at the hospital. They have to go identify the body.
Oh. My. God. I don’t feel. I can’t breathe. My husband has been sitting with me in bed this whole time silent but holding my free hand. It’s still dark in the room. Even the dog hasn’t felt the strangeness yet. I can’t feel anything. Am I broken? How horrible am I for not feeling anything at this most horrifying moment in my life? Why is this about my life? How can I even think like that? But the text notification boings again. It’s my sister. I see the words. I don’t like them.
Mom is dead.
I softly verbalized, “Oh, God.”
My husband, silent until this moment, asks what has happened. He hasn’t been privy to all my swirling thoughts.
Mom’s dead. I can’t feel. I don’t know what to feel. What do I do?
It’s ok, baby. You’re just in shock.
I’m in shock? I wasn’t in an accident. I haven’t been hurt. I hurt everywhere. The tears suddenly just started leaking out. I don’t think at that point I was crying, but they leaked out in anticipation of my emotions catching up to my body. He held me calmly. Then sobs shook my body and the tears flowed more freely. He wrapped me in his arms and said nothing. What could be said? What can be said now?
Nothing. There’s just nothing. Nothing fixes this.
I have to go. I have to be with my dad, my sister. What do I tell my 8 year old, who loves my mom so much, her Nana? How does a loving mother, grieving the loss of her own mother, explain this to a tender child? This is not ok. But I have to assure her that this is ok. I have to gather myself and be strong.
But it’s the middle of the night now. Sleep. No, I don’t see that happening. I close my eyes. That’s a horrid idea. I stare blankly into the dark room at nothing. I can’t breathe. I know I’m breathing, but it’s just the wrongest wrong. Will morning ever come? I don’t want morning to come. That makes this all very real. Is this real? It can’t be real. I know it is. I’ve told myself this is something we adult children have to face as we get older, so I know I have to deal with this particularly awful reality.
No, sleep definitely didn’t come. But the morning did. I knew it would but had hoped it wouldn’t. The bizarre numbness didn’t seem to stop the tears. I’m up. I made coffee for my husband and me while he showered. I don’t think I remember tasting it. I love coffee. That morning, I just didn’t taste. I didn’t feel. I didn’t think. I just moved religiously through the ritual of making coffee and getting showered. The responsible side of my brain is the easiest side for me to connect with. I remembered that I was supposed to serve in church Sunday morning along with my friend. Oh, dear. I had better let them know I won’t be back by then. Will I be back by then? Even if I am, am I strong enough to do it? Oh, I think I better let them know. I texted the Children’s Dept leader and the friend about what had happened…….strangely very matter-of-fact in nature. I just didn’t have emotions ready for them yet. I hit send and stared at my phone. It was a little more real again. I think it was about 5:45 in the morning when I sent it. I felt better knowing at least something had been handled normally. My phone immediately rang. It was my friend. I stared at it for a second, not sure if I was ready to face even more reality. I answered. I knew from the sound of her voice that she had barely awakened but was reaching out to me with all of her heart in my time of need. I definitely crumbled. I’ve never been cared for in such a way. It knocked fervently on the door of my emotions that was held back by a thin string of dental floss. But she was ready to catch anything that fell through. What wonderful friends in my life that would reach out immediately and purposefully that early in the morning. She knew nothing would change or fix things or help, but she knew it was how to show caring and love when someone is hurting. I was hurting. I just couldn’t feel anything. But at the same time, everything was horribly painful.
How do I pack for this? I didn’t fold anything. I didn’t know how many shirts, what kind of shoes, what to bring. I don’t know how to do this. Why can’t I just call my mom and ask her what the plan is and how to pack? She always had the plan. Snappy casual, she’d say if we planned to go out. Nothing special, if the plan was pizza or that chain restaurant down the street. What do I do? I packed about 5 shirts and shorts, a pair of jeans, a handful of underwear. It just stared at me from my open suitcase. I stared back. Numb. Is this real? I don’t like real anymore. I zipped it shut. By then, my 8 year old daughter was padding barefoot and sleepy down the hallway to my bathroom, where she greets me every morning.
