Will You Walk With Us?

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

I'M BACK!

And I'm sorry to say I didn't fulfill my desire to continue writing like I said I would last year.  I even lost access to my blog for awhile.

But I'm happy to have regained it, because I absolutely want and need to keep the story of my parents' journey. That's most important to me.

After Mom and Dad died, my blog captured the inevitable grief that followed, and as I lost my desire to write,  my blog followers also lost the desire to read about it ... like, who can blame you? Not me!

And now? Wow ... so much has happened! I hope you will walk with me on this journey; I admit I probably will need you; maybe you can get something from me, as well.

There truly is no such thing as aging gracefully — at least not as far as I'm concerned. When I began writing this blog, the posts chronicled my experiences with caring for aging parents. That wasn't graceful at all!

Now, I've reached a new chapter in "ungraceful aging."  I'm no longer in my 40s. I recently turned 51, to be exact. And so are many of my Facebook friends, which is so crazy!  I don't feel 51 emotionally, and I don't see my friends as 51. We're still kids, right?

But we're not. We've inevitably been subject to life's rules, and while I might not "feel" 51 ... my poor body feels older than that.

It's my fault, but hold on; we'll get to that in posts to come.

Since my last post, I have continued to grieve for and miss my parents. After four-and-a-half years, I now know that I always will, but I'm not going to talk about that anymore.

I'm living a new chapter now.

Since my last post, Dorsey and I have become true empty-nesters. Hart, 26, moved away to pursue his own career and life in Chicago, and he's having fun traveling most anywhere he wants.  And Jordie, 24, has moved off to Pennsylvania to pursue his career in baseball, which he has always loved.  (He's actually living in the part of the country I only dream about, due to my Tin Cats Antiques business.)

Since my last post, I became a great aunt to the most beautiful baby girl: Rowan Harper Migliaccio. She belongs to my sister's son, Cole, and she is a treasure!

Also since my last post, Dorsey and I decided to sell the house we've loved for 17 years in a neighborhood we've enjoyed. Last year, we were convinced and committed to moving off to New Braunfels, but the house didn't sell.  Recently, shortly after we decided we wanted to stay in Amarillo because of Dorsey's tennis network and our friends, we got an unsolicited offer on our house! How blessed is that?! So, we're selling for another house in another neighborhood in Amarillo. It's a perfect example of how sometimes we make plans God has no intention of fulfilling for us ... at least at the time we want.

The new house — well, so long as it doesn't fall through due to a problematic contingency in the house-buying equation — will allow space for our two home offices, a mother-in-law's quarters for when Mary comes to live with us, and room for antique overflow! It even has a pool, which is a bonus for entertaining. I also believe that pool is going to become important to me in the summers to come.  So, you know ... as perfect as this looks and sounds for us, I can't help but wonder what God is up to with the newest setback, just learned yesterday. However, I've lived long enough to know things will work out.  Just gotta sit tight!

In addition to those developments in my life's newest chapter, I finally have received unfortunate answers for my roughly 20-year progression of chronic pain and illness that has seriously disrupted mine and Dorsey's lives.  We also learned this yesterday.

Nope. There's nothing in the world or in this life that's graceful about growing older. Health eventually and noticeably fails. Our kids move away. Loved ones die. Peers get ill and/or pass on, too. It's just how life works, plain and simple. What makes aging ungraceful are the inevitably human  feelings of sadness, doubt, depression, anger, resentment and fear, among others, that accompany these realities.

Regardless and in the end, I'm still responsible for making the most of my circumstances and my life, and for finding beauty wherever I find myself; I often have to remind myself to suck it up because some people aren't blessed with the privilege of growing old. And, you know what? God even says we are to give thanks in all circumstances ... even if we don't feel thankful. (1 Thessalonians 5:18.)

So I am and I will. But you might have to remind me at times.

I'll share my unfortunate news another time. (Sorry! There's just too much for an already-too-long post to go there now.) And don't quit on me yet by assuming that because of some awful illnesses, I now share Eeyore's world-view; the purpose for picking up the writing again is for encouragement — for me and for anyone else affected by serious chronic illnesses.  I believe I am required to live as spiritually and mentally graceful as possible, no matter my circumstances. That doesn't preclude the existence of some pretty dark days; it just means I have to keep going.  The Bible says in Hebrews 12:1-2: "Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything (italics mine) that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles (uh, like maybe a bad attitude and self-pity?). And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith."

