Pasta on the floor
I spilled half a box of spaghetti on the floor the other day. It was sitting on the edge of the counter while I was cooking and the kids were playing outside. I ushered Carly out the door and away from the precariously perched box only to knock it over myself when I went to look outside and make sure the kids were still alive.
It made a huge mess when I knocked it over, spilling out and tumbling all over itself. I don't know if you've ever spilled half a box of spaghetti on the floor, but it actually makes some pretty interesting structures when it falls willy-nilly out of the box. Some pieces intertwine, some break, some fly across the room where I am sure they are still hiding.
For about a year now my life has been a lot like this little spilled box of spaghetti, tumbling out and twisting up and breaking. It is all linked, it seems, to Eric's mom dying. I hate typing that word: dying. I want to say the fluffy words like passed away but the cold simple truth of it is that she died. The wound of grief is still there, still festering under a bandage that seems to get ripped off at the most unexpected times.
On Sunday we went by the house where Eric grew up, his Mom's house. In every way it is his Mom's house, it feels like his dad only lived there. It is his Mom's personality stamped on every wall, every decoration, every smell. Eric's brother was living there and is in the process of moving out, almost everything has been removed at this point except for some odds and ends. Visiting the hollow shell of the home-that-once-was is heart wrenching.
We wanted to get some items inside, some dishes that mom collected and that I planned to keep and someday pass to Carly. The front door was locked and so I went around to try the back door. I was not prepared to find a museum of sorts in the backyard. Covered in the dirt of a year outside was the collection of toys that Joshua last played with in the backyard. He used to go and sit outside in the shade of a large deck and play with trucks and other toys. His toys, left on their spot from the last time he played there, hit me like a baseball bat in the gut. It was as if, at any moment, Mom would walk out that door and call Joshua's name. I called Joshua to the backyard and asked if he wanted any of the toys. At first he said "Yes! All of them!" He walked over and picked up a horse, looked at the toys for a moment and then put the horse down. "I just want....this one," he said, selecting a small bulldozer. "Are you sure Josh?" He turned and looked at the assorted trucks, resting in the spring sunshine. "Yes," he said, "there are just too many memories."
I told Eric what we found, which of course brought to the surface all the feelings of grief we have each time we visit Mom's house. He began to cry. After a moment he started to pull out of the driveway and I asked if he wanted me to drive, but he said no. As we made our way home, Eric's emotions continued to struggle to the surface and before long Joshua began to cry too.
Joshua has only cried for his grandmother a few times and only once that I remember specifically, the day before she died. It happened when I was taking him to her room to see her. She was hooked up to machines and was in a lot of pain, but I wanted Josh to be able to see her, to kiss her and hug her because it might be the last time, the last chance. I knew this would be hard for him, possibly overwhelming, but I was tortured with the idea that he might regret not saying goodbye, not seeing her. About halfway there Josh changed his mind about going back to her room. My own emotion, my own worry that he would regret NOT seeing her prompted me to tell him that she was probably going to die, that he might not get another chance. This is a terrible burden to lay on a child, I know what an awful thing it was to put this at his feet - I often make choices as a parent that aren't so great, I am sure that I could have found other words, other ways to tell him what was happening. Joshua began to cry, to almost scream, to yell. I knelt in the cold hospital hall with my arms around my baby boy and tried to comfort him, to take away the grief I had just given him. And I cried. Eric's cousin came over and took him from me, took him out to the waiting room again and I went in to see Mom for what would be the last time. I am glad now, so very glad, that Joshua did not come with me. I am glad his images of Mom do not include tubes and discomfort, one eye more dilated than the other, and labored breathing. At the same time, I am glad I got to go in and sit with her a while, that I got to try and help her get more comfortable, that I got to hold her hand and tell her that I was grateful she was my Mom. I don't know what she said back, the oxygen mask stole her words from me, but she squeezed my hand and said enough with her eyes to tell me that she loved me too.
The next day after she slipped away, I was sitting with Josh on the couch waiting for Eric to come home. I told Josh that she had died. I prepared for the screaming and crying, the raw grief of childhood, but there was none. He just leaned against me and sat quietly. He had already had the moment of truth and so I am grateful, too, that I did tell Josh she was probably going to die the day before. He had dealt with the shock of it already and was able to share a precious, quiet moment that I will never forget; a moment that brought me as much comfort as anything ever has.
On Sunday, when Joshua began to openly cry for what is only the second or third time since she died, it felt as if my soul was ripped in two, as if the wound was freshly made again. I made Eric pull over and I got out and went to Joshua's door. He screamed and cried against my stomach, "It's not ok! It's not ok!" and I had no reply. Because, really, it's just not ok. I will never get over it, I can only hope to get through it day by day.
We did eventually stop crying - poor Carly was completely and utterly confused and distressed by the show we put on - and we went home. Later that evening Eric and I had one of the worst yelling matches we have ever had. I will spare you the details but it came about after I lost control of my temper, after my emotions bubbled from grief to anger. For the last few days I just keep going over that afternoon and night in my mind. The person that I am, the person I have grown into - physically and emotionally - is not something I am proud of, not someone I like being. I am spilled spaghetti.
I am sure that every life is like this, sometimes spilling and sometimes perched on the edge of the proverbial kitchen counter. Cleaning up the mess is the hard part, whether it's spaghetti or emotions. What makes these last few days more painful, more ironic, is that the dishes we went to the house to get are not even there now. Eric's brother, despite being specifically told that we wanted those dishes, took them and claims not to know where they are. For 2 days I have been telling myself that it's just 'stuff', it's not Mom. If only my heart would listen.
It made a huge mess when I knocked it over, spilling out and tumbling all over itself. I don't know if you've ever spilled half a box of spaghetti on the floor, but it actually makes some pretty interesting structures when it falls willy-nilly out of the box. Some pieces intertwine, some break, some fly across the room where I am sure they are still hiding.
For about a year now my life has been a lot like this little spilled box of spaghetti, tumbling out and twisting up and breaking. It is all linked, it seems, to Eric's mom dying. I hate typing that word: dying. I want to say the fluffy words like passed away but the cold simple truth of it is that she died. The wound of grief is still there, still festering under a bandage that seems to get ripped off at the most unexpected times.
On Sunday we went by the house where Eric grew up, his Mom's house. In every way it is his Mom's house, it feels like his dad only lived there. It is his Mom's personality stamped on every wall, every decoration, every smell. Eric's brother was living there and is in the process of moving out, almost everything has been removed at this point except for some odds and ends. Visiting the hollow shell of the home-that-once-was is heart wrenching.
We wanted to get some items inside, some dishes that mom collected and that I planned to keep and someday pass to Carly. The front door was locked and so I went around to try the back door. I was not prepared to find a museum of sorts in the backyard. Covered in the dirt of a year outside was the collection of toys that Joshua last played with in the backyard. He used to go and sit outside in the shade of a large deck and play with trucks and other toys. His toys, left on their spot from the last time he played there, hit me like a baseball bat in the gut. It was as if, at any moment, Mom would walk out that door and call Joshua's name. I called Joshua to the backyard and asked if he wanted any of the toys. At first he said "Yes! All of them!" He walked over and picked up a horse, looked at the toys for a moment and then put the horse down. "I just want....this one," he said, selecting a small bulldozer. "Are you sure Josh?" He turned and looked at the assorted trucks, resting in the spring sunshine. "Yes," he said, "there are just too many memories."
I told Eric what we found, which of course brought to the surface all the feelings of grief we have each time we visit Mom's house. He began to cry. After a moment he started to pull out of the driveway and I asked if he wanted me to drive, but he said no. As we made our way home, Eric's emotions continued to struggle to the surface and before long Joshua began to cry too.
Joshua has only cried for his grandmother a few times and only once that I remember specifically, the day before she died. It happened when I was taking him to her room to see her. She was hooked up to machines and was in a lot of pain, but I wanted Josh to be able to see her, to kiss her and hug her because it might be the last time, the last chance. I knew this would be hard for him, possibly overwhelming, but I was tortured with the idea that he might regret not saying goodbye, not seeing her. About halfway there Josh changed his mind about going back to her room. My own emotion, my own worry that he would regret NOT seeing her prompted me to tell him that she was probably going to die, that he might not get another chance. This is a terrible burden to lay on a child, I know what an awful thing it was to put this at his feet - I often make choices as a parent that aren't so great, I am sure that I could have found other words, other ways to tell him what was happening. Joshua began to cry, to almost scream, to yell. I knelt in the cold hospital hall with my arms around my baby boy and tried to comfort him, to take away the grief I had just given him. And I cried. Eric's cousin came over and took him from me, took him out to the waiting room again and I went in to see Mom for what would be the last time. I am glad now, so very glad, that Joshua did not come with me. I am glad his images of Mom do not include tubes and discomfort, one eye more dilated than the other, and labored breathing. At the same time, I am glad I got to go in and sit with her a while, that I got to try and help her get more comfortable, that I got to hold her hand and tell her that I was grateful she was my Mom. I don't know what she said back, the oxygen mask stole her words from me, but she squeezed my hand and said enough with her eyes to tell me that she loved me too.
The next day after she slipped away, I was sitting with Josh on the couch waiting for Eric to come home. I told Josh that she had died. I prepared for the screaming and crying, the raw grief of childhood, but there was none. He just leaned against me and sat quietly. He had already had the moment of truth and so I am grateful, too, that I did tell Josh she was probably going to die the day before. He had dealt with the shock of it already and was able to share a precious, quiet moment that I will never forget; a moment that brought me as much comfort as anything ever has.
On Sunday, when Joshua began to openly cry for what is only the second or third time since she died, it felt as if my soul was ripped in two, as if the wound was freshly made again. I made Eric pull over and I got out and went to Joshua's door. He screamed and cried against my stomach, "It's not ok! It's not ok!" and I had no reply. Because, really, it's just not ok. I will never get over it, I can only hope to get through it day by day.
We did eventually stop crying - poor Carly was completely and utterly confused and distressed by the show we put on - and we went home. Later that evening Eric and I had one of the worst yelling matches we have ever had. I will spare you the details but it came about after I lost control of my temper, after my emotions bubbled from grief to anger. For the last few days I just keep going over that afternoon and night in my mind. The person that I am, the person I have grown into - physically and emotionally - is not something I am proud of, not someone I like being. I am spilled spaghetti.
I am sure that every life is like this, sometimes spilling and sometimes perched on the edge of the proverbial kitchen counter. Cleaning up the mess is the hard part, whether it's spaghetti or emotions. What makes these last few days more painful, more ironic, is that the dishes we went to the house to get are not even there now. Eric's brother, despite being specifically told that we wanted those dishes, took them and claims not to know where they are. For 2 days I have been telling myself that it's just 'stuff', it's not Mom. If only my heart would listen.
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