Category: Grief

When Did I Lose Me?

I’m not certain when it happened. But somewhere along the way, I lost me.

I lost the me that loved spontaneity…the me that tried new restaurants on opening night. I lost the me that watched movies in the actual theater…the me that went out of town on a whim…the me that read a good book until 2am. I lost the me that would go to a friend’s house for dinner…as well as the me that invited friends for dinner. I even lost the me that would go to the beach with friends for long weekends. I lost the me that would shop all day on Saturday, do lunch and dinner before going home…shopping that was more about restaurants-with-friends than the actual shopping. God, where did that me go?

I think the last year we had with mom, knowing her time was short, made me lose the self that I once was. I had to rethink who I was and actually set that me aside for a minute. I certainly wouldn’t have had it any other way. But I now have to rethink the old me and decide who I am now that she isn’t here.

I’m now a daughter whose mama has passed on. I’m a daughter who has to use phrases like ‘I can hear mom say…’ or ‘before Mom passed’ or ‘if Mom were here she’d…’. I mean, I never wanted to be able to use those phrases. I didn’t sign up for that.

From February of last year when Mom was diagnosed with Cancer to January of this year when she passed, every single weekend and weeknight I felt guilty to do anything that wasn’t family related; guilty to do anything that would throw away precious time. And for the most part, I didn’t. I don’t think I even wanted to do anything but be with family…especially her. Time’s value escalated so tremendously during that short little year.

I’m not sure who “they” are, but “they” say the whole first year can be difficult because of the firsts. The first Birthday without, the first Mother’s Day without, the first Christmas without…well, even the first surgery without her was different. My hubby had surgery recently and this was the first time my little mama was not there in that waiting room with me. Goodness, did I need Mom there? Did I for some reason require her presence? No. I just wanted her there; missed her chatter; missed her making sure lunch didn’t pass without food. How different life is now.

How cliche it is to say life goes on. Time continues to march swiftly to whatever destination it has always been drawn. I continue to keep moving with it out of sheer momentum because if I don’t keep moving, in some way I know I will drowned. Keeping busy is the name of this game.

I really don’t know when I’ll find me again. Some days I think I already know this new, partially recognizable me. But then there are days like several days during the past two weeks, when what I’d really like to have done was just sit with Mom and tell her how my day went, cuz you know what, some were pretty crappy. But this is the me that doesn’t have a mom to sit with or call. I don’t necessarily like this me but, this is me regardless of what I want…so for now it will have to do.

Sipping coffee and wondering if I’ll like the me I find at the end of all this grief. ~paula

Music is the Sound of Life

How the art of music effects well being.

This was a topic suggested by a Coffee with Paula reader. When I read the suggestion I said to myself, “Oh heck yes, this will be an easy, smooth and enjoyable write as music is a huge part of who I am.” But as I sat to write, writer’s block seeped into the room and plopped itself directly onto my fingertips. What in the world, I asked. What, if any other topic, is more close to my heart than music? When I think of my sweet mama, I think of music. When I think of who she taught me to be, I think of music. When I think of church and worshiping my God, I think of music. Even when I think of work I think of music because I sometimes sing to my patients but always sing in the car as I drive between every patient’s house. So how in the world, with the topic of music, could I possibly have writer’s block? I decided to simply focus on the specific moments in my life where music has had a direct effect, where music has changed an attitude or transported to a different time or place. As soon as I coerced my mind to focus in that direction, the thoughts filled my mind to overflowing, just as excessive rain forces a river over its banks.

One workday I cruised the interstate toward a patient that faced end of life and a spouse who struggled to accept the pending loss. I felt melancholy as my thoughts focused on their situation; my desire to make things better for them was strong, but in vain. As a Social Worker, I have to be okay with the knowledge that I can not fix every situation. It’s a pillow I have had to learn to sleep well on…if I wanted rest. The wind rushed through the open window and tossed my salt-and-pepper locks to and fro while the sun beamed down onto my arm. As I steadily headed toward my visit, I cruised from lane to lane in traffic while the Jeff Healey Band “asked the stars above”. The uniquely delicious timbre of Jeff Healey as he sang about his lady’s Angel Eyes, magically transported me from a sad drive, back to a high school night where I was engulfed in an emerald green, poofy-sleeved, sequin-splashed prom dress that swayed with tuxedoed arms wrapped around that I would later marry. The music facilitated memories…the memories created emotion…these emotions created a fond smile…melancholy was removed.

