When entering a dark portal of grief, cling to hope

Yesterday when I woke up, I was struck with a depression unlike any I have felt in years. It had no single culprit to blame. I was simply struck by a full on mélange of melancholy out of nowhere.

Cling to hope; there are brighter days to come

I felt older, sure. And I have been worried about my dad's health, more so lately since he had to postpone my birthday dinner to take care of himself. Plus, I have been contemplating a huge life change while at the same time addressing a plethora of my own unchecked health issues.

And of course, I am feeling now and will forever feel a constant tinge of sadness regarding the loss of my mom.

This is me at 40, hanging on to hope

In spite of all this, though, I couldn't pinpoint a single source to match the incredible sea of blah I found myself drowning in all day.

Last night, though, I got a good night's sleep, and I am happy to report that I'm back to my "normal" self, for lack of a better word. What a difference a day makes!

I guess it was a door I had to go through, to move on to whatever is coming next. They say it's always darkest before the dawn. Well, good. I made it through the portal and I'm back, once again ready to take on the world!

Grief comes in waves; some are ripples and others tsunamis

The thing about grief, as many have described it, is that it comes in waves. Some waves are ripples. Others are tsunamis. It has been nearly a decade since the loss of my mother, and still I can rarely predict when grief will hit me or just what intensity of wave it will bring.

This morning It I was hit by a ripple that grew bigger as I reminisced in my mind of the beautiful spirit that is gone from this world and the complicated relationship we shared. Instead of suppressing them, I allowed myself to surf through my feelings, and I let the tears flow.

Remembering my mom during my birthday week

This is my birthday week, and this week nine years ago my mother went in for a new-fangled procedure that knocked her down. She had told me she was going in for a checkup to see if her lung cancer had returned. But she already knew that it was back.

She hid the fact that she was not really going in for a checkup but rather a new-fangled procedure to treat the cancer that had spread to her brain.

Instead of helping, the procedure robbed her of much of her cognitive ability, leaving her unable to control her bodily functions. In one fell swoop, she went to being the rock I could always rely on to becoming the dear soul who needed others to feed her, clean her, and provide her with round-the-clock care.

When I visited the hospital the day after her botched medical procedure, I brought cantaloup and watermelon to her bedside, per her request. She loved melons and had been craving them all summer. As I began to feed her, I choked back tears and suppressed the knot in my throat. I remembered when I was a child how she would cut me slices of cantaloup for my breakfast, skillfully peeling the rind to give me a chunk “with no green on it”.

On the day of my 44th birthday that week, she didn't remember it was my birthday until the nurse mentioned it to her. Immediately, in spite of her diminished condition, she asked for her wallet and dug in, finding and handing me a hundred-dollar bill. Somehow in all the chaos of her mind she was able to recall how I had told her what I wanted most for my birthday that year - an annual National Parks Pass.

The gesture meant the world to me, but even after buying the pass I found it difficult to use it. Mom held on from August through October, and every time I drove from Virginia to Pennsylvania to visit, I would drive through the mountains, passing Shenandoah National Park along the way. But I would never go in. I just couldn't enjoy myself outdoors while she was stuck in a hospital bed with nary a view from a distant window.

I would also pass along the way to see her farm stands replete with the colorful marigolds of the season. In brighter times, she and I would shop the farm stands together, and she'd buy several potted flowers to adorn the front of her home. We had done this every fall for as long as I could remember.

Although I never made it to the hiking trails of Shenandoah National Park during the entire time she was in the nursing home. She entered hospice and passed away on the most beautiful day of fall, 2015, and the next day I finally made my way back up into the mountains. I found the parks pass that had been shoved deep in my glove box, and I made my way to the trailhead and experienced a most sorrowful.

Along the way I became disoriented, and I slouched along the trailside to indulge myself in hardy cry. I had missed the turnoff to the summit, as it was not a popular destination and so had become overgrown. Just then, I saw a blue butterfly, and it made me smile. “Hi mom”, I said. Then it disappeared into the brush and I instinctively followed it. To my surprise, I found myself on the hidden trail, and within minutes I was treated to one of the most beautiful views I had ever seen. 

I know deep down that the butterfly wasn’t really her, but to this day whenever I see a blue butterfly it makes me think of my mom. I am reminded that her soul is free from the confines of her failing body, and she is at peace. And just as suddenly as the wave of grief crashed upon my subconsciousness, my raging thoughts are quelled and the placid crystal blue waters of my mind return.

"Where I'm From": A poem for my mom on her 65th birthday

Today would be my mom's 77th birthday. She passed away when she was just 69, from lung cancer that spread to her brain. Smoking robbed her from many years, and that has been a lesson to me to take care of myself. Life is precious. With all the temptations to self-comfort, taking care of yourself is sometimes not a priority when the world gets tough. But if I am not willing to do it for myself, I must be willing to do it for the people I love. If I have any impact on others like my mom did on me, people who love me would feel lost without me.

On my mom's 65th birthday, she asked my sister, my brother, and I to each write a poem. We were given only the prompt, "Where I'm from", and of course, we all start from one place, don't we? We are here because our mothers loved us enough to carry us in their womb and give birth to us. That is the start of it all. We are with our mothers, if we are lucky, for most of our lives. Too bad we cannot be with them in the end.

Anyway, I thought I would share this poem with you and perhaps encourage you to write your own poem for your mom inspired by the same prompt. If you do, please share it with me in the comments. I would love to know more about those who take the time to read my blog. You are the reason I keep doing it.

"Where I'm From", a poem written for my mom on her 65th birthday

Grief may not be a choice, but bouncing back from it is!

Last year, I posted something about wanting to lose weight so I could "be healthy and capable for my parents as they grow older". The week after I wrote those words, my mother's four-year-long battle with cancer would take its terminal turn; She was diagnosed with a brain lesion, and a single radiation treatment would speed up her demise to take her from us much too suddenly; in less than two months she was gone.

Rock-hopping Strickler Knob (Even at 350 pounds, I'm still hiking!)

Her sickness led to a deep sadness I was unable to shake. In my grief, I stopped doing anything that gave me pleasure. I stopped hiking altogether, and hiking at that point was the only remaining vestige of my fitlife days, the days of clean eating, medball workouts and 6-day-a-week gym visits that led to my 165-pound weight loss only a few years prior.

My mother's death did threw me for a loop. My mantra of decisions controlling my destiny, not my conditions, went out the window. My choices were once again not only influenced but dictated by my emotions. I had completely reverted to the hopelessness I'd lived in for nearly a decade in the wake of my experience during 9/11.

I'm back to hiking - having gone on my first hike a few days after my mother passed away. It's been seven months and I've done more than 30 hikes, averaging around three per month. This summer I plan to up the days hiking, and I also plan on bringing back my medball and planking routine. The gym is not a priority now, although it's only because I haven't found a gym that suits me in the small town to which I've recently relocated.

For those of you who still subscribe to my blog even though I'm not the living inspiration I may have been to you when you first found me, during my "amazing transformation", I thank you. This is, after all, a journey. I've said that from the beginning, and so I'll say it again. Every day I wake up the decisions I make point me toward my future. And I continue to hold myself accountable.

My weight gain, which had been out of control throughout this winter, has been stabilized. Now is the time to begin to move in more intentional ways that will once again excite my metabolism and fuel my body in ways that promote that movement. I know muscle memory will kick in once I get started, but that's where I am now - setting a goal, making a decision, and acting on it.

I'll keep you posted...more to come.