Eulogy for a Long-Lived Cat

A family says goodbye to a beloved pet when they feel the time of death is near. I have tearfully said goodbye to Pete approximately 18 times. I really believe that one of his favorite pastimes was playing “Ding-Dong Ditch” with Death.

Born into the Flood of 1993, he immediately became separated from whatever home he’d been born into, and as a stray, was adopted by a woman who had a love of Siamese cats, but felt bad for the homeless kitten. However, after a few short weeks of terror at the claws and teeth of this unruly barn cat, the purebreds were at their wits ends, and the woman began a search for a new home for the wild mongrel she’d named Pizza Boy, and we were so happy to have him.

An irreplaceable replacement cat after the unfortunate death of the perfectly docile, white fluff ball, Flo, Pete was far from perfect. He was a wild beast who prowled the flowerbeds and bit children (who were usually trying to force him into doll dresses). He killed rabbits and strewn their intestines between three different neighbors’ yards. He wouldn’t sleep with us at night. Instead, he would terrorize us by running through the halls while we were sleeping, batting at the light switches and turning lights on and off as he pleased. He could turn door knobs and would bat at your feet under a closed door if you dared to shut him out.

If you did not feed him first thing in the morning, he might bite at your stocking feet as you sleepily trudged past the pantry. If you were having trouble sleeping, he would begin to mewl at the top of his cat lungs just as you’d finally drifted off.

He was aggressive and had many face-offs through screens and windows until Mom would go outside and throw ice at the other cat to make them leave. Pete was always triumphant.

Except for when he wasn’t.

Pete learned to stalk baby birds who couldn’t fly very well, and faced the wrath of a pair of newly-childless Blue Jays who dive-bombed him with frightening coordination and teamwork. This attack and the impending infection nearly killed him.

Despite being such a terror, he really was the best cat for us. He was fun and kitten-like long past being dubbed “geriatric” by the vet. I have so many memories of using him as a pillow as he slept in the sunshine and I read or napped. Christmas morning was always extra entertaining due to his wrapping paper-induced euphoria. He performed acrobatics that would impress any member of Cirque de Soleil for a chance at catching a dangling shoelace or thread. He could purr so loudly that you could hear it in the next room with the door closed.

A few years ago, our vet informed us that Pete’s kidneys were beginning to fail. He began drinking copious amounts of water. I came home from college to say goodbye to him, but other than extreme thirst, he was still his playful self – just a little slower and sleepier.

About two years ago, we believe he had a stroke. He began having balance problems, and it became apparent that he was blind in at least one of his eyes. His appetite began to decline, and we all knew it was the end.

But it wasn’t the end yet. As my mom’s illness progressed, he never left her side. He always wanted to be on her lap, and I wished over and over that he would make it a few more months.

After my mom passed away, I really believe he knew she was gone and missed her. I would find him on her side of the bed when that had never been a popular Pete hangout before. Sometimes, when I got home, he’d come running stiffly to the door, only to take a look at me, as if saying “oh, it’s just you,” and head back to whatever chair he’d been sleeping on.

Two mornings ago, I came downstairs to find that he was very, very ill. For the past few months, he had been losing weight and sleeping more and more, but this was different. I could tell he was miserable, and when I picked him up to put him in his bed, I could feel his insides through the fatless, tissue-thin layer of skin on his belly. He looked up at me, and our eyes met, and I knew it was time.

When we took him to the veterinarian’s office, I was not as sad as I expected to be. I really felt like we owed this amazing pet, friend, and family member some dignity and peace. After the vet gave him the first injection, he began to relax immediately, and soon was lying on his side, looking just like he used to when he’d lie for hours in the sunlight. I kissed him and wished him sweet dreams, and my dad said he was in Kitty Heaven, chasing the birds and squirrels unlucky enough to end up in Bird and Squirrel Hell. I think he is sitting on my mom’s lap, purring loudly and happily as she scratches his ears. No more suffering – only peace.

Pete at Christmas two years ago

My Birthday

Today is my birthday.

I've been dreading it for weeks because I knew I wouldn't receive a phone call or gift from my mom. I knew we wouldn't go shopping together over the weekend or have margaritas or watch Mama Mia together. I knew she wouldn't be able to tell me that she was so happy to have me (and my sister) in her life.

I didn't really want a birthday if I couldn't have those things.

So, at first I tried to avoid my birthday. I told some of my friends not to wish me a happy birthday. I didn't talk to anyone about plans or gifts or fun things to do. I had the perfect cover – Halloween!

I met with my doctor on Monday for a follow-up visit about some medication and my anxiety attacks. I told her that I thought my anxiety was decreasing until the past few days as I was getting ready for my first birthday without my mom. She said that was normal, and that I should realize that the firsts are going to be the hardest. Of course, I know that, and I am dreading the holidays more than I've ever dreaded anything, but I really wasn't expecting my birthday to throw me for such a loop. I learned many years ago that birthdays were a lot like being single on Valentine’s Day – it’s just not that big of a deal to anyone else. I just don’t tend to have many expectations regarding my birthday.

Well, except for my mom to call me and sing Happy Birthday and tell me she loves me.

In a surprise turn of events, I actually had a pretty good day. My employer hosted a volunteer event at Harvester’s, so about twenty of my coworkers and I spent a couple of hours this morning sorting and repackaging food instead of entering data on our computers or answering phones. Hard work in the service of others is cleansing to the mind and spirit.

Then, since it was the official last day for some of the seasonal workers, we had a pizza party (yes, I recognize and acknowledge the irony here) and were able to talk and laugh and socialize in a way that’s not usually possible when you’re working.

Then, I was extremely touched to receive a birthday card from my coworkers. I didn't even know they knew it was my birthday! I felt really appreciated and happy to be there.

About twenty minutes later, a water main broke near our building, and we were told to go home because the water and air-conditioning were shut off, so the building was getting pretty warm, and you’re never thirstier or need to pee more than when there’s no water available.