She doesn’t know yet. I have to tell her. How do I do this? I’d better sit down or I’m not going to be ok. I’m ok.
Good morning, Mommy.
Good morning, Baby.
Sweet hugs always follow. She looks at me curiously when she notices that I’m dressed and packing a bag early in the morning. I quietly breathed in and told her that I’ve got to go for a few days to help Papa. Nana was in a car accident and was killed last night.
She crumbled in my arms as I held her tight. I sobbed into her sobs of shock and pain. I wish I could take each and every tear away for her and cry them for her. But I have my own. She has hers. We all seem to have to do this individually. I don’t know how to fix this. I can’t fix this. I tearfully, quietly, emotionlessly, dutifully finished packing and brought my bag to the car. My husband is worried about me driving all that way (about 3 1/2 hours in each direction) on my own in my emotional state without sleep. I made more coffee. I wasn’t sure of anything. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea. I just had to go. I couldn’t subject my young daughter to the grief that I knew we had to go through at this early stage of the event. There was enough time for all that. It never seems to end. There’s always time for grief. I don’t care for that part at all. She stayed home with Daddy and the pets. Someone had to take care of the animals anyway.
I know it’s an excuse. I do. I know. I don’t know how else to deal with this. I just have to go and do what is expected of me. I just have to be strong and figure out how to pick up these pieces of normal that have been strewn about like an awful accident………..like a fatal car accident………like an accident that stole the life of my mom. Ok. I have to go. Off I go.
The drive was strangely numb. Tears fell occasionally. I think they may have been tears of anticipation. Maybe if I don’t deal with it, it’s not real. But it’s real. Maybe I should call my mom and tell her and she’ll tell me it’s all just me being overly dramatic. “Oh, Tracy. Don’t be so dramatic,” she’d tell me. And I’d roll my eyes like a snotty teen and we could all go back to the family drama we all have. The anticipation was going to make my chest explode. I saw my exit sign. I don’t like that sign anymore. It definitely represents something completely different than it ever did before. No, I decided that’s not my favorite anymore.
My sister had told me they’d be at the store. It’s just how my dad operates. He knew that the store had to open, so it opened. It opened without my mom. It opened as if this was any other day. It just wasn’t any other day.
My mom was the only other employee than my dad in his beloved mom and pop style small town store. Well, now that’s not how it will be anymore. No, now my sister is the other employee. I don’t live there. I live 3 1/2 hours away. How horrible of a child am I for not being closer? I’m so selfish. She always hated me living so far away, for being so independent. She gave me quite the guilt trip often for that. But I know it’s because she loved me so much that she wanted me closer to her. There go the tears again. I’m almost to the store. It’s lunchtime. If I eat, I’ll puke. No, that may not be the way to do things yet. Lunch can wait.
I pulled into the parking lot and stared at my steering wheel. I couldn’t convince my hands to let go yet. I’m not sure I was breathing, but I didn’t pass out. I must have been breathing. Everything just feels so strange. I can’t identify a single feeling anywhere in my body. Well, I guess I’d better get out of my car. I walked the few yards to the storefront and stared at my feet moving what appeared to be in slow motion toward the door. I still wasn’t sure I was breathing. I couldn’t feel it, not a single bit of air. But I hadn’t passed out, so I must have been breathing, blinking, walking. So, I kept doing that.
You know, there are certain things in our lives that have such an impact that our memories are almost tattooed with them. This next part is one of those. You have to understand that my sister and I have always had a tumultuous relationship. We are so extremely different that we have fought a lot over the years. A lot. I walked into the store and saw my sister and my dad sitting at the high top table on one side of the store. The air was so thick and heavy with sadness and almost felt as if the clocks had stopped and time wasn’t moving. My sister turned in her chair and saw me and calmly walked straight to me, wrapped her arms under mine and around me and sobbed into me. We stood there together, grieving the loss of our mom together in each other’s arms. It was bittersweet. It was raw and overwhelming. We both allowed the tears to flow and didn’t let go. I’m not exactly sure what the locals in the store saw or felt or did. I didn’t care at that moment. It was a special moment between my only sister and me that I will hold onto forever. It was a moment we were both real and had no reason for defenses. We just felt.