I very much hate that this isn't just my cross to bear. I hate that Dorsey has to go through it, too, but I love that he loves me enough to do it.  Just now, I had to remind him in his discouragement with the house situation and with my health news that we just have to trust.  That's another of God's commands, right? Check out Proverbs 3:5-6.

And sometimes, Dorsey is going to have to remind me to trust, because believe me, I'm no spiritual powerhouse.  Shamefully, my life's story so far has proven me to be quite the opposite.

So, currently, I'm sitting in a house that's in chaos because we've already been taking it apart and packing; but now the move is questionable, or at the very least, on hold. And I have spent several nights the last two-to-three weeks without any sleep at all due to pain that's caused me to cry real tears; some nights, I have gotten a couple of hours or fifteen minutes at a time. Anyone who knows me also knows I love sleeping, so this has been horrendous for me. I'm exhausted. I'm cranky. I'm beaten.

But ...

I also believe 100 percent that everything already is okay because God is in the middle of it, and that "in all things, God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)

So, as I close, I ask again ... Will you walk with us?

Five things about grief and moving forward in healing NOW!

The last time I posted was a year ago, on May 24. As I told someone recently, I haven't much felt the desire to write since Mom and Dad went on to their Heavenly home. Besides, most of my posts after they died were grief-filled downers or "boring" stuff about starting my new business, Tin Cats Antiques.  I didn't know what to do with myself anymore, so I couldn't write. I've been immobilized in my grief, plain and simple.

And, people, in general, stopped reading my blog. Readership when the blog was immensely popular consisted of wonderful, supportive fans of Mom and Dad, and friends kept up with their sad and painful journey through my writings, as well as the difficulties Kim and I faced in the caregiving process. We received so much support, I felt both overwhelmed and grateful.

My readership reflected exactly what happens with emotional support after someone you love dies: It died. I don't mean people stopped caring, I just mean people are people, and it's difficult to watch someone suffer and to believe you don't have the right words to say or to know how to help. We tend to turn away from that which makes us feel uncomfortable. That's just human.

So a couple of weeks ago. I posted an apology of sorts on Facebook about dredging up my grief again. It's anniversary time for Kim and me: Mom died three years ago on May 13, and Dad died three years ago today. I used to work with grieving people in my counseling career, and, of course, I saw people struggle hard when anniversary dates rolled around. It's just a well-known, given thing that happens to grieving people. Research supports it, as well.

And now I know it.

I apologized in my post because I don't want to wear people out with my stuff, but I posted anyway that, yes, it's anniversary time, and yes, I'm feeling it. (And for some reason, it's been worse this year than last.)

I received responses from friends I think I intuitively knew would come from my friends: "Don't apologize for your feelings." "Friends will be supportive, regardless."

That's true, of course. Totally true. True friends will be supportive, no matter where you are. I'll take it even a step further to say that probably if you find yourself grumbling in your head or wherever you grumble, "Get over it already" to anyone who is grieving, you might want to "unfriend" that person, both Facebook figuratively and Real-Life literally. Blunt, but true.

Five truths crystalized for me that day. Actually, they are absolutes I've learned about grief, grieving people, and friends of grieving people:

1. Grief never goes away. Ever. The pain can lessen, and then it can come right back and bite you unexpectedly. But the pain remains forever, and I would submit that the amount of pain is in direct proportion to how much love you have for the people (and pets) you lost.

2. We do not "get over" painful losses. As I was told by experienced others and now know to be true, we instead must learn how to live differently, without the loved ones in our lives.  Therefore, never tell a grieving person something like, "Don't you think it's time you moved on?" My response to anyone who would say that to me now is, "No, but I do think it's time I moved on from you."

3. No two people grieve alike; therefore, never tell someone how he or she should go about grieving. There's no right or wrong way, (although we do need to be mindful of getting stuck in unhealthy ways; that's a post for another time.)

4. Grieving people loved their lost ones so much that we want everyone else to love them that much, too. Seriously. We want you to know just how special and awesome they were. We want their lives to keep mattering, forever and ever. We want their legacies to live. Therefore, let us talk about the loved ones we've lost, as much as we want. And you can talk plenty about them, too. We desperately crave hearing your stories and memories about the people we've dearly loved. Do you find yourself annoyed by this or uncomfortable with it? Well ... you might want to rethink that "friendship" thing ...