As I was packing up my things and saying goodbye to some of the temps, a man arrived with flowers! For me! They were beautiful purple daisies and included a card from my sister, her husband, my husband, my dad, and all of our pets. I've never received flowers at work before, and it really is one of those times in life when you want to say to all of the other cube-dwellers, “yep, I just got flowers, people! Take that!”

Despite my good day and positive mood, when I got home, I did something that some of you might see as masochistic or even reckless. And I’m not sure I’d disagree.

I listened to the voicemail my mom left me last year on my birthday. It begins with her singing “Happy Birthday” to me, telling me she loves me, that she hoped I’d had a good day, and that she and my dad would just be hanging out at home, waiting for trick-or-treaters, so I should call her when I had time.

Hearing her voice was amazing. It was startling and disorienting, and at first I couldn't breathe. Then it was comfortable, like being home again after you've been away for a long time.

I listened to it about six or seven times, lying in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin and my dog’s head on my shoulder. I cried some, but I mostly listened. Again, and again, and again, and again.

Twice, I allowed myself to indulge in a deliberate delusion: that it was a message from this year, and that I was going to call her back in a few minutes and talk about my day.

After setting my phone aside, I fell asleep for two hours. When I woke up, I was disoriented and exhausted, my eyes still swollen from crying. I remembered listening to the voicemail and almost listened to it again, but decided I should get up and take the dog out before trick-or-treaters began arriving.

I was alone in the house, and I felt the loneliness sharply. It’s a really frustrating kind of loneliness, because I know I’m not alone. I know there are people thinking of me and supporting me all the time, but when this loneliness creeps up, it doesn't matter. The emptiness echoes inside me, bouncing off my bones, and causing my joints to ache with grief.

I picked up my phone as I grabbed the dog’s leash, and was stunned. In the past two hours I’d had five missed calls, four voicemails, and twelve text messages. They were all birthday wishes! And nearly all of them mentioned that they were thinking about me!

All the texts, calls, and messages don’t really make it any easier that I’m not getting a call from my mom today, but they are an answer to the loneliness, because even if it’s only temporarily, it has, as of now, mostly eased.

As I’m writing this, it’s nearly 8:30pm, but I'm feeling pretty positive about today, because I think sometimes, especially lately, when things seem so hopeless and empty, these reminders that I haven’t been forgotten and that not everyone has grown tired of me really reach inside me and soothe those aches of loss.

Thank you. 

Kassie and I dressed as Dorothy and Glinda
 for Halloween/our birthdays circa
1990 in costumes our mom made for us.

The Importance of Grieving Openly

I saw The Importance of Grieving Openly on Hello Giggles today. I tend to head over to HG when I need a break at work, or some inspiration for my nail art (yes, nail art). I don't know Becca Rose, the author, but I felt a connection to her today when I read her article.

When my mom died, I felt like it was ok to fall apart. So I did. But after a few weeks and months, I felt like I needed to "get it together" and "stop worrying people." So I tried. But it didn't work.

Something that Becca says in her article is that some of her friendships dwindled while she was going through her grief, but that she had to make the right decision for herself in dealing with her sadness.

...I made a decision that I couldn't afford to put a happy face on tragedy, and so I became brutally honest with myself and others. The friends I had, who stayed through that became my support system. In being honest with them, I felt like I had a net to fall back on. I wasn't alone in my grief, and that alone helped me so much. Those friendships became so much stronger because of what I went through.

This probably hit home the hardest for me. I wouldn't call what I've been going through "sadness" or even purely "grief" -- I feel that my grief over losing mom was a catalyst for the worst major depression and anxiety I've ever experienced in my life, and I've been so worried about worrying other people that I haven't been honest about how difficult it's been.

I feel a gap widening between some of my friends and me, probably due at least in part to not being forthcoming about my state of mind. But the truth of the matter is that I am juggling a lot, and maybe the friends who realize that will return after I've had some time to heal.

There are  friends who have checked on me every day and know -- and have known, before I was even ready to say it -- what I'm going through. I used to feel guilty about the burden I was placing on their shoulders. After all, my emotional problems are not their problems.

But maybe they are, after all? Simply knowing that I can text or call these friends anytime and they would drop everything they were doing to come be by my side is a security I can't describe. It's actually right in line with family, and I'm so grateful and so blessed to have both family and friends to lean on.

I've been doing a lot of putting myself in others' shoes lately, and I know that if a friend of mine needed my support, I would do whatever I could to help and support them. So, I think it's probably time to accept the help, welcome the support, and be real with everyone who cares about me that I haven't been well at all.

I have a plan that I put together with my doctor and therapist that perhaps I'll explain at another time, but I think the main bit of good news I'll leave you with is that a lot of the time, there's a tiny ray of optimism poking through my despair -- and I hope one of these days I'll have the energy and focus to reach some of my goals and dreams. I'll keep you posted.

My dad, sister, her husband, me, and Max on my sister's wedding day, October 13, 2012.

An Exchange

I want you to think about the last 6 months. Think about everything that has happened since you decided to come home early from England in April.

Don’t think of the individual events, think of everything at once. Let everything flash before your eyes.

It’s a lot for a person to deal with, right? Has your heart rate increased? Do you feel overwhelmed just thinking about it?

Yes.

Now, have you had anyone tell you they think you are strong, or that they think you’ve been through a lot?

Yes.

Do you believe them?

No.

You don’t think you’ve been strong or brave?

No.

Why not?

Because I cry every day. I keep gaining weight. I can’t pay attention at work. I can’t finish anything. I have to take medication just to function. I don’t take my dog for walks. I don’t have a real job. I’m so, so lonely. I’m losing my mind. I have no control. I just wish I could sleep for a really long time.

Switch places with a friend, any friend. Imagine you have their life and they have yours. Just think for a few minutes about everything your friend has been through, including her reactions and how she’s carried herself. Think about the talks you've had and how you wished you could help her. Don’t say anything, just run it through your mind – everything your friend has been through in the past six months.

