One Day at a Time

Yesterday, I received a thoughtful email from Tia, a former contributor to my Pet Tales column that runs weekly in the San Francisco Chronicle. She reads my Blog and noticed I haven’t been writing much lately. She also shared that she lost her own mother 12 years ago and her father 16 years ago, and to this day she's still not quite over it.

"I've given up thinking that it will ever change," Tia said. "So I just live with it." But she understands how losing a parent feels, and was just checking in to say hi, see how I'm doing. I appreciate that, I really do.

Here’s the thing: writing is cathartic. I usually address what’s on my mind and in my heart. And these days, both are so heavy with grief that I can hardly motivate myself to do anything other than the bare essentials to keep me going.

How am I doing?

Well, my sister (second from left in the above photo) and I tried grief counseling, but dropped it after a couple sessions when we noticed that the counselor was fishing for family skeletons. Really lady, there aren’t any, we wanted to say. We’re just two daughters mourning the loss of our mom. We didn’t tell her that, but afterwards, we agreed to save the $165 per hour she was charging and spend it on something more therapeutic, like massages. Come January, we’re going to need to unwind after we start cleaning and emptying mom’s beloved home of 40 years. It's a task we're truly dreading.

In lieu of grief therapy, I’m turning to recommended books. One is “When Parents Die: A Guide for Adults" by Edward Myers. It's comforting to read that my emotions and reactions are typical and that I'm not alone. Or crazy, like it sometimes feels. Sudden death is especially difficult to deal with, the author notes. He also cautions that the grieving process typically lasts up to two years. It's been just two months. I can't imagine two years of living with this ache in my heart. And yet I can't imagine ever feeling normal again. Ever NOT missing mom.

Yesterday morning at Starbucks, I saw an older woman with short curly gray hair and wearing the same type of sweatshirt and jeans that mom was so fond of. And I remembered one of her simple pleasures: every single morning, she piled the dogs, Lucy and Holden, into the back seat of her Corolla, and with their happy heads wagging out the window, she took them for a drive, much to the amused delight of all her neighbors who witnessed this daily trek. Then she wrapped up their field trip with a stop at Starbucks for a Chai Tea latte.

For just the briefest of seconds, I wanted to call mom and tell her I'd seen her twin. And then I remembered. The pain washed anew, like it just happened yesterday, and in the Starbucks parking lot I fought back the tears.

It will take time, I know. And I'm trying, really I am. Thank you for asking.

And that's how I'm doing.

The One About the Rabbi, the Monk and the Pastor

Well, I'm not Jewish or Buddhist, so I'm cutting straight to the pastor.

To say that my pastor and church failed me during the darkest period of my entire life is like saying Hitler had issues. Friends who have heard the story are appalled, which validates that I wasn't simply crazy with grief. At a time when I desperately needed spiritual comfort, my church of ten years forgot me.

Oh, but the signs were there.

Such as the day before Mom's surgery, when the wife of the assistant pastor emailed me, asking if I'd like to join a brainstorming session for future church services. I wrote back, explaining that I'd have to decline because my mother had just been diagnosed with stage 3 cancer and I would be her primary caretaker. I also said she was entering the hospital the next day for surgery and asked that prayers be said for her.

How did the pastor's wife respond? She didn't. Nada, zip, zilch. Like I'd mentioned my mom was suffering from the heartbreak of psoriasis or chronic dandruff.

And it gets better, folks.

Days after Mom died, I made an appointment to see my pastor and told his administrative assistant the reason why. I was grief-stricken and in total despair. Angry at God and confused at why He let this happen. I desperately needed spiritual counseling.

So there I was, sitting in the lobby and struggling to hold back the tears while my pastor kept me waiting ten minutes because hey, it was a hot day and he had gone out to get an ice-coffee.

Okay, fine.

As I sat in his office, barely able to speak because I was sobbing so hard, he simply sat there. Slurping his ice-coffee and nodding, occasionally saying things like, "Hmmm," or "That's too bad," or "I'm so sorry." Then, when I couldn't utter another word, he finally spoke. Did he quote the Bible? Recite scripture or say anything to help me make sense of what had transpired?

Not quite.

"You know what's really bad?" he asked. "The death of a child."

I was speechless. Was I suppose to feel better that it was JUST my old mother that had died and not some adorable little tyke? I left his office still grief-stricken and also newly befuddled.

What the hell had just taken place?

This appointment was seven weeks ago. Since that time, neither my pastor nor anyone from his staff has reached out to me even once to see how I'm doing. No emails, no phone calls, no "Hope you're hanging in there, God loves you." Nothing. Despite greeting me in the lobby every Sunday morning for over ten years, my sudden absence hasn't made a dent on their radar.

In a previous posting I wrote that a crisis reveals the worst in people as well as the best. I'm saddened to learn that this idiom applies to churches as well, which is why I won't be returning to my former house of worship.

Not that I'm done with God just yet. There's always still the Rabbi and the Monk.

Starbucked for the Last Time

Are you kidding me? Almost five bucks for a large latte? Clearly Starbucks expects their exisiting customers (all four of us, judging from the empty lines of late) to compensate for those who bolted after their last price increase.

Well guess what, Starbucks? I know how to make one kick-ass latte using the still-working Krups Expresso machine my parents gave me as a Christmas present in 1987. It'll just mean getting up ten minutes earlier each morning, but I'll do it.

Yes sirree, I'm boycotting Starbucks. I won't darken their doorstep one minute more. Well, as soon as they stop selling those tasty Pumpkin Spice lattes, that is.

