Bozeman Again! (This Time for Amy!)

In an unbelievable stroke of luck, I found myself last night in the company of one of my best friends in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Amy has been having adventures this year, working for a camp out in Idaho. Well apparently this camp has some connection to my beautiful state, because she messaged me telling me she would be in Bozeman for a week and is that perhaps anywhere close to Billings?

Uh, yes. So much yes. We decided Wednesday night would work for both of us, and even though I wouldn’t consider Bozeman close enough to be an evening adventure generally, there was no way it was not going to happen.

I never have enough time with this girl! But what time I do have is always such fun

I rushed out the door as soon as work was over and drove up to Bozeman. The time passed quickly as I listened to G.K. Chesterton’s What’s Wrong with the World. The book is somewhat full of generalizations and some rather dated sentiments, but between those are some really interesting and thoughtful pieces of reflection. Chesterton never disappoints.

Bozeman has a really awesome selection of restaurants.

At about 6:45 I got to Bozeman and picked Amy up at the church she was helping out at, and then we cruised around downtown Bozeman while we debated where to grab dinner. We found a place called Whistle Pig Korean, and with Amy’s love of Korean food and my own enjoyment of random cuisines, we decided that was the place. I bow to Amy’s superior Korean food, and she said it was quite good. With dinner we had a quite fascinating Barley Tea. It tasted earthy and kind of like Rice Crispys, if you could make a tea from them. That might sound weird but I actually thought it was really good.

Speaking of tea! We decided to check out Townshend’s, a cute and DELICIOUS tea shop. They had a wall of amazing smelling teas (Much better than our last tea adventures, as you can recall.) Amy got an actual cup of tea, and I got the Albert Palmer,¬†which was mango lemonade and black tea and so so amazingly good.

(I don’t even particularly care for regular Arnold¬†Palmer’s, so it’s not that I have an affinity for them or anything). We then headed towards Amy’s host family, where we had homemade ice cream and sat on the floor and talked for as long as I thought I could before heading for the long drive home. (As an aside, her host is so super sweet, and made sure to check if I needed to spend the night? or caffeinated beverages for the road? Or not caffeinated beverages? She was just ultimately so amazingly nice to me, some random stranger at their house.

 

I got home at about 12:30. A long evening, especially for a Wednesday. But so totally worth it. Bozeman continues to be amazingly enticing and beautiful every time I go. Amy continues to be her awesome, awesome self. I’m glad we got to adventure this week.

 

I’m still wondering why there is a creepy taxidermied bat in this store window. I should have got an up-close of it, the thing was scary looking.

 

 

The End of the Story

I have decided not to write out the last month as planned. The memory sticks painfully with me, and it probably always will. I don’t need the vivid reminder. I don’t need the rehashing of painful details. I don’t want to skim this blog in the future and remember what little bit might fade with time.

It still hurts and it still weighs down my life, but it is time to stop writing about that. Time to write about my awesome siblings and Dad, the time I spend with friends, the adventures in life again. While this blog has been a very helpful venting ground, I don’t ever want it to become a wasteland of my pain. And I think it will be nice to focus my mind on the little details that still shine bright rays of happiness into my life.

I am not done writing about Mom. She is gone, but she is still a major part of who I am. She was amazing and beautiful and wise. And I want to dwell on that, and not on her sick and suffering.

Tiny Reminders

She always did leave numerous, coffee stained notes laying around.

I was back out at Dad’s this weekend. I was handling it really well, it didn’t even particularly feel weird, until I made the mistake of flipping through some paperwork out of curiosity. I found a journal of Mom’s, one that Jenna had given her a long time ago. She had some Bible verses copied down in it, but nothing too personal. But tucked inside the pages I found a little sticky note. The top corner has my initials in it, followed by a simple comment: “my advocate – who fights for me-”

My mirage of okay crumbled. It still crumbles, every time I see the picture I quietly snapped so I would always have a reminder of it, every time I start remembering the words to myself in my head.