10 minutes later

Why are you crying?

Because no one should have to deal with this.

That’s true, no one should. What do you think of your friend?

I think I feel so, so sorry for her.

That isn't what I asked. What do you think of her?

Long pause.

I think she’s doing what she can to get by. I think she’s in survival mode.

Do you think she is strong? Strong enough to survive and eventually come out of survival mode?

Long pause.

Yes.

Four Months - Only So Much

Our Family Photo from Thanksgiving 2011
Travis, Kassie, Dad, Mom, Uncle Wayne, Aunt Vickie, Max, Me, and Murphy

It has been four months since I said goodbye to my mom.

Actually, that’s not true -- we said our goodbyes before that, and I’ve been saying them ever since.

I think my goodbyes began on October 14^th of last year, the day after I had my gallbladder removed. My parents had gone to Chicago for chemotherapy at The Block Center, and then traveled to Lincoln so they could be with me after my surgery. My mom wasn’t doing very well – her liver was not recovering from the chemo, and she was starting to show signs of liver failure. Her skin had a yellow tinge, and she was very, very tired. The day after my surgery, my mom was too weak to go up the steps to our apartment, so my parents decided to go home so she could rest and be more comfortable.

I thought that was the last time I was ever going to see my mom. I was recovering from gallbladder surgery, which wasn’t super invasive as it was done entirely laparoscopically, but I was hurting, and I was very weak. I wanted to be with them, but I could barely do the steps, myself.

So, my parents left, and I said goodbye.

I look back and realize that that was such a huge moment for me. It was my first realization that my mom might not beat this disease. That she might not see my sister get married, or either of us have children. That we might never go shopping together again, or do all the things we’d planned to do “someday.” It isn’t that I gave up or lost faith – I saw a glimpse of how dire the situation was – something my mom had never let me see before.

Every birthday and holiday that followed became extra special and meaningful. We took family photos at Thanksgiving – that alone is something I will always be thankful for. I stopped going out as often when I was home, and instead stayed in to watch HGTV with my mom. I started thinking more seriously about the future, including things like children and my career.

Something else also happened during that time after my surgery – I felt a very abrupt change in my mom’s attitude. Again, I don’t believe for a second that she gave up or gave in, but she was so, so sick, and so, so tired. She’d made so many changes, so much progress, and gained so much time because of it, but now her liver was suffering due to all of the chemo and drugs that had been forced through it.

There is only so much a body can take.

This is the reality I denied for many, many weeks after she died. Why didn’t we find different doctors? She’d had no trouble in the past leaving doctors in favor of ones who shared her attitude and views, so why didn’t we do more? When she went for her final doctor appointment two days before she died, why didn’t they do anything for her then? When I begged the attending physician at Saint Luke’s to put in the catheter to drain the fluid that was building up inside her because her liver wasn’t doing its job anymore, why didn’t she do anything else for her? Why weren’t the doctors at the Block Center presenting us with new plans?

Now I know and believe that there is only so much a body can take. And by spending the past three years working WITH her body by feeding it the nutrients it needed and depriving the cancer of the toxins and sugars it needed to grow, she surpassed the expectations of all of her doctors.

Sometimes, though, I am just a greedy little girl who doesn’t care about any of that, and just wants her mom.

One of my daily rituals has become that “active mourning” exercise that I shared with you in my last entry. Once a day, I sit down somewhere quiet and look at photos of my mom with me, my sister, and my dad. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I feel better afterwards, and sometimes I feel worse. It all depends on how I woke up that day.

I think I’ve been waiting since last October to feel like my old self again, but I’m starting to think that is never going to happen. As my sister so aptly put it, “This is my life now.” 

There’s no going back. Only forward – and that is something I can try to do to honor my mom who was such a perfect example of moving forward when it was the hardest thing to do.

Mom and Dad, Thanksgiving 2011

Three Months

Mom when we were visiting Kassie in Springfield, MO, sometime in 2006.

I’m starting to believe more and more that Time is some kind of anomaly that the modest human brain can’t even begin to process, so it makes what it can of it, and thus, we experience Time in a perceivably measurable way.

Yesterday marked three months since my mom took her last breath. I haven’t been writing as much for a lot of reasons, but one of the reasons was that I didn’t want to worry people, as I have not been doing well.

Almost every night I dream about my mom – sometimes more than once – and they are usually dreams of her dying. In various ways, sometimes from cancer, sometimes in a car accident, sometimes she simply fades from view.

I’ve always been a vivid dreamer. My nights are filled with colorful, noisy expressions of my subconscious, and I often remember several dreams from any given night, although they do tend to fade as the day goes on.

When I was in high school, I had some very disturbing dreams about friends dying or leaving me. My therapist at the time suggested that I was probably anxious about upcoming changes and that in dream imagery, death can indicate a drastic change.

I don’t know what I believe about dream meanings, or if it matters, but I do know that my entire family has undergone the most drastic changes of our entire lives, because of the death of one person.

She was the center of our family. She was the president, receptionist, and director of the board. She planned everything, kept in touch with everyone, and kept us all going – while keeping herself going at the same time.

Sometimes it feels like it’s been years since it happened, and on certain days, I feel like it hasn’t happened yet. I still feel a sense of dread and anxiety about losing her. Not past-tense—not about having lost her¸ but about the process of actually losing her.

My therapist suggested I take time every day to “actively mourn” my mother. She said I should sit down in a deliberate manner and think of my mom and how I miss her. I have found this to be the most helpful advice anyone has sent my way since May. Sometimes I lie in bed with my teddy bear like a little kid and cry into my pillow, and sometimes I look through photos. I listened to some voicemails I saved (and thanks to my tech-savvy husband, will always have saved—on my computer, a thumb drive, and my external hard drive, as well as saved in my inbox) on my phone during one of these “active mourning” sessions, and that was still too hard. But one thing I’m grateful for is that in nearly every voicemail she ever left, even if it was just a “call me back!” message, she always told me she loved me.