One Sunday I swayed on the alto row, eyes focused on our director who was led to sing Amazing Grace this day during worship. With arms skilled in leadership, the chords on the piano were initiated, voices later cued and the age old story of Amazing Grace was shared. The mixture of melody and harmony created a steady stream of tears down my cheeks as memories flooded my soul of a sweet mama who, years ago, stroked the ivory with finesse in worship playing the same song, her favorite. The music instantly sent me back to the small chapel where I grew up; the faces of loved ones who surrounded the little piano flashed through my mind, faces who have gone on, just as my sweet mama. The music facilitated memories…the memories created emotion…these emotions created tears.

Sitting beside a patient who neared end of life and hadn’t eaten or spoken in weeks, I softly sang old hymns while I held her wrinkled worn hand to provide emotional support and comfort. I knew her story and that she was a dear old saint who had been a choir member for over 50 years at her little country church until frailness stopped her from climbing the few steps into the tiny choir loft. Family members saddened by her lack of response to I love you’s and can we get you anything’s were absolutely elated as her lips slowly began to move to the words of I’ll Fly Away. Very soft, a half-beat behind me, but every word mouthed while worship flowed upward from her soul to a God for which she had lived her whole entire life, and would soon meet face to face. The music facilitated memories…the memories created worship in its rawest, most simple form. Music.

One of the afternoons before or just after my sweet mama’s funeral, a dear Aunt brought cassette tapes that had been created by my grandmother years before, as in possibly 30 years prior to that day. Cassette tapes that held recordings of priceless moments of family gathered around the piano seated in my grandmother’s front living room. My younger, stronger mama stroked the ivories while belting out a splendid alto which mixed so perfectly with my Aunt’s impressive soprano. Aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins gathered around mama, varying voices intermittently louder than the rest within the audio, laughter between songs, laughter in the middle of verses with missed notes or wrong words. I could clearly see the vision created by this replay of family afternoons so many years ago. Precious time shared between family members who had a deep love for music; feelings created by music when shared with those you love. Music created a bond…music was the catalyst that pulled a family together into one accord…music was the glue that held those relaxing family Saturday afternoons together.

Music can transport us to long ago moments whose memories we cherish and wish for again. Music can bring us right to the feet of Jesus in worship. Music can heal a saddened spirit and provide light in the midst of darkness. Music can calm a troubled soul from the throes of anxiety. Music can incite clear thoughts to dementia patients for small periods of time. (If you don’t believe me, you should check out http://www.musicandmemory.org and look for Henry’s story. It will make you cry in amazement!)

Writing music and lyrics is a whole other blog entry; you can share your story of hardship, love, abuse, grief, trouble, excitement, money woes, unrequited love, good times, bad times, sober moments, drunk moments,…need I go on? Music is anything and everything that you need it to be.

Sipping coffee, humming Amazing Grace and hoping you can see how music effects more than well-being; it effects who we are and life in general. Thinking the next song on my play list might be Percy Sledge’s, When a Man Loves a Woman; might be some smoochin’ goin’ on later. Ha! What is music to you? ~paula

There was this Kid

There was this kid who grew into a man…

This kid would drive a person insane by tattling on you for smooching with your boyfriend. This kid would try to get into your Barbie’s and rearrange legs, arms and heads. This kid would always want to go with you when you just wanted to be with your friends. This kid got approximately 27.8 cars during his high school years when you had only one. (That’s a serious exaggeration, but I’m doing the writing and exaggeration is how I roll. Ha!) This kid would “burn bugs” and our precious but slightly naive mama let it go as truth. (Calm down all you bug enthusiasts, he wouldn’t literally burn bugs, it’s an inside joke, just not my story to share. Ha!) This kid would play his heart out underneath the Friday Night Lights; but then work til exhaustion for a dear elderly family member on Saturdays, bright and early the very next morning.

Baby brother, I’ve watched you turn from a kid to a man.

I’ve watched you fall in love, fall out of love. I’ve watched you make good choices, bad choices. I’ve watched you carry yourself with dignity and self-respect; demonstrating integrity while my former friend and sister-in-law was oblivious that the words even existed. I’ve seen you give love another try and go on to marry the love of your life. I’ve seen you in despair, heartbreak and anguish in heated custody battles; but also saw you filled to overflowing with joy when a daughter finally made it home to you. I’ve watched you pour your heart into things that never came to be; I’ve also watched you succeed abundantly.

