I blame
it on love.
If it
weren’t for love, I’m imagining that the sad times wouldn’t be so sad and the
happy times wouldn’t be so, well, so happy. But they are and I blame it on
love.
It’s been
a crazy year for everyone, all around the world. My little corner has been no
exception.
My mother
died earlier this year. She was 90 years old and old people die. I get that. I
struggle with the knowledge that she was not only ready to die, she wanted to
die. Her cause of death was not wanting to live anymore, and I find that
difficult to understand. Maybe she just got tired.
I think
of my mother to have been somewhat like a phoenix, rising from the ashes time
and again. She had a difficult childhood, but she
rose above all of that and made a life for herself. She loved and buried two
husbands. She raised four children and loved us all and then loved three
stepchildren, too. She struggled with depression but loved herself enough to
keep putting one foot in front of the other when times were tough.
I was her
first born and I know that she loved me even before I was born. She loved me
when she ironed the shoelaces on my baby shoes, and she continued to love me
all through my life. I think that she probably still loves me. I still love
her.
My mother
didn’t always know what love looked like and she didn’t always get it right. I
blame that on her childhood. She tried, though, and she kept trying and she
kept loving. That counts…a lot.
Loving
can be painful. The shards can rip through your heart. The cuts are deep. The
scars are messy.
Inevitably,
loving means losing. Loss happens in lots of ways, but when the one you love is
gone, you grieve. You grieve for what was. You grieve for what wasn’t. You
grieve for what could have been.
When my
dad died, I remember thinking that it never really hurt less it just hurt less
often. Then one day, it did hurt less. Sometimes that takes weeks. Sometimes it
takes months. Sometimes it takes years.
Moving
through grief is never easy, but sometimes you get to sing lullabies.
Four
months after my mother’s death, a little man came into my life. Weighing in at
9 lbs. 6 oz., Thomas John, my new baby grandson, arrived on a summer’s eve.
Life
would never be the same.
Thomas’
early months were a whirlwind of medical appointments. I was the chauffeur and health
advocate. When we weren’t on our way to an appointment, my grandson and I got
to spend a lot of time getting to know each other.
From the
early days of walking, bouncing and singing lullabies to more recent times when
I have quite literally walked for miles and miles pushing his stroller, chatting
up a storm with and singing more lullabies to this amazing little creature, the
lullabies and the love have slowly tempered the loss.
I still
grieve the loss of my mother. I still miss her. I still sometimes cry when I
think of her.
Things
with Thomas have settled down. He amazes us daily and we celebrate the
milestones – first Christmas, first word (Mama), first bow tie, first solid
food.
On one of
our recent morning walks, I took along a small lap quilt that my mother had
made for me many years ago. It was a cold morning and I wanted something to
throw over the stroller when Thomas fell asleep.
As I
walked along looking at the quilt, I thought about my mom. I thought about the
fact that a quilt that she had made was now protecting the great grandson that
she had never met. I didn’t know whether to smile or to cry, so I did both.
I have
someone new in my life to love and to whom I can sing lullabies. Sometimes it
helps with the loss and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, life is just complicated.
I blame
it on love.
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