The most useful part of “actively mourning” is that by giving myself permission to cry and be sad every day, I am not as worried about public meltdowns, or crying on friends’ couches at inopportune moments. Another perk is that through the practice of pulling myself out of the sadness and grief, I am better equipped to do so if a meltdown does occur.

In my head, three months feels like forever. A long, sad, lonely forever. In my heart, I’m not sure it’s even been three minutes. 

Mom in October 2006 when she came to visit me in Lincoln, Nebraska, shortly after I started going to school there. Frisco is the Railroad her father worked for.

Life Goes On

Mom and me at my wedding rehearsal, September 3, 2010.

I have had a lot going on lately, and I've learned that nothing is as fun or exciting as it used to be now that my mom isn't here to hear about it and share it with.

I know I’m feeling sorry for myself. It’s been 2 months, 2 days, 8 hours, 39 minutes and 22 seconds since my mom took her last breath, and I think my brain is still keeping an inventory of everything I need to tell her. For the most part, I’ve stopped having the impulse to call or text her, and when it does still happen, the pain isn’t quite as sharp. I haven’t had a panic attack in several weeks, and I haven’t had a meltdown in a couple of weeks. I don’t cry every day anymore. I’m functioning pretty “normally” for the most part. I get up at a decent time, go to the gym, play with the dog, look for jobs, write, talk to friends, go to the grocery store, cook dinner, etc.

But I am so, so lonely. And I’m not lonely because of a lack of people but because of a lack of one person who was such a huge part of my life and who I am. How am I even supposed to react to things when I don’t have her to consult?

I’m still figuring it out.

In the past two weeks, I have found out that two of my favorite people in the world are getting married and that a dear old friend is pregnant. I went to a concert and got to meet my favorite band! I scheduled a job interview. I witnessed a 14 year old boy suffering from heat exhaustion and not know who or where he was and be rushed to the hospital by paramedics.

None of it seems half as exciting as it probably would have just a few months ago.

My job interview is a week from today, and I am hopeful that means my job hunt will soon be coming to an end. Not that job hunting isn’t a huge thrill…

I’ve been making a lot of phone calls trying to get everything organized for Kassie’s wedding in October. She is so busy, and I know what it is like to be planning a wedding while being crazy busy, so I’m trying to help as much as I can, and so far we are getting along great! I didn’t know if it would be possible for two sisters to work on a wedding and not have a huge fight, but so far, so good.

I’ve also been exercising a lot. I’ve lost 6 pounds and 1% body fat. I’ve been doing cardio and weight training at the gym that mom went to. Mom had purchased 8 personal training sessions that she never got to use, and the manager at the gym was nice enough to let me use them, so that has been incredibly beneficial to me. I’ve also made some friends at the gym – some of them knew my mom, and some of them heard about her. It seems like everywhere I go, someone has heard of mom. At first, I actually found it to be really overwhelming. I couldn’t go to the grocery store without being stopped by someone wondering if I was Kristie’s daughter, and wondering how we were all doing. But now I am so touched by it. My mom touched so many lives. Sometimes I wonder if she even had a clue how much of an impact she had.

Thanks for reading my rather fractured blog post today. I just knew I needed to get back into writing, so I didn’t really plan this one out at all. It was more of a stream-of-consciousness than a planned essay or observation.

I’m going to close with the lyrics of the chorus of a song I heard for the first time at the Avett Brothers concert on Tuesday. The song is called The Once and Future Carpenter.

Forever I will move like the world that turns beneath me

And when I lose my direction

I’ll look up to the sky

And when the black cloak drags upon the ground

I’ll be ready to surrender

And remember –

Well, we’re all in this together.

If I live the life I’m given, I won’t be scared to die.

My friend Lindsey and I were lucky enough to meet the Avett Brothers on Tuesday at their show in Council Bluffs! It was a thrill!

Sad Days

View from the cemetery where my father's parents are buried

View of the cemetery where my father's parents are buried

It’s been a really rough week.

Saturday we scattered mom’s ashes at the cemetery where my dad’s parents are buried, per her wishes. It’s a beautiful place in the country, with a picturesque view of the land my father’s family farmed for generations. It was a small, simple gathering of just a few family members to say a prayer and say another farewell to their sister, wife, and mother.

Honestly, it wasn’t as hard as I was expecting. Not that it was easy—it definitely wasn’t easy. I cried more than I’ve cried in quite some time. But it was comforting to be in such a peaceful place that I essentially come from, with that small group of people related to me who loved my mother.

Sunday was actually the hardest day for me. I think it was hard for many, many reasons, one of which was that I hadn’t prepared for it. I felt prepared for Saturday, and then it was over, and suddenly there was another day. I didn’t sleep well Saturday night, so that added to my feelings of crazed despair and anxiety. Another problem with Sundays, in general, is that Max typically leaves on Sundays. He offered to stay another day so I wouldn’t have to be alone on Monday, but I didn’t feel like he should miss another day of work right now.

Monday was my mom’s 54^th birthday. It was a very difficult day for me, and everyone else in my family. I wanted to take everyone’s advice and “remember the good times” and maybe even celebrate her a little, but it’s too soon for me. So I cried a lot and I missed her.

Sometimes I do the things “they” tell you not to do. I stuff my face when I’m sad. I stay in bed when I don’t feel like facing the day. I ignore phone calls and texts from people who care.

Because the truth is, while I am healing (I feel it happening constantly), I am still so, so sad. I am the saddest I have ever been times infinity. I am so sad I am sick over it.

But I am also doing my best to be healthy. I am exercising, keeping an eye on my diet, spending time with friends and family, writing about it, and I’ve started looking for a new job. I think about my mom and how hard she worked to be healthy and happy, and I think she’d be proud of the steps I’m taking. 