A Light in the Dark

Since Mom passed away seven weeks ago, my sister and I have been drifting through some sort of Stephen Kingish-type fog, trying to wrap our minds around all that happened. It still doesn't make sense and never will. How someone who was so vibrant and alive, someone so proactive about her health, so diligent about check-ups and annual exams, could harbor such a deadly illness without any symptoms.

And then, without even a fighting chance, die less than a month from her time of diagnosis.

To say we miss Mom sounds trite. Those words don't even begin to capture the gaping holes in our hearts. She wasn't just a parent but our best friend, our confidant, our cheerleader. We know that time will lessen our grief, but right now we can't foresee that day. The ache is too deep, the pain too searing.

On top of everything else, one week after Mom's service, I had to put her elderly and beloved dog, Holden to sleep, and then close my childhood home. Talk about an emotional tsunami.

But there has been one ray of light over these past seven weeks.

I have found myself surrounded by friends, co-workers and neighbors whose gestures of support have truly sustained me during this dark period. I really had no idea that people cared so much. And from their thoughtfulness I've garnered more comfort than they'll ever know.

Such as my best friend who never left my side during those first few days. I would have collapsed, figuratively and literally, had she not been there to hold me up. Or my brother-in-law, who has treated me with no less concern than he has his own wife. I have always suspected that my sister married a prince and now I know for sure.

My long-time friend from high school has phoned repeatedly, leaving voicemails that promise he's not a stalker, he just wants to make sure I'm okay. Friends that I haven't seen in ten and twenty years were kind enough to send thoughtful cards or make donations in my mom's name when they heard the news.

Others simply provided a shoulder to cry on. Like the day I was quietly sobbing at my desk and a co-worker came up behind me, put her arms around my shoulders, kissed the top of my head and without a word returned to her desk. On another emotional day, I opened my front door and found a gift bag. It contained a candle with a card from a neighbor I don't really know that well. She had heard the news and was offering her condolences with the hope that the blackberry scent might help me relax.

One painful revelation concerns two people whose total indifference has made me reconsider our relationships. One is someone I thought was a close friend and the other is my pastor. My pastor, for God's sake! Both know what transpired, yet haven't reached out even once, which hurts. Like it was a goldfish that died and not worth acknowledging. Their silence is as toxic as a cancer itself.

But just as a crisis reveals the worst in people, it also brings out the best. And I'm grateful for the kindness of those who have been there for me at a time when I didn't know I needed them.

I've learned that my life is, indeed, rich with those who are the best.

A Dreaded Day Comes to Pass

My mother died on Saturday, exactly three weeks and three days after being diagnosed with stage 3c ovarian cancer. I can't begin to describe how it pains me to even write those words, let alone accept that they are real.

Mom was in the hospital last week, recovering beautifully from a hysterectomy and the removal of tumors in her abdomen where the cancer had spread. She was scheduled to come home Saturday morning and I was preparing to leave the house to pick her up when the phone rang. I thought it was the hospital confirming she was being released. Instead, it was a doctor informing me that early that morning a blood clot had traveled to her lungs and despite an hour of CPR, they could not revive her. She remained on life support until family and friends could arrive to hold her hands and say goodbye.

Our hearts are broken beyond repair. My sister and I have lost not just a wonderful human being, but our beloved mother and our best friend.

Have a Nice Day

Ever notice how often people say, "Have a nice day" instead of extending a simple "thanks" or "goodbye?" I never noticed. Until Wednesday, that is.

On that day it seemed that's all I heard : from the receptionist, "Have a nice day!" From the pharmacist, "Have a nice day!" From the gas station attendant and bank clerk and grocery attendant, "Have a nice day!"

And I wanted to slap each and every one of them and tell them to shut the hell up because no, as a matter of fact I won't be having a nice day since my mother was just diagnosed with stage 3 Ovarian cancer and I'm sick to my stomach and stressed and scared, and until every single cancerous cell is eradicated from her body and I know that she's going to be around to celebrate my sister's "zero-birthday" in two years, be with us to enjoy Christmas 2013, or attend her granddaughter's graduation ceremony from veterinary school in eight years, I don't know when any of us might ever have a nice day again so please, keep your damn "have a nice day" to yourself.

That's what I wanted to say.

But I bit my tongue. There's no sense wasting energy on someone's misguided attempt at civility.

We have bigger battles in store.

And the Wait Continues

In the Mitchell clan, mom has long been known for saying, "Boy, when you wake up in the morning, you just never know how your day is going to end."

And she doesn't mean in a "whoohoo, I just won the Lottery!" kind of way. She's always been a bit ominious, my mom.

But her words came back to me late Friday afternoon when I finally got the call from Dr. Sidhu. The call that I'd been waiting for all week. The call to tell me that mom's biopsy results came back negative, all she has is a little infection, but is otherwise fine, and here's a prescription for some magic pills to make her all better.

That's not quite how it went.

"...bladdy-blahblahblah," Dr. Sidhu said. "...abnormal cells... blahblahblah.... appointment with an Oncologist... bladdy-blahblah."

That's about all I heard. When our call wrapped up, I swear I could hear my brain buzzing like it had just been through a power surge. I was expecting this call, but wasn't expecting this call.

The brain. Fried.

But I did hear Dr. Sidhu say that the biopsy results were inconclusive. Additional blood work, which was done yesterday, may yield more answers. And so on Wednesday my mom, sister and I have a follow-up appointment with a new doctor, an Oncologist named Dr. Simmons. Hopefully, he'll be able to explain the origin and significance of these "abnormal cells."

In the meantime, all we can do is take the advice admonished by Dr. Sidhu: "Hope for the best," she told me on Friday, "and prepare for the worst." Advice that I've tweaked just a bit.

Prepare for the worst and pray for the best.