I’ve seen so many things baby brother, but what I will never forget, never stop thinking about, never stop adoring about you is the way you loved our precious mama.

For a solid year, you packed up your family and headed home for weekends. You cooked an insane quantity of the most delicious food to feed the multitudes. You spent time with our Dad. You spent time with our Mama. We cried together. We hugged often. We shared. We dealt. We coped. We laughed. We did what was important; spent precious time. You made a point to be at countless doctor appointments; always keeping the mood light with your craziness. And after a long battle fought, you held our mama’s hand while she neared the end. You held me afterwards.

You taught your kids important life lessons during this past year; taught them the importance of family and what it means to truly step up to the plate as a man. You were an example to your sons of what is expected of them as men; you were an example to your daughter of what she should require in a husband.

What more could I ever ask for in a Brother…other than for you to finally admit I’m the favorite? Ha!

Nothing brother…nothing.

I see your hurt and I see your grief over the loss of our precious mama. I see you trying to be strong when you’d rather just give up. I see your pain…it resembles my own. Be strong when you can; let go when you can’t. Talk about her. Write about her. Think about her. But above all else, keep on loving her. She’s still right here with us.

She’s still right here with us…in our thoughts, in our hearts, in our mannerisms, in our facial expressions, in our personalities, in our children.

Thinking of a sweet…but of course MACHO…baby brother tonight as I sip coffee. Praying he knows God has not taken His loving arms from around him this whole time, nor will He ever. ~paula

Siblings by chance; friends by choice. – Author Unknown

The Lasts

The last time I felt the ocean breeze with you while the morning sun warmed our face; a coffee cup for each…Schlabor Day~2017.

The last Thanksgiving day with you; I was teary-eyed off and on all day, knowing it would be your last.

The last time I watched your face as you listened to your precious grands read the Christmas story from Luke.

The last time I watched your smile as we sang happy birthday to you.

The last time I heard you say ‘Paula Ree’.

The last time “Mom🎹🎶💅🏽” popped up on my phone.

The last time I helped you into a softball game.

The last time I walked slowly with you.

The last time I saw you eat and actually enjoy your meal…Meatloaf, English Peas, Mashed Potatoes, Banana Pudding, Coconut Creme Pie and Ms. Sheila’s Homemade Banana Nut Bread…only bites of each, but utter enjoyment.

The last time the long beautiful acrylic nails created by your “Tina Girl” clicked their way across the ivories.

The last time I watched you throw your head back and truly laugh…Christmas night…something Chris said…captured.

The last time your handwriting was on my Mother’s Day card (2017)…I knew it would be your last.

The last New Year’s Eve kiss.

The last time old friends, aka the “softball grannies” met up while watching their grands run, hit and defend with as much gusto as they did just 40 years prior.

The last Schlabor Day…with you.

The last Mensch ärgere Dich nicht game with the grands…always yellow.

Tears as I sip coffee tonight, missing the moments…missing you. ~paula

☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️

I also believe…

If I’ve ever published an entry and immediately knew I had more to say, it was this time! Feel free to comment. I LOVE a good debate! If you agree or disagree, I would love to hear!

I also believe…

…there’s nothing more cleansing than an ugly, snot bubble cry or a fat roll jiggling, belly laugh with tears included.

…grief has it’s own timeline that you don’t get to dictate.

…the happiest sad moment of your life is when your baby is grown, lands their first “real” job and you realize they really are moving out.

…it’s okay to walk away from your cell phone on your personal time for as long as you want; they are not mandatory.

…you can say “no” without guilt when your sanity is in question.

…visiting with an elderly person is the most fulfilling history lesson you will ever receive.

…the low carb and Keto diets are my only ways to eat AND stick with a diet. Yum!

…that as you sing in the choir, your face should not look pained.

…that if you’re a Social Worker, you are destined to have some crude, rude, tasteless humor floating around in your brain. Know your audience before sharing!

…not everyone uses the talent they were given.

…a hot fudge Sunday can be supper every now and then.

…just because you’re attracted to someone doesn’t mean they’re your soulmate, it might just mean you’re attracted to them.

…if you can tell your social worker what the programs are, you can apply for them yourself. I’m here to empower, not give handouts.

…if you’ve never had a full body massage, goodness, get one scheduled!

…if you’ve never sent your spouse a risqué text you might be boring.

…you should mix mayonnaise and ketchup together for a splendid dipping sauce for your French Fries.

…if you don’t have sauce all over your mouth and fingers, your wings aren’t as good as mine.

…you need to have that one thing you do every week with your spouse, of which you allow nothing to get in the way.

…you have to have a sense of humor in this life or you’re gonna go crazy!

There may be more later, but for now I think we’re out of coffee. Thank you so very much for joining me around the coffee pot. ~paula

The Chicken or the Egg?

Which came first? I most certainly have never had the desire to debate that age old question. But if I were to find myself in a position where it was necessary, my reply would be something similar to, “You have to have an egg for there to be a chicken, but you also have to have a chicken to lay an egg that would hatch a chicken…but I’m pretty sure Genesis says God came first and created that chicken…not an egg”. I would then, of course, add a quietly whispered and smugly calm “boom” to the end of my 10 second spiel. And because I know that I can sometimes be a solid King James Donkey, I’d simultaneously mimic a mic drop for effect. (King James Donky was totally stolen from a dear cousin. Thanks Jennifer! Ha!)

With all of the loss that has been experienced around me lately, I’ve chosen to get another tattoo that I will get in memory of my precious Mama. My vision is a flowing music staff with the first few notes of Amazing Grace, in the key in which she always played it and a quote that flows with the music, “Music is the sound of life” which was certainly my Mom. Music. The numerous hours I’ve spent thinking of what this tat should symbolize and express also made me begin thinking of my others and their significance. The significance of each was so deep that tears appeared along with the question, “Which came first, the tat or the pain?”

My first tat is a memorial tat for my best social worker friend, Kim, who lost her battle with Leukemia in 2006. I was able to get the original artist to recreate the sun he made just a few years earlier for her. I changed the rays of the sun and added a couple of other touches to make it my own, but that jolly smiling sun reminds me of that never-without-her-lipstick, beautiful, happy soul that has gone on to be with Jesus. It also reminds me of the laughter she created within our little circle and I cherish it to this day. I got it one year after her death and every time the process became too painful I would just remind myself to suck it up because that 45 minute tat process was nothing compared to her pain during that year long battle with Leukemia.

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My second tat is a simple quote that I have always loved because it embodies everything I believe manifests a life well-lived. Live, Laugh, Love. I got this tat in memory of two nephews who chose suicide as their answer and a dear friend who used cutting as his. “To Write Love on her Arms” was a movement that I felt so strongly about so I chose to use Live, Laugh, Love as my way to shed light on a dark subject, share the story of hope and write love on my arms for these beautiful souls who can’t seem to find the light.

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What came first the tat or the pain? For me, the pain was the beginning. Finding and creating beauty in the midst of pain seems to be the common denominator. Kim’s tat is a beautiful reminder of a life well lived with smiles in the midst of pain. Live, Laugh, Love on my wrist is a beautiful reminder that there is hope and there are other answers that can be chosen. And my “mama tat” will most assuredly symbolize her clinging to a Savior that provided the most Amazing Grace that could ever be provided and her sharing the love of music with her family and countless other families through church and 34 years of teaching elementary music. What a legacy!

Needles and skin are a painful pairing, but often the painful pairing creates beautiful reminders of hope and wonderful memories to be cherished. The pain of depression and grief created my desire for these tats but the pain in the process created a quiet resolve that all can be well again. Not today, but one day.

Hopefully, as we sip our coffee and remember, healing can begin. ~paula

To Write Love on Her Arms

To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recover.

http://www.twloha.com

Why do I care if the Young Dr. Brantley has a Pinky Nail?

Overwhelmed and drained, I plopped my behind down on a coffee table in the ICU waiting room yesterday around 3:30pm to embrace, and be embraced by this group of crazies that I call my own. Now don’t worry, my behind was safe from hitting the floor in an embarrassed heap because that coffee table was as sturdy and strong as my Aunt who had just lost her husband of 26 years, unexpectedly, just moments before. Sitting on the edge of that coffee table, as conversations drifted around me, my mind began to ponder what a whirlwind the last several months had been. My Father-in-Law’s death on December 6th, my Mom on January 28th and now my Uncle on April 8th…surreal seems to be the word of the day for us lately. But as I sat amidst the timbre of the huddled whispering voices, I allowed my thoughts to run rampant; thoughts of how my Aunt had embarked on her grief journey just moments before I arrived at the hospital. She had planned to cook meatloaf for lunch, but life dictated that she call the ambulance instead. She had planned to go to Physical Therapy today, but circumstances deemed it necessary for her to make funeral arrangements instead. We plan, we arrange, we schedule as best we can, but when God’s timing says it’s time; it is time.