My Mother's Strength (Part 1)

Mom and Dad dancing at my wedding, September 4, 2010

I have been wanting to write this since the beginning of this blog, but I am having a lot of trouble with it.

Why did I name this blog "My Mother's Strength?"

There are a lot of reasons, but one of the bigger ones is that I think so many people, including myself, can learn a lot from the way my mom dealt with her disease, and essentially, her life, as it became more and more a part of who she was.

Cancer doesn’t just grow in your body; it grows in your entire essence. When it metastasizes, like it did with my mom, it wasn’t just in her lung, bones, brain, and liver; it was in her soul. It became who she was. She was no longer Kristie, wife of Kyle, mother of twins, business owner, church member; she became Kristie, cancer patient, wife of Kyle, mother of twins, business owner, and church member.

I think at first, she fought the idea of cancer being part of her identity as much as she fought the actual disease. But eventually, she realized if she didn’t want to be defined by her illness, she needed to meet it most of the way.

After a friend of mine’s mother passed away when her triple negative breast cancer spread to her brain, my mom got really scared. Then she got mad. She found the drive to find another way. She knew chemo made her too sick to go on, and her doctor at KU was not receptive to alternative treatments (or positive thinking, for that matter), so she decided to look elsewhere.

She read books and read about cancer as a cellular process, not just a disease or a tumor to be removed. She learned the ways in which our bodies permit or even promote the growth of these cells, and decided to fight the cancer with everything she had – her entire life.

She learned about the Block Center for Integrative Cancer Treatment in Chicago, Illinois after reading a book written by the founder, Dr. Keith Block. After visiting their website and talking with her insurance company, my mom decided to go to the Block Center. This was a decision I will always be grateful for.

At the Block Center, she was treated with concern and respect, and everyone loved her. She was given supplements and vitamin infusions before, during, and after chemotherapy to help her body handle the dangerous toxins chemo drugs contain. She was told she needed to make drastic changes in order to live. She made them.

She began a vegan (except for certain fish), bleached and processed flours and sugar-free diet. It was maybe the hardest thing my mom ever did. However, it changed everything, and she lived.

She continued chemo for years, and fought the cancer hard. She started practicing Yoga, having laser therapy to deal with her uncomfortable and scary neuropathy, and even having her chakras aligned regularly. She started exercising daily and even worked with a personal trainer, and for the first time in her life, found control over her weight – something that had plagued her for her entire adult life.

And she prayed. And you prayed. And you sent positive thoughts and love. And she lived.

We had at least three more Christmases than we were supposed to. She was able to attend my wedding and see Kassie’s dreams come true with her career and meeting and getting engaged to Travis.

When people say that my mom “lost” her battle with cancer, I want to correct them – she lived longer and better than anyone ever expected or even dared to hope for. And because of that, she was able to inspire us and teach us what it really means to be strong. 

Friends (Part Two)

Me and many of my girlfriends at my bachelorette party in Kansas City, September 2, 2010.

In addition to my mom’s friends who are really like second mothers to me, I have my own wonderful friends. Not all of them are women. Having a guy who isn’t family OR romantically interested in you worry about how you’re coping is a really interesting experience for someone who typically surrounds herself with girlfriends.

I’m used to being the worrier. I’m worried about everyone, all the time. I’m worried about my friends, their decisions, their boyfriends/girlfriends, their families, their jobs, etc. This isn’t to say that I’m a nervous wreck all the time. In fact, a lot of my friends are in great places in their lives, loving their jobs, newly married, and/or new homeowners. I’m excited for them! But I want their happiness to last. So I worry.

I’m not used to people (other than my mom) worrying about me. Or I should say, I’m not used to knowing about people worrying about me –  I’m sure people have worried about me my whole life (and I’ve given them plenty of reasons!) but it’s mostly been that quiet, observational worry that I have for my friends, where concerns are rarely voiced, and the worries  mostly come from hope.

Over the past month and a half (and before), I’ve experienced an amazing exhibition of love from my friends and their families. My family and I feel so encouraged and supported by all of the phone calls, texts, emails, and hugs. But it’s more than just support and encouragement for me. In a way, I feel like my broken heart has been spewing sadness, anxiety, loneliness and a little despair everywhere. My friends are applying pressure to this figurative wound by taking me out to movies or for drinks, calling to check on me, going shopping with me, or just hanging out with me.

My friends loved my mom. To them, she was a strong, independent woman who owned her own business, battled a terminal illness, and worked every day to be as strong as she could be so she could stay here with us for as long as she could. I think a lot of people really looked up to her.

Whether you’re for Nature or Nurture, my mother holds the key to half of who I am genetically, and most of who I am emotionally and mentally. I am who I am because of her. So much of the good is from her, and even some of the bad.

My friends love me. There is no doubt. I worry about exhausting them with my tears and anxiety, but I know that isn’t going to happen anytime soon. I know that if I’ve had a rough day, or a rough three days, all I have to do is scroll through my phone or Facebook, and there are a dozen or so people who would be happy to talk, go for a drink, watch a movie, or just sit with me. This knowledge adds security to my life, and is a reminder that not everything is bad or wrong.

Thank you for the love, hugs, and perspective, ladies (and a few gentlemen).

(Happy) Father's Day

Mom and me, Kassie and Dad

My dad hasn’t always had an easy life, but is always grateful for what he has, and doesn’t complain when things are difficult, because to him, there isn’t a point to complaining. I’ve heard him say “well, that’s life” in response to worries, complaints, or criticisms voiced by my sister or me. And it’s true, as we’ve all learned at one time or another – life is definitely not fair. Life is tumultuous and full of unexpected twists and turns, yet so many of us fight these unwanted shifts and turns and find ourselves depressed or anxiety-ridden when circumstances change. Not my dad.

This is not to say that he doesn’t feel the pain of loss or change. I told you – he is surprisingly complex. I believe he feels these things just as much as anyone else might, but with one difference – he doesn’t indulge the childish voice inside that constantly reminds us, in that whining, sad voice, “it just isn’t fair.” No, it isn’t. But “that’s life.”

Father’s Day is a difficult holiday for my father. His father, my granddad, passed away Father’s Day weekend of 1990. When Dad reminded me that it had been twenty-two years since Granddad died, I was shocked. I audibly gasped. I don’t have a lot of vivid memories of Granddad, but I have a lot of feelings associated with him. When I think of my Granddad, I remember feeling secure, special, and loved. I also remember that it was important to mind my manners and be good, or I would be in big trouble. Much like my own father, Granddad never yelled, and I only have one memory of ever seeing him angry.

I don’t know for sure how old we were, but we couldn’t have been older than three years old when Kassie, Granddad, G-G (what we called my dad’s mom) and I went to Wendy’s for lunch after church. I was so upset that Kassie got to sit by G-G, that when Granddad wasn’t looking, I decided to crawl under the table to G-G’s side. I didn’t make it very far. He grabbed me by the belt loop on my jean shorts and pulled me back out from under the table, swatted me on the rear (in front of everyone!) and made me sit by him the rest of the meal. I was so surprised! My family and I laugh at this memory because Granddad didn’t really tend to get angry (much like my father), so he must have been pretty angry at me that day if he felt the need to spank me in public.

Mom and Kassie, Granddad, G-G, Dad and me

 Another memory took place at their house in the country. They had a pretty big yard next to some railroad tracks and a farm with horses. There were some huge trees in the yard that my sister and I spent hours playing under and climbing. One afternoon when I was three or four years old, I was climbing one of the trees and slipped, landing on something soft. The air was immediately filled with the sounds of screams.

I’d landed on a rabbit. If you have never heard a rabbit scream, you are lucky. The rabbit was fortunate that day because I was still pretty small at that point. He scurried away and got stuck in a basement window well. I was so upset and worried about the rabbit. Granddad calmly put on his medal-working gloves, while explaining to me why it wasn’t ok to pick up a wild animal with your bare hands, and rescued the rabbit. He let me pet him and apologize to him, and then he took him to another shady spot away from where we were playing and let him go.

My dad is a lot like Granddad. I remember lots of times when my sister and I were little when my dad would explain things to us, show us how things worked, or tell us stories. He was and is always calm and patient. I was (and am) very much my mother’s daughter, but as I’ve gotten older, I have started to appreciate more and more his perspective on the world. We don’t see eye-to-eye on many things (like politics and religion), but he is a gentle soul who bases his entire worldview on doing what’s right, even if it is hard or impossible.

Being a good father is about so much more than paternity. My sister and I are so blessed to have a father who has cared for us, provided for us, nurtured us, looked out for us, taught us, and loved us through everything (which I imagine was not always easy with twin girls – especially through the teenage years). We were so lucky to have parents who epitomized the ideal of marriage and being in love with one another until the end and beyond.

Dad and Mom on their wedding day, December 18, 1976

Ok Today

Dad, Kassie, Mom and me at the church Kassie worked at in Springfield, MO.

There is a song by Ingrid Michaelson called “Be Ok” that I actually found pretty obnoxious until recently. Suddenly, I can relate:

I just want to be ok, be ok, be ok

I just want to be ok today

I just want to be ok, be ok, be ok

I just want to be ok today

It is a plea. The catchy, upbeat melody disguises it so that maybe it doesn’t sound very dire or desperate, but the words are definitely desperate. I just want to be ok—Not “good” or “great,” but just “ok.”

For a long time, I’ve wanted to be ok. I don’t dare ask for more than that. “Ok” would be such a relief.

It is hard to believe that I’m typing this, especially after the past two entries, but today, I was ok.

Not good.

But, not bad, either.

I missed her a lot today, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t meltdown. I didn’t panic. I didn’t throw anything.

I applied for jobs, went to the gym, ran some errands, spent time with Murphy, and relaxed with Kassie’s best friend, Mary. I’m about to make a dessert that will prove my efforts at the gym futile.

It was kind of neat that when people asked me how I was doing today, I could honestly say “ok.”

Anger

Mom and me last October, celebrating with Kassie and me for our birthday

I've held it together really well today, but underneath, I’ve been feeling really, really angry. This isn't new – I've been angry a lot in the past several years, and especially during the past weeks. I've yelled at people I love, I've gestured at frustrating drivers, and I’ve screamed into my pillow until I didn't have a voice. I even threw a plate and watched it shatter into hundreds of pieces while arguing with someone very dear to me.

I’d started to mellow over the past couple of weeks, but for some reason, the past three days have been very frustrating and hard for me to remain calm. I am not what you would call a “calm” person. I react to things quickly and passionately. But I’ve never had a problem with my temper before. I tend to become upset or sad rather than angry when things don’t go my way. But all I know is that today I just want to scream and throw something heavy and breakable into a brick wall.

Why?

Because it isn’t fair.

You can’t get more basic (or childish) than that.

Over the weekend, Max and I went and saw The Avengers for the second time. He loves comic books and super hero movies. I love Thor/Chris Hemsworth.

There is a scene – and I don’t want to spoil it for anyone, but if you haven’t seen it yet and plan to, that’s not my fault—where Captain America tells Dr. Banner/The Hulk, “Doc, I think now is the perfect time to get angry.” Banner responds with, “That’s my secret, Cap; I’m always angry.”

That exchange has stuck with me. I’m not saying that I’m going to turn into The Hulk, but there are times when my rage swells and I feel the possibility.

I am angry that I can’t go out to lunch at Einstein Brothers with my mom. I’m angry that I can’t text her that Lindsay and Matt are having a girl, that JC Penney is going back to their original “sales all the time” format, that I want to start a business, that I miss her, that Murphy is healing really well... I’m so, so angry that she hasn’t been here for Kassie’s graduation, ordination, new house, and first Sunday at her new church, and won’t be here for her wedding. I want to scream when I think that she won’t be here to give us advice about children or marriage. I want to break things when I think about my father retiring in a few years and not being able to share it with my mom.