My dad was next. I just hugged him and hoped he had some way of taking this all away and making everything go back to normal. He didn’t cry, at least not that I saw. So far, he hasn’t. He has put all this experience in a little box, nailed it shut, and set it aside. I assume he will open that box at some point. But it’s not my box. It’s not my decision to open that box. It’s not mine to determine the how, the when. It’s his and his alone. He stuck his stinky cigar back in his mouth and sat down, that stinky cigar smell that brings back every family memory I hold dear. I can walk down the street or walk my dog near homes and smell that smell and just know that my dad is nearby. He’s not. He’s 3 1/2 hours away, oceans of emotion away. He turned all those emotions off decades ago when the estrogen in the house overtook any sort of presumed authority he held. He shut down years ago. He was still shut down. For now.
People rambled through the store all afternoon and offered condolences. Some just came in and shook their drooped heads in sadness. Yeah, I didn’t know how to speak either. I still have no idea what I’m supposed to be feeling. I feel everything. All at once. But sometimes there’s nothing at all. I’m empty. There’s this strange empty pit in my stomach. I learned it’s not hunger. Nothing I eat makes it go away. I forget to eat a lot right now. I think it’s because I can’t figure out which feelings go to which thing right now. Everything feels, so nothing feels.
Well, Dad wants the clothes gone. And her jewelry. He won’t be wearing any of it, he says. Ok. So, my sister and I sit on the floor of the closet in their bedroom that very next day and bag up all the clothes, sobbing as we remember outfits from days gone by that should have been donated or thrown away ages ago. We did it. Then we tackled the jewelry. Dad was known as the jewelry guy. He gave us each boatloads of jewelry over the years. Now, we had to divvy it up between us and figure it all out. We sobbed our way through that, too. It’s funny how little memories spark such big emotions. I cried coming across her ancient Girl Scouts pin she kept all these years. Probably because it was with the Girl Scouts pins of ours she kept all these years. It’s a mom thing to hold onto the strangest things. Why would we need these when we are both in our mid 40’s? I kept them. I don’t know why. My daughters will have to see them when I die someday. They’ll sob through the ridiculous amount of memories I am holding onto. Who knows what they’ll keep. Dear Lord, the tears that have dropped at that thought since my mom’s passing.
My dad is such a simple man. He only wants a meager home that keeps him safe and warm and clean and his business. He wants his family peaceful and kind. This massive house my mother wanted wasn’t for him. It was for her. It was her dream house she would talk about decorating and designing throughout our whole childhood. About 12 years ago, she finally got to build it and decorate it herself. She always used to decorate by the color scheme of the people, not her likes and dislikes. With a red headed husband and 2 red headed daughters, the furnishings and decorations were always earth tones and soft creams. Now, she was decorating for herself, the vibrant summer she is with grays and silvers and blues. Oh, yes, this was definitely her dream house. Now, it was completely void of her. It wasn’t even right. It still isn’t right. What do we do with this enormous house? Dad wants to sell it. Ok. Where to begin. How do we go through everything my mother held dear and determine what to keep and what to………how does one throw away pieces of a mom? Each piece of that house was a piece of her. It’s how she decorated. Each piece of furniture had a story, a family member it was attached to. Each piece of glass, each set of dishes…..”Don’t put those in the dishwasher! Those were Momma’s! Wash those by hand.” We did. Every time. They were what was important to her. Now we had to dismantle it all. They weren’t part of Dad. Dad doesn’t need 5 sets of antique dishes, tea sets, antique perfume atomizers, antique tea carts, Grandma’s four poster beds that are too small for any adult human. How do I determine what to keep? I have my own home and house full of stuff. So does my sister. The things that were important to my mom don’t seem to be the same things that are important to us. Is this the way it always goes? Does every grieving child have to dismantle the effects of their parents’ lives this way? This can’t be right. This is so very wrong.