I have no idea why my mom thought to wright this down. An important enough detail she wanted to remember it, but also one that shares the scrap of paper with “There’s a harvest to get in this year!” written below. I am always protective of the people I love, but I didn’t know I ever did anything to make it stand out from the others who were on her side. I wonder what I did that day that she thought to make note of it. Why me out of the many people fighting for her? I’ll never know. But I am so, so glad that I could do something for her, so glad that we were close enough that we could have this connection, close enough to be equals and advocates and friends. Because she was always my advocate, always my support too.

It isn’t just little snippets of her writing that remind me of my loss. (There have been other scraps of paper, other notes, whether it was a letter to us kids or just little to do lists. They are all so her and they all really hurt). The stupidest thing is that I’ll see something, and unbidden the thought pops into my head “That outlasted Mom.” It’s terrible and such a stupid, horrible thought. I pulled out my violin today, thinking I could fill some empty, lethargic time with music. A few seconds of playing and I realized it would be hard. It had been Mom’s violin. We had learned to play together. I had played it for her the last day she was alive, because I always promised I would bring it out for her again to hear and I didn’t want to go back on that promise. She was pretty far gone by then but Roxy said she thinks she heard me. I found the rosin for the bow, the old, broken chunk that goes back however long ago when we actually played together – something past 10 years now I’m sure. And instantly “This rosin is here still and Mom’s not.” It’s not even nostalgic stuff.  “This stupid ketchup bottle,” “This notepad I haven’t used yet,” “The dang old cat is still alive, but Mom’s not.” I hate myself every time I think it, but it still comes to mind.

I think a big issue is that for some reason I feel like I should be okay now, even though I know it’s not true. I feel like I should just plow back into life and get beyond the pain, maybe it’s a lifetime of pushing pain aside that makes me feel like that. But when something comes up and suddenly I’m reminded I’m not okay. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not. And because I’m not the facade is easily broken by violin rosin and the beautiful curve of her penmanship.

Or realistically just a night like tonight, where I don’t have anything to fill my mind enough to distract me from the pain and suffering of these last few months. But I don’t know how this pain is ever going to go away so how else am I to cope than to just push it away?

By blog posting, apparently. I would apologize for gushing my pain out here, but let’s face it, that’s always been a major reason I had this blog, and there’s certainly more to come. But to have this one place where I can come to and just sob out the fears and thoughts of my innmost heart… it’s the only place I can, and it means the world to me. 

1 Week Later

It has been several months since I posted. Truth is I’ve had a lot to say, and not enough strength to say it. Easter was hard, because I saw how terribly my Mom’s health was fading. Mother’s Day was horrific, because I realized she was actually dying. 1 week ago she did.

At some future time I might try to revisit all that, to pour out so much of the fear and pain that has bubbled under the surface of my life for so long, but right now I won’t. Right now I want to just try to open up again by talking about the now and not the horrors of the past few weeks. I don’t yet have the strength for that.

This past week has been easier and harder than I expected. Easier simply because none of it feels real. It is hard to grapple with emotions when the emotions are tied to what feels like a dream. I can’t imagine the fact that my mother is actually gone. I can’t imagine not being able to talk to her again, how I can’t rush to her with my good news and bad. And so it is a vague fear of the future that fills me, but not a very precise one. Yet.

I sense a breaking in the dream coming. More and more things happen that remind me my Mom is dead, and more and more I feel the truth prick my heart with pain. I have a friend who is thinking of buying a house. Mom used to be a realtor, and I almost told her my Mom could probably offer advice on that. Someone mentions their mom in a conversation and a blunt voice in my mind rings “I no longer have one.”

Accidentally saying “My parents house,” or “I am going to visit Mom and Dad this weekend,” and thinking that those are no longer correct phrases, is only slightly more painful that actually saying “My Dad’s house,” and realizing that not only is it true, but my mind actually went to the right phrase first.

I fear so much for the future. For Dad without his other half. I don’t know that Dad has ever needed anyone besides Mom, they were always so content together. Now I worry what his life will look like without her. I worry about that big house, and the days Christian might not be living at home anymore. I worry about all my family without my Mom as our rock.

I worry about the day I get a random bloody nose or a bad flu and I can’t call her to ask her what to do. I worry about what should be happy days and wonder how they could be happy without her there to participate: holidays, when I graduate, if I get married someday, if I have kