This past weekend I got a chance to travel to Miami!!!!!!! It was my first time to the beautiful city. Unfortunately, it was rainy for most of the days we were there. But thankfully, the sun forced its way through the clouds long enough to shine and cover us with its love. What a joy it was to experience beautiful, winy, sunny weather in the winter time. Thank you Florida!!!!!!!
We were in Miami celebrating my friend’s Chad birthday. While I will not comment on the birthday celebrations or the people that were there to celebrate Chad’s birthday, I will talk about myself and what this trip meant for me.
Aside from the tropical winds and the occasional sun, the trip was filled with a lot of emotional ups and downs. What was I doing the whole time we were in Miami? You guessed it… I was thinking about Mama.
I was wishing that Mama was there with me to experience the wind, see the palm trees, smell the ocean, and enjoy the view from our 27th floor balcony. I wished she was there to tell me how glad she was to visit Florida for the first time in her life. But sadly, Mama never got a chance to visit Florida. And she never got a chance to take a “real” vacation with me.
By the time I was old enough and had enough money to invest in travel and vacation, Mama had her first stroke. It was a downhill slide for her health once that happened.
Here’s what I decided when I turned 40… I decided to visit somewhere I had not been at least once a year for the rest of my life or until my health fails me. When I turned 40, I went to New Orleans. Last year, I went to Miami. I’m trying to decide where I will pilgrimage to this year. I’ll keep you updated.
And when I go, I’ll be thinking of Mama. But I’ve now decided that instead of feeling sad that she’s not with me, I’ll be enjoying life in her honor. I’ll take every advantage of “living” that my mother didn’t get a chance to do.
So, here’s to the next trip!!!!!!! Can’t wait to live it up for myself and Mama!!!!!!!
Showing posts with label daughterhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daughterhood. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Monday, October 5, 2015
One Death of Two Mothers
When my mother had her first stroke thirteen years ago, so much of her personality traits, critical understanding, and innate gifts were forever buried by the brain damage caused by the stroke. When she first came home from the hospital, she was simply a shell of a woman. Well, I should say that she was a shell of the woman I knew. Her idiosyncrasies, vigorous laugh, bold wisdom, and basic understanding of the world around her were snatched away by one tiny, microscopic blood clot that got lodged in her brain.
When she got well enough to be discharged from the hospital to home care, I had to sit down with her each day and remind her that she was a teacher, an American, and a musician. The one thing I didn’t have to remind her was that she was a mom. She didn’t know what planet she lived on, but she did know the names of each of her daughters. That’s how incredibly important we, my sisters and I, were to our newly disabled mom.
Although Mama remembered us, she didn’t respond to us in the same way. She would sit in an almost lifeless manner and just say nothing. Her personality seemed as if it was robbed from her by some weird alien being, who snuck to our planet and zapped her soul away.
I pushed, probed, and nudged at her to laugh, to smile, to remember, to even cry. But despite my best efforts, in the first six months post stroke, she just sat there, not mumbling more than a few words a day. She had no requests, no distinct memories, no likes, no dislikes, no regrets, no aspirations, no real self concept.
I honestly feel that my mother… At least, a great portion of my mother died August 2, 2002 when she had the stroke. I grieved for six months over the death of the woman I knew as mom. I would cry, ache, and wish that I could just have one conversation with her. I wanted to hear her sing, laugh, tell a story, teach a lesson, or even fuss at me.
I didn’t understand how or why I was grieving for her so intensely, yet she was sitting in my living room for most of the day. How was I grieving a woman that was still alive? And even though I didn’t understand it then, I was indeed experiencing real grief. Mama had not died per say. She had absolutely changed so drastically, her new persona was not recognizable.
After my grief began to lift after about six months, I had to learn to love the new woman that had emerged during the year of physical, occupational, and speech therapy. This new woman was temperamental, impatient, sorrowful, depressed, and less amused than mom pre-stroke. But I decided to love her yet and still. I knew that underneath the splash of blood in her brain that had drowned a large portion of her intrinsic traits, the woman I would always know as “mother” was there. She was just hidden.
So, I ended up loving two women: Mom pre-stroke and Mom post-stroke. And I must say it was an honor to love and be loved by both.
I suspect that now I’m grieving two women. Perhaps that’s why I’m hurting so badly. In my psyche, I have memories of two women I called mother. And now, both of those women… Both of those mothers… Both of those loving figures are gone.
I need much prayer and support as I adjust to this new normal.
When she got well enough to be discharged from the hospital to home care, I had to sit down with her each day and remind her that she was a teacher, an American, and a musician. The one thing I didn’t have to remind her was that she was a mom. She didn’t know what planet she lived on, but she did know the names of each of her daughters. That’s how incredibly important we, my sisters and I, were to our newly disabled mom.
Although Mama remembered us, she didn’t respond to us in the same way. She would sit in an almost lifeless manner and just say nothing. Her personality seemed as if it was robbed from her by some weird alien being, who snuck to our planet and zapped her soul away.
I pushed, probed, and nudged at her to laugh, to smile, to remember, to even cry. But despite my best efforts, in the first six months post stroke, she just sat there, not mumbling more than a few words a day. She had no requests, no distinct memories, no likes, no dislikes, no regrets, no aspirations, no real self concept.
I honestly feel that my mother… At least, a great portion of my mother died August 2, 2002 when she had the stroke. I grieved for six months over the death of the woman I knew as mom. I would cry, ache, and wish that I could just have one conversation with her. I wanted to hear her sing, laugh, tell a story, teach a lesson, or even fuss at me.
I didn’t understand how or why I was grieving for her so intensely, yet she was sitting in my living room for most of the day. How was I grieving a woman that was still alive? And even though I didn’t understand it then, I was indeed experiencing real grief. Mama had not died per say. She had absolutely changed so drastically, her new persona was not recognizable.
After my grief began to lift after about six months, I had to learn to love the new woman that had emerged during the year of physical, occupational, and speech therapy. This new woman was temperamental, impatient, sorrowful, depressed, and less amused than mom pre-stroke. But I decided to love her yet and still. I knew that underneath the splash of blood in her brain that had drowned a large portion of her intrinsic traits, the woman I would always know as “mother” was there. She was just hidden.
So, I ended up loving two women: Mom pre-stroke and Mom post-stroke. And I must say it was an honor to love and be loved by both.
I suspect that now I’m grieving two women. Perhaps that’s why I’m hurting so badly. In my psyche, I have memories of two women I called mother. And now, both of those women… Both of those mothers… Both of those loving figures are gone.
I need much prayer and support as I adjust to this new normal.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Am I Still a Daughter?
As I read all the National Daughter's Day posts on Facebook, I was forced to pause and reflect for a second. I felt weird, being that I have no daughters of my own, yet I love three little girls (my nieces) immensely.
I also felt weird that I have spent 41 years of my life being a committed daughter to my mom, who is now gone from my physical presence forever as of September 2nd.
Does her physical absence somehow make me less of a daughter because I don't have a mom anymore?
Strangely enough, I do feel like I’m not fully a daughter anymore. I feel that I lost a piece of my daughter status when she slipped away from my grasp the early morning of September 2nd. I feel that as a daughter… A good daughter… I should’ve been able to do more to save her from leaving forever. I should’ve been able to do something to help her live without the physical burden of chronic illness and disability. In a way, I feel that my daughter powers failed my mom. And so, she left me, without me being able to do a damn thing about it.
It makes me sad to feel this way. But I get better every single day.
When Mama left me, I embraced the guilt of her pain, sickness, and even death. I punished myself for not making her life better. All of my friends and family told me to not beat myself up. They reminded me of how much I’ve sacrificed for my mother. But even though I knew all that they were saying was indeed the truth, I still felt like I should’ve done more.
Today, I don’t feel as guilty. But even in my dissipating guilt, I don’t feel that I’m as much as a daughter as I was prior to September 2nd.
I don’t feel motherless or orphaned. I just don’t feel like a fully functioning daughter anymore.
It’s strange. I guess this is just grief in all of its vivid, less than delightful colors.
I also felt weird that I have spent 41 years of my life being a committed daughter to my mom, who is now gone from my physical presence forever as of September 2nd.
Does her physical absence somehow make me less of a daughter because I don't have a mom anymore?
Strangely enough, I do feel like I’m not fully a daughter anymore. I feel that I lost a piece of my daughter status when she slipped away from my grasp the early morning of September 2nd. I feel that as a daughter… A good daughter… I should’ve been able to do more to save her from leaving forever. I should’ve been able to do something to help her live without the physical burden of chronic illness and disability. In a way, I feel that my daughter powers failed my mom. And so, she left me, without me being able to do a damn thing about it.
It makes me sad to feel this way. But I get better every single day.
When Mama left me, I embraced the guilt of her pain, sickness, and even death. I punished myself for not making her life better. All of my friends and family told me to not beat myself up. They reminded me of how much I’ve sacrificed for my mother. But even though I knew all that they were saying was indeed the truth, I still felt like I should’ve done more.
Today, I don’t feel as guilty. But even in my dissipating guilt, I don’t feel that I’m as much as a daughter as I was prior to September 2nd.
I don’t feel motherless or orphaned. I just don’t feel like a fully functioning daughter anymore.
It’s strange. I guess this is just grief in all of its vivid, less than delightful colors.
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