5. There are no right words to say. Therefore, you don't have to avoid us out of fear of saying something wrong — except "get over it," of course. All you have to do is be there. Just listen. Just hug (or virtual hug). Just tell us you love us. Just tell us a favorite story about the ones who are gone. Check in every once in awhile. Just let us know you're thinking about us. And if you really think you have to have the right words, then the right words are these: "I don't know the right words. I just know I care about you, and I'm sad you are hurting right now."  It's not hard at all.

In addition to clarifying those five absolutes, something shifted positively within me when one of my mom's friends told me in those Facebook responses that my mom was very proud of my writing talent. My writing talent? Really? I thought I mostly practiced word vomit — at least that's been my style for the past three years.

And here's the coolest thing: On May 12 (the day before the anniversary of my mother's death), I was cleaning out the back house for an upcoming garage sale when I started rummaging through the two boxes of memorabilia, pictures, school assignments, essays, Little Dribbler's uniforms, report cards, calendars, artwork, BARBIES!, "Toddy" bear, my Audrey doll, letters and cards (email didn't exist then!) from family and friends — from birth through graduating with my bachelor's degree — that had been stored for years in my parents' attic. I found things that made me bawl hysterically, but I equally discovered things that made me laugh hysterically or smile with happy memories.

And again and again I read Hallmark cards from Mom and Dad signed, "We love you." "We're proud of you."

New ideas for blog posts started to flow that day, so I'm going to do my best to write again. I would like to honor my English teacher/Librarian mother's enjoyment of my writing.

I don't believe in coincidences. I believe that day I spent blanketed by memories, plus your supportive responses to my Facebook apology, edged me forward in my personal healing. That's just how it works, and that's why we cannot judge another person's grief journey.

Thank you for continuing with me on my journey. I hope you get something helpful from me now and then.

And I'm so grateful to report that the new ideas I gathered for future blog posts have little to do with debilitating grief. Thank you, God ... I think I get to move forward now.

A Fine Little Something About Grief

It's been five months since my last post. Mostly because every time I think about it, I think, "Who the hell cares?" So I don't write.

Perhaps that attitude is indicative of depression. Yeah, probably.

But here I am, and it's been exactly two years since Mom and Dad left us. That's how I feel: Left. They left us.

Left us.

I am selfish, yes, I know, but I miss them. You might think after two years, I might feel better. I can tell you that what is better are the memories. I think more about the good times than those awful, wretched months after Mom had that stroke and then Dad got sicker and then they both died.

So that's good. I don't think I could have gone on if I lived in the middle of that still.

The good memories make me smile. But those memories also make me miss them more. And that's why I feel left.

I understand it's not their fault. God chooses time of death and all that. But that doesn't change my feelings. So, yeah, they left us. All of us, not just me.

You see, it's still in the back of my mind how inconceivable it is that they are gone, because their influence is still everywhere. I guess in some comforting way, then, they are still here.

But it bugs the heck out of me that I can't see them or interact with them anymore. It makes me angry, in fact.

And I think, "God, why can't you let me see them together, just one more time, to see what they are doing with you and how they are feeling and what they are thinking? I don't think that's too much to ask."

So I will continue to wait.

In the meantime, I trudge along, still trying to find my way in this "retirement" type stage of my life. It's retirement because everything is part-time and on my own terms, mostly. I do the antiques, I craft, I listen to audio books, I take care of the house and the animals. And I sleep and rest a lot due to the chronic pain issues I face. That's a huge factor in my depression, not just grief. And living with chronic pain is a whole other post that maybe someone else who reads might relate to. So, I'll just shove that aside for now ... even though I can't really because at this moment, I hurt.

But I don't always just trudge. I skip sometimes, too, because that's life. Even in grief, good times happen. Lots of good times. I am grateful for those, and I think about those times, too.  So don't worry too much about this downer post. Keep in mind it is the anniversary of their deaths, so that counts a big something for my attitude.

I read a book recently in which one of the characters said, "You never really understand something unless it happens to you."

She didn't say "until it happens to you." She said unless.

Think about it. That's so true. There is no full comprehension about what anyone is ever going through. And that's how grief is. That is the one thing I have learned about it. It is my own grief to muddle through, just as your grief is your grief.

All we can do is try to love one another through it, without judging and without controlling.

So here I am, two years down the road to simply share that whatever you are grieving and however you are grieving it, that's fine. It's yours and you're doing it just fine. And if you don't feel like you're okay in your grief, then get help with it.

I have. And that is just ... fine.

Still just that little girl at the little red table

My new all-encompassing activity of life, from morning until night. Because that's how I do things.

When I was a kid, I sat for hours at the red aluminum child-size card table in one of the two matching red chairs, and colored, painted and drew for hours and hours and hours.

I recently reverted to that little girl when Dorsey surprised me with a "craft" table for Christmas. I actually got it about a week before Christmas, and I knew I was getting it, because Dorsey made it for me. I guess I was spending enough time making messes at the dining room table that something had to change. I've painted A LOT of wooden plaques with game boards, pineapples, sayings, saltbox houses, roosters and chickens ... And, really, where the heck am I supposed to put all of these things?

But that's beside the point. I love my new little red table! I've been spending most of my time at it. I keep thinking that if I spend enough time at artistic endeavors, like I did when I was young, I will get better and better. Maybe I can regain some of that talent I had as a kid. (You know ... if you don't use it, you lose it, right?)

Lisa has seen her sack, but not her gift!

Sadly, I struggle with the same monster that lived in my head as a child — the self-deprecating, mean, evil voice that criticized every effort at every turn. What wasn't good enough then still isn't good enough now. I find that horribly demoralizing, considering the fact that 50 isn't that far away.

I'm not quitting, though, because I still get satisfaction from making these craft table messes ... the same as I did when I was little. I know enough now to understand three things: One, practice will make me better; two, I don't have to listen; and three, depression makes it worse, but this, too, shall pass.

I didn't really know these things as a kid.

Since about the first of November, I've struggled horribly with depression, which is nothing new to me; I've battled it my entire life. It's made its ugly mark on me in countless, destructive ways. This bout is mentionable because it feels worse than usual. My body hurts. My head, my bones, my muscles, my joints, my nerves. Every finger, every toe. Every hair on my head. I've slept a lot ... or at least lounged in bed or on the couch. I've watched every cheesy Hallmark Christmas Movie. It's a good thing I have many pairs of pjs. It's a good day when I take a shower. It's even better if I do my hair and put on a little makeup. (I apologize to anyone I've seen in public. I just haven't given a flying flip, just in case you have. I still had to go to the grocery store and run odds-and-ends errands, whether I wanted to or not.)

It's a good thing I got the Christmas decorations up when I did; otherwise, they wouldn't have happened. For about three to four weeks, I've been relatively worthless in accomplishing anything.

The new little red table.

But I did manage to paint Christmas sacks for wrapping presents. Not all presents, but a few. It provided an interesting solace for me ... after I threw away the first 10 sacks I did. And when I looked at what was most likely number 11 when I saw it again on Christmas Eve, I wondered why I hadn't thrown that one away, either. But I have to admit I've liked some of my creations. I've even wondered whether when Dad died, he channeled his talents back to me? I truly believed I had lost whatever God had blessed me with.)

I had some fun with this one ... and then I almost threw it away.

Painting sacks got me through Christmas. I have to admit I felt the grief of not having my parents here this year even more than last. Maybe I was still in a fog last year? Or maybe I was preoccupied with all the activity I smothered myself in? Whatever ... I felt completely lost this year.

And I will admit that I became one of  millions of scammed Americans recently. I will not share details, but it was related to my antiques business. Almost $1,000 later, I have been left to trust that the FBI is doing something with my tiny, insignificant little report. Somehow, I truly do doubt anything will come of it. I doubt, too, that I will ever know. That, in itself, is depressing.

We also spent $1,000 at the vet's office last week when we learned my precious Jasper has the feline leukemia virus. I had to beat myself up for awhile when I thought I had lagged on kitty vaccinations, but that turned out to be untrue, so at least I could give myself a small break there.

And I'm struggling with other things I cannot control and, thus, must learn to put somewhere in a perspective with which I can live. So I might paint so many sacks I can make a few paper quilts ... I don't know ... because there's a lot of bad stuff going on in the world right now.