Well, I know Dad doesn’t need 47 crock pots. I know. There aren’t really 47 of them. There’s 9. All sizes. Mom loved to entertain and used each and every one of them. Dad doesn’t even cook. I had to pack my little Jeep and take them all to Goodwill last week. I helped the silent emotionless guy unpack the back of my vehicle of all the many years of entertaining and meals and parties and memories………..each crockpot a small piece of my mom. He said thank you from behind these ridiculous masks we are forced to wear. I stared at him for what seemed an eternity – waiting for him to ask why I had just donated 9 crockpots and a huge roaster and several serving pieces. He never asked about my mom. I didn’t get to tell him about her parties. I didn’t get to tell him about the amazing crab dip, artichoke dip, meatballs, and soups she made in these. I didn’t even get to tell him she was viciously ripped from my heart just a few days earlier.
“Thank you, sir,” I replied.
I got in my car and pulled away. I cried the whole drive back to the house, thankful I was alone in my car. Yes, keeping my 8 year old daughter out of this sadness was the right thing to do. I know it will be her turn to cry and get some closure later. That beautiful daughter called me a few hours later in tears. She was already feeling the reality of it all. She missed her Nana. As much as I needed my mom, she needed me – her mom. I needed to figure out the balance of being there for her and my husband as well as for my dad and my sister. I still don’t know the balance. I doubt I’ve gotten much right. Is there really anything right? I don’t feel right.
And yet, here we are planning her funeral-ish thing that will be happening. I’m not much of a traditional person, so the decision to have a party instead of a funeral wasn’t something that bothered me. We’ve been to many funerals in our lives as loved ones passed. We’ve seen cremations and open caskets, closed caskets, and even complete masses. All we knew is that Mom definitely did not want a formal funeral, and definitely didn’t want any casket. She wanted to be cremated. The rest was up to us to figure out. So, the decision was made to throw a final party or get-together at the house to say farewell to my mom. Ok. Here we go.
My parents are very aware (probably as most are) of what our strengths and weaknesses are as their kids. They know my sister is the caregiver and the one who is able to become emotionally invested in everything. She’s incredibly emotional anyway. She’s what would probably be classified as an empath. She always has been. I’m the more logical and analytical one. I call it boring. Instead of dealing with all the emotions and getting involved in the emotional side of things, I’m better at the paperwork and financial and legal things. My parents have known that since we were small. The trust is set up that way. They treat us each differently because of it. It’s not wrong. It just is. So, to the paperwork I head……..the mountains and boxes and bags and drawers and piles of paperwork everywhere. Why did you let it get this way, Mom? That first Saturday after her accident, while my sister and dad were at work, I took to the papers. I went through EVERYTHING. I made a huge pile of papers to burn in the fire pit. I made files for the things that needed to be kept and had information that was current. I threw away so much……..from 1998 and forward. Yes. I went through everything and made a written budget of what is required for what and out of what accounts. I went through tax returns and itemizations to figure out what I will need to remind my dad of to keep the house and business going. I made a list of questions for him. Gosh, I hope they’ve had these conversations, so he’ll be able to answer. I make piles of stuff for me to take home to handle for him, accounts to cancel, insurance to notify, whatever I can do to take the burden off of him. This would not be what my sister would want to handle. She will have enough to handle being the full time employee at the store and feeding my dad. He’s refused to cook for himself. He thinks he will be going out to eat every meal for the rest of his life. Ok. For now, that’s ok. These are the emotional things she’s capable of dealing with. I just crumble under those types of situations. No, I don’t want to have to be the one to handle my dad’s day to day decisions. Just let me get his life situated to the point where I’ll know he’s stable. I can do that. I can do that well.