Have you ever been sitting in a restaurant staring into space, fully lost in your own thoughts as you wait on someone to join you, but suddenly realize you’re staring straight into the eyes of a complete stranger? As fast as your brain can scramble to attention and convince your eyes of the need for retreat, Operation Divert Your Gaze commences. Well, as I sat and pondered on the edge of that laboring coffee table, I found that my gaze had been locked onto an oil canvas of father and son, Dr. Brantley and Dr. Brantley. Two stares looking directly toward me; as entranced with me as I was with them. As I scrutinized father and son, I realized that not only have I never truly looked at that painting, I had also seen it a million times. Why in that moment in time, did someone ordain that I look at that portrait for the first meaningful examination? Why did I need to know that father and son do not really favor, forcing me to then ponder if their lack of similarity on this canvas came from real life truth or was it a choice made only by the artist’s brush stroke? Realizing those answers would not be provided this day, the craziness that is so typical for me erupted and I was fully sidetracked with the fact that it appeared that the young Dr. Brantley had no pinky nail in the portrait. Apparently the deep reverie on life and death and how quickly things can change, had evaporated into thin air as comical thoughts and comments erupted between my Dad and I about the young Dr. Brantley’s pinky nail. (Incase you were wondering, upon closer scrutiny, it appears that the young Dr. Brantley does indeed have a pinky nail and all is well; no artists must be called and chastised.)

But this life on earth is nothing more than a series of happenings; some good, some bad, but all very necessary to make up what is called life; all orchestrated by a God that meets our every need. What became very evident to me is that the same God that supplies all of our needs, provides us with little defense mechanisms that enable us to step away from some of the sorrow that comes our way. Little distractions that seem so mundane, but so appreciated as they hoist some of the load from our burdened shoulders.

I’m giving Him the glory for the young Dr. Brantley’s pinky nail and for what it stood for…His brief little distraction from the sorrow of the day.

Matthew 11:28: “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” NKJV

Until the next pot is freshly brewed. ~paula

In the Closet

“For the rest of my life I will search for moments full of you”- Anonymous

Nothing could stop my heart from carrying me into her closet. I had to see her clothes, the personal effects that were simply her. Hands that look so much like hers yearned to feel the soft sweaters she had worn, fuzzy socks that kept her feet cozy, crocheted caps that provided warmth for a head no longer covered by hair. The loss felt in my soul was so deafening I could only hear the deep thud of a broken heart and the splash of tears cascading onto the old faded Troy T-shirt I wore.

Moments in time burst through my mind of days past, happier days, when she had worn each article and the memories were a sad but necessary calm to my spirit, a calm that I seek so consistently but I’m rarely able to find. Softly clutching sleeve after sleeve, I allowed the tears to flow and memories to set me free from the labor pains of grief.

When would the next labor pain happen? If it were only that simple. Scheduled labor pains of grief, that only occur when it’s safe, when no one is around, when I’m not busy, when I have time. On the contrary, labor pains of grief happen when you least expect them; when they are ready for you, not when you are ready for them.

What have I learned you might ask? I have learned to just relax through the ebb and flow of grief, much as a laboring mother who toils to bring her newborn child into the world. The pain in labor is not constant, there are moments to catch your breath, moments to enjoy the reprieve. But when the labor pains demand results once more, you have no choice but to allow them to do their work, prep for what is to come, make way for what is new.

If a laboring mother is rewarded with a newborn, what is the result from the labor pains of grief? They, too, give newness in life. When grief has completed its journey within your heart, you will be a new person. No longer the same. You slowly present yourself to the world. A person who not only has loved, but has now also lost. A person who has not only laughed, but has now also cried. A person who has not only felt joy, but has now also felt sorrow. A person that once only thought she could, now knows she can. A person who once was broken in loss, is now finally healed.

Thinking of cups of coffee I’ve shared with my sweet little mama over the years, and smiling. ~paula