What the heck does one do with painted sacks? I know it's a cheap practice medium.
When I went to bed last night, I wanted to throw this sack away. But I woke up
this morning and kept painting dots. 

And as I name a few of these reasons, I need to be firm in saying ... I — and the millions of other people in this world who suffer from depression — don't need a reason to be depressed. I know my life is good. I KNOW THAT.

But that's not how depression ... the mental illness kind ... works. I just happen to have a few reasons to exacerbate the monster's attack. So, yes, I suppose this one does feel a little more powerful than usual.

... God bless all the paper sacks and little red tables in my life!

Stories preserve lives ... so tell them

Oh, how I miss you, Mom and Dad. 

Recently, I was thinking about what I should do with this blog. I started it in dealing with my aging and ill parents, and then it became about them ... and it became wildly popular with all of the people whose lives my parents touched. Writing this blog and hearing the stories about my parents and the people who loved them gave me peace and even joy during that most difficult time of my life. I got to tell my parents' story(s), through me and through those who shared their own memories of my parents.

The single most important thing to me at that time was preserving my mom and dad. I could not bear the thought of their lives ending. I couldn't stand that what was so central to my life was about to be over or, worse, forgotten. I thought that if I could tell and share and hear their stories ... and get it all in writing ... I could save them. I could keep Mom and Dad alive forever.

That's how stories work, right?

To me, nothing in this world is more important than preserving, sharing, respecting and remembering peoples' stories ... their lives. That's all we have — stories. And every story is important. Every story matters. The tears, the joys, the losses, the failures, and the ultimate triumphs. Every person's story shares those same elements. Every life has enjoyed and endured those things. Our stories connect us to one another, from generation to generation to generation ... and they should be told.

Many are, thankfully, and that's how we are blessed with the books and movies we love so much. Of course, true stories of real people come alive in books and movies, but even fiction is based in fact. And every fictional character represents someone real.

So during that time of caring for my parents and subsequently writing posts for this blog, I preached that people should start gathering, saving, writing down ... everything possible ... those things that represented the lives of those important to them, especially for the older folks. I still believe this is a most important task and encourage all who can to do so for their loved ones ... and for themselves. I'm glad to say my kids and future grandkids will get to hear and see lots of stories about Jim and Nicki.

Clearly, my mother valued stories, as well. (She was quite the reader and book lover ... and had her master's degree in library science.) In 2007, she started a blog — Reflections on the Way We Were: Childress High School Class of 1963, that ran for several years. She and her classmates reflected on their lives and history. They shared their current lives with one another, as well. Those writings for all those years in that blog and the subsequent blogs along the way contain valuable history and stories about those people, as well as a ton of wisdom and insight! (Check out the "1968" post.)

How awesome is that!?

On Thanksgiving this year, Jennifer Johnston, one of my mother's classmates who wrote and administered the blogs with my mom, sent me a memory my mother had shared in the comments of one of the posts. Mom wrote about what Jordie and Cole were thankful for at that time in their very young lives, and, of course, it was cute. Jordie and Cole gave my parents so much joy.

I cried, of course. I shed tears of loss, but also of gratefulness. Tears that needed sharing in my still very raw grief. (I'm beginning to wonder whether it will ever end ... )

Jennifer has decided to close out those special blogs. They will still be available for anyone to read and/or stumble upon someday, but she is writing an "ending" that proves to be more central and uplifting than what has seemed lately like an endless line of obituaries for their class of 1963. I mean, really, how depressing is that? Jennifer is doing the right thing. Our lives are more than the endings!

I am so very grateful my mother had the foresight to create those blogs! She and those who shared of themselves and their memories helped preserve lives and history. She and they have given me and others stories. Of real people. Of real lives. Of real sorrows. Of real triumphs.

And, who knows? Maybe someone will come across those blogs dedicated to that small and special Childress Class of 1963 and transform the tales into something others might someday enjoy on a big movie screen. Why not? How else do stories come to life for all to enjoy and relate?

It's certainly something to ponder. And, again, please consider the task of preserving the lives of you and your loved ones ...

As for this blog ... I still don't know.

I'm just thankful for all the stories that get me through everyday life and connect me to you. Grief certainly makes life lonely sometimes.