Now to organize the house to get it ready to sell. My sister has a few realtor contacts to speak with in their town. Then they’ll call me to get it done. Clearing out the craft room, the pantry, the pool area……….why all the stuff? None of us has any emotional tie to this house. It’s strange, maybe. My sister and I didn’t grow up in that house. My dad didn’t care about it. It was my mom’s dream house. But she’s not there. It’s just a shell – just like what’s left of her. It’s so strange the way our mind’s associate things like that. I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that my mom won’t be walking through the garage door with her crazy backpack purse full of partially used tissues and the bags of groceries to make us some elaborate meal for our visit. I can’t even look at my phone sometimes, knowing I can’t text her with some stupid question that was really my attempt at communicating with her from my life so far away. I feel so guilty for being so far away for so long. I never wanted to live in my little hometown. It just was never who I am. It was a serious bone of contention for us. She wanted me to be close by. I get that. I am so happy that the reason for her frustration was that she just wanted me closer. But it was difficult. Now I’m faced with the guilt that comes with wondering how things would have been different if I had lived there. I know that is fruitless. I do. My life is so wonderful and I know it’s exactly the way it should be. But she’s gone and I didn’t get to say goodbye. When I spoke with my sister that fateful night, she told me about how she had stroked her hair and kissed her face when she was there to identify her body. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when our grandmother died in her home of cancer. I was here living my life. My sister and my mother were there on either side of my grandmother, holding her and speaking loving words as she took her last breath. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there to kiss her either. The guilt is debilitating at times like this. Should I have been there more often? Should I have been less selfish and set up my life there? I can’t go back in time. I can’t change a single thing. I can only sit here and wonder how much I’m willing to beat myself up before I move forward with my emotions.
There has to be some sort of balance in here.
I keep trying to make sense of this crazy tornado in my chest. I got a little vision of what it actually looks like this morning. There’s this wild, gray, tornado wildly twisting inside me with these flashes of horrible and terrifying faces that pop out from time to time around the twirling cone with a scream of pain or sadness or frustration or anger. I can see it like I can see my own face in a mirror. But this tornado is just there. I can only notice it. I notice that it is holding all these wild emotions that I’m feeling, some days all at once, some days individually, and other days not at all. But it’s there. I can see it. I can’t not see it.
I can’t not feel it. I can’t seem to figure out what is physical pain and what is emotional. I went to the chiropractor a few days after she died and I returned home for a few days before heading back to handle more. I couldn’t even explain to the doctor what to fix. I just explained the situation and said that he would have to just try to figure out what might be physical pain and what might be emotional. I don’t know. I can’t seem to pick it out separately. I don’t know. Grief is emotional not physical. Maybe it is physical. Maybe it’s just so real that our minds just can’t make sense of it and tell our bodies what’s really going on. All I can say is that everything feels all at once. It’s overwhelming. It’s confusing. It’s lonely. It’s empty.
It doesn’t really make much sense. I’m rambling, I know. I’m 47 years old. I moved out when I graduated high school at 17. I called my mom when I was 18 and said I didn’t need help financially. She was flabbergasted. But it’s who I always have been – independent, headstrong, stubborn, strong willed – pick a word. I haven’t really had to rely on my mom for much since. Don’t get me wrong, I have called. I have had millions of questions for her over the years. When I got divorced, she was Johnny on the spot here with me. She wanted to help. She held me while I cried and did her best to comfort me. She was there. She was there for everything. She attended every football game (band geek), band concert, music lesson (until I started driving), graduation, parent-teacher conference, everything – just everything. She’s just always been there. She’s my mom. But I find myself, the independent, strong-willed, stubborn, headstrong grown woman that I am, wondering if I’m capable of handling life without my mom there…….for everything. It’s silly. It’s sad. It’s heart breaking. It’s empty. How do I do life without my mom? I know. Easily. Successfully. I know. But how? It’s not the way it’s supposed to be. She’s always there. Always.
But now she’s not there. I keep hearing that she’ll always be with me. She’s looking down from heaven at me. I get it. I do. I’m not ungrateful to those who are just trying to help me feel better. But it’s not the same. She’s not here. She’s just not. I feel so guilty for just not being the best daughter I could have been. I’m so stubborn and independent that I’m sure I broke her heart time and again with my constantly running farther and farther in my life. I don’t know how to muddle through these tempestuous thoughts. I keep praying. I know I have peace. But the storm isn’t quiet yet. But I’m walking on the water through the storm. It won’t take me down. I’m just limping a bit from the lightning strikes to my broken heart.
I’m watching things change, seeing how God has been moving through it all. I’m seeing the baby sister, who will always be about 12 years old to me, step up to help our dad in the store dutifully, feed him every night, call me with updates and realities to be sure I know what’s happening next. She’s broken, too. Yes. Her dependency on our mom was debilitating while she was alive. Now that she’s gone, I’m seeing a strange and new baby sister, the not so baby one. She hugs a little tighter. She’s not a hugger. At all. But she is right now. She’s making decisions that are more memorable and tender. She’s definitely not a tender person.
I’m watching my dad change so dramatically and so quickly. I vaguely remember him when we were small children. He was always the loving one. He held us and kissed us and took care of us when we were small. Mom wasn’t really good at that. She liked us better when we got older. Dad, however, loved having littles. He was the one we knew whose hand was at the ready to hold, whose lap was always open for snuggles, and whose fuzzy mustache was always at attention in front of smiling lips ready for kisses from Daddy. He was filled with a strange, quiet wisdom that he chose to share only on rare occasions with us. He always deferred to my mom. I’m guessing it was just because we were all girls, so he probably just assumed she knew more about how to handle things. I don’t know. But as we got older, he stepped back. Way back. He spent a lot of time outside working in his garage. We didn’t. The snuggles weren’t there anymore. He didn’t say much at all. He was just there. It wasn’t like he was an absent father at all. No, he was just out of his element and run over by all the estrogen that had taken over as we girls entered puberty.
But now, he’s changing. He’s changing back to the Daddy I remember from when we were little. His hugs are epic. He tells me he loves me. I haven’t heard that from either of my parents in a very long time. It’s not as if they didn’t love us. We knew very well they did. But it’s just not what was said. It’s what was given. But the words are so special. I can hear my dad now when I call to check on him or ask him something about paperwork I’m handling for him. I tell him I love him. And he tells me he loves me. Clearly. Audibly. Intentionally. He’s making decisions for himself that make sense. I’m not sure if I would be making the same decisions, but they’re his decisions. And they make sense for him. He’s waking up each day, getting ready for work, heading to breakfast at the little diner he likes, where the staff likes him, and where he is happy. He’s working and eating and living. He hasn’t looked at the box he nailed shut that holds my mom’s death yet. I don’t know if he will. He probably will. But I’m giving him the space he needs to make that decision for himself when he’s ready. I’m over here feeling everything about losing my mom. He’s the one that has to deal with losing his wife of 50 years, well 50 years minus 2 days. I don’t have those solutions. There’s no paperwork I can find that says there is a right way to pry that box open and a right time. No, I just watch and love him like he’s loving me through this. He’ll probably make some wacky decisions. But he’s handling it. We will be there with him and help him when he needs us. I know my hugs are pretty epic, too. I learned from the best and I’m ready for him when he needs them.
I feel like this is the beginning of a memoir or something. I don’t typically let this much out at once. But I am overwhelmed with my thoughts and just have to get them out. I’m hoping it’s not like a dam or something, where one little crack allowing the trickle out will bust the whole thing open. I’m just trying to keep my head up and a smile on my face for my family. It’s ok, though. They know I’m not perfect. They know I have my times when my armor crashes to the floor and I just have to fall apart. They’re such a great family and group of friends around me. I’m so thankful. I truly and honestly am so very thankful. God has blessed me beyond anything I’ve ever deserved.