None of it is fair, and right now I feel that I’ll probably always be angry.

Panic

This morning I hauled my butt out of bed and went to Power Yoga at the Y. I am extremely out of shape and about as flexible as a wooden board, but my newly-hired personal trainer said she always attends this class and would help me out. So I thought, why not?

After an hour of impossible stretching and bending, including many modified poses due to my knees’ refusal to straighten and my hips’ screams, I felt physically satisfied, but I was crying in my car. A few of the women there knew my mom, and had just found out about her death. They had questions and wanted to share their condolences. I was completely unprepared. I had expected to come to class, talk with my personal trainer, torture myself for an hour, then go home and make lunch. I wasn’t ready for the questions. I wasn’t prepared for the condolences.

So, I cried in my car for a little while and successfully talked myself out of a panic attack.

Since my mom passed away one month, two days, twelve hours, thirteen minutes and 22 seconds ago, I have had approximately 9 panic or anxiety attacks. It doesn't take much to set me off - a memory, a conversation with someone about my mom, sometimes just thinking of something I wish I could tell my mom about will do it. Before that, I’d had about 7 in the past two years.

I have had a lot of problems with anxiety and panic in my life. A lot of it started because I was teased in school for being overweight. Tears come quickly and easily to me, so I would hold my breath and hold them in until I could get to the bathroom, or until it was time to go home. The only thing worse than being picked on when you’re a little fat girl is being picked on and then letting them see you cry. Assholes.

One day, in the second grade, we were having an indoor recess because of a storm. There were three classrooms-worth of second-graders in one classroom to watch a movie. No one wanted to sit by me, and I ended up having nowhere to sit at all. One of the other teachers (not mine) said that if I didn’t sit down by the count of ten, I’d lose recess the next day. I crawled under a table. They turned the lights off, and under my table, it was very dark. All I could see were the backs of my classmates who would have nothing to do with me, sitting on the floor, watching a movie while it stormed outside.

I panicked.

I started to hyperventilate and sweat. I was crying and choking on my snot and tears. I was dizzy and my legs wouldn’t work. My teacher dragged me out from under the table by my arms and carried me to the nurse. She was barely five feet tall and probably didn’t weigh much more than I did! My mom came to get me and took me straight to the doctor, who informed us that I’d had probably had an anxiety attack.

My mom didn’t make me go back to school that day. We went to McDonald’s and I got a Happy Meal and then we went home and I played with my Barbies. She asked me why I thought I got so upset, and I said I thought it was because I didn’t have any friends and that no one liked me because I was bigger than them. I remember she cried and I felt bad for making her cry.

The truth is, I did have some friends. But I didn’t have a lot of friends until a few years after this incident. I had a couple of good, close friends, but not enough who weren’t afraid of the girls who made it their mission to humiliate me every day.

Ever since then, I’ve been prone to having “freak-outs.” Usually at night. I’ve been in therapy for many years off and on, and I have medication that helps. But sometimes, I let things build up too much because I still don’t want to let them see me cry.

Another major “freak-out” happened during my last semester of college. I was taking a lot of challenging classes, trying to decide what to do after college (which, three years later, I still haven’t decided), planning my wedding, and my mom’s cancer had just returned with a vengeance. I was a mess. I was driving to school where I was supposed to give a ten minute presentation about something I don’t remember, and I was talking to my mom on my cell phone about how much of a mess I was. That’s when I saw the flashing lights in my rear view mirror. How fast was I going? Let’s just say I avoided having to go to court by only two miles per hour. I hung up on my mom and waited for the officer to get out of his car and come to my window. I hadn’t put my new insurance card in my wallet or car yet, so I texted my roommate that I’d been pulled over and asked if she hadn’t left for class yet, if she would mind grabbing my new cards and bringing them to me. As I waited, I became increasingly agitated.  I was going to be late for my presentation. Everything sucked.  I had no money to pay a stupid speeding ticket. Didn’t he have anything better to do than make an ordinarily-law-abiding citizen sweat it in her car?

I panicked.

By the time he got to my window, I couldn’t talk. I was hyperventilating, and couldn’t tell him what was wrong. I could only nod or shake my head. He asked me to get out of the car, and my knees immediately buckled. He told me wait in my car.

Less than five minutes later, I heard sirens. Lots of them. Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw a fire engine approaching.

What? Why?

Right behind the fire engine was an ambulance. Behind the ambulance was another police car with two police officers in it.

Oh my God.

They pulled over right behind the cop, and suddenly, my car was engulfed in a crowd of men. There were four firemen, two EMTs, and three police officers surrounding me, asking me questions, taking my blood pressure, and offering me a bottle of water.

I panicked again.

At this moment, my roommate showed up among the chaos, with a look of panic on her face. I grabbed her hand and forced myself to breathe. After several moments, I managed to get the words out to tell her that I’d had a panic attack and the police officer had called the ambulance and fire engine. She was amazed. I was embarrassed and still panicking. She sat with me while I refused medical attention and refused to go to the hospital. I didn’t need a $300 emergency room visit just to have an irritated doctor tell me I needed to take some deep breaths.

Eventually, all nine men dispersed, leaving my roommate and me alone. I had missed my presentation.

Oh, and the original police officer still wrote me a speeding ticket.

My anxiety or panic attacks have become a lot easier to predict and deal with in the past two weeks, thanks to therapy, medication, writing, a regular sleep schedule, and distance from the night my mom died. I’m trying to keep as many things in balance as I can, especially while I’m not working. I hope I can get back to less than ten attacks every couple of years, but I also know that getting irritated, annoyed, or upset about having them just makes them happen more often, and with greater intensity. Sometimes you really do just have to take some deep breaths and make peace with the things you can’t control, because trying to control them is only a waste of very valuable energy.

Friends

Left to right: Mom, Laurie Hunt, Jan Arnold, Judi Derks, Karen Ferbezar

One of the few requests my mom had for her memorial service was that at some point, Bette Midler’s song “In This Life” would be played. It is a beautiful song, and the lyrics meant a lot to my mom.

In This Life – Bette Midler

For all I've been blessed with in this life,

There was an emptiness in me.

I was imprisoned by the power of gold

With one kind touch you set me free.

Let the world stop turning,

Let the sun stop burning,

Let them tell me love’s not worth going through.

If it all falls apart,

I will know deep in my heart,

The only dream that mattered had come true;

In this life I was loved by you.

For every mountain I have climbed,

Every raging river crossed,

You were the treasure that I longed to find.

Without your love, I would be lost.

Let the world stop turning,

Let the sun stop burning,

Let them tell me love’s not worth going through.

If it all falls apart,

I will know deep in my heart,

The only dream that mattered had come true;

In this life I was loved by you.

I know that I won’t live forever—

But forever I’ll be loving you.

Let the world stop turning,

Let the sun stop burning,

Let them tell me love’s not worth going through.

If it all falls apart,

I will know deep in my heart,

The only dream that mattered had come true;

In this life I was loved by you.

Left to right: Laurie Hunt, Mom, Jan Arnold

I think, to her, this song was about everyone she loved, but mostly about her friends. Mom had an enviable group of girlfriends with enough character to star in their own reality show. These women are the family my mother chose to love. I barely remember a time when they weren’t part of our lives, but I do know that her life was changed by them.

I think most women feel a need to connect with other women. I could get pretty philosophical here, but I think it is a healthy desire within us to form these bonds of sisterhood.  There is strength in numbers, and my mom found so much strength in her friends. They formed a circle around her and held her up until she found the courage inside herself. Their encouragement and love is definitely part of the reason why I was able to spend so much time with my mom over the past 4 years. I spoke of Time earlier as a fleeting, nonlinear frustration, but really, I am so grateful for the time I had with her, the connections we've all made with one another, and the strength I hope I inherited.

Girlfriends singing "Delta Dawn" at Mom's 50th birthday party. Left to right: Laurie Hunt, Mom, Waive Morgan, Karen Ferbezar, Judi Derks, Babs Huebner

Kristie - by Travis McKee

My sister's fiance, Travis McKee, wrote this on Facebook this morning, and I wanted to share it:

Kristie

by Travis McKee on Thursday, June 7, 2012 at 7:53am ·

A month ago, I was sitting in the Smith house after an unimaginable night.  We lost an amazing woman, Kristie, wife to Kyle, mom to Kassie and Kourtney.  The next few days we sat and sorted pictures, told stories, and had a great celebration at their church.  But the whole time it was odd, because I saw pics and heard stories of a woman I didn't know.  

The first time I met Kristie, she was preparing okra for dinner and invited Lindsey (who snuck us over to the the Smith's) and I to dinner.  I remember her being so nice and reaching out in conversation.  I remember her as the woman who sold her business to focus on helping others with cancer like she had.  I remember this fighter who, when I met her, was the healthiest she had ever been in her life.  I remember the woman who told you what you needed to hear, but allowed you the space to experience it yourself.  I remembered the strongest person ever in that bed saying she loved Kassie and I and blessing our future.  

What I most remember is a morning almost a year ago. Kassie was in the shower to goto breakfast with me before Mission Week.  Kyle was in the living room and I asked him to get Kristie so I could talk with them.  I was wearing scrubs, everyone was in thier pjs, but I needed to ask them to marry Kassie.  I think they expected that when I asked to talk to them, but when I pulled a ring out of my scrubs pocket Kristie's jaw literally dropped open.  She was so excited for us, and immediatly embraced me as part of the family.  

See, a lot of folks have years of memories, and Kassie and Kourtney have so many tied in to their being.  I didn't know her then, just in the last couple of years.  My memories aren't definitive for anyone else, but for me they help define her.  What I di see in those memories from others is the influence that she had on Kassie and I's life.  Kassie said the other day that she was so sad Kristie hadn't seen all the changes that have happened in the last month (a whole other note in and of itself).  While her physical presence is absent, her spirit is permeated into all we have and all we'll do.  I thank her for the amazing family I was "adopted" into.  I thank her for the wonderful daughter that she raised.  And I am blessed that she approved me to share my life with that wonderful daughter.  

Miss you, Kristie.  We are a family forever changed by you.  

Time

My mom and me getting ready for my wedding, September 4, 2010.

As a mortal human being, Doctor Who fan, and Trekkie, I’ve thought about time a lot. But it still makes no sense to me. A minute on the treadmill can feel like twenty, but a week with someone you love passes in an instant.

Earlier today I was surprised to realize that it has been a month since my mom died. In some ways, it feels like it’s been years, but in so many other ways, I still can’t believe it even happened at all. I imagined I’d still be counting minutes and agonizing over the clock when it struck midnight and I realized it’d been a day, a week, two weeks, a month, etc.

Consciously, I’m not counting minutes anymore. But I think my soul is keeping track.

The only advice I’ve really received about grieving is that I need to stay busy and let time pass, and the further I get from that horrible night, the easier it will be to deal with it.

But I’m not sure that my mother’s loss is a solitary event. I feel like I lose her again every day. Every time I check my phone for a missed call, enter the house to find it empty, look at bridesmaid dresses for my sister’s wedding without her, or make any kind of plan, I lose her all over again. I’m transported back to her bedside, and it is nearly two in the morning. We are waiting for the on-call Hospice nurse to arrive. My cousin Lisa is saying soothing things, like “Shhh, you're ok,” in her soft, nurturing voice while stroking my mother’s head. I’m holding her hand. My dad is leaned against the bookcase, watching, tears streaming down his face. My Aunt Vickie and Uncle Wayne are at the foot of the bed, their hands on her leg. My Uncle Elbert is on the other side of the bed, his hand on her shoulder. 

It’s happening right now. Again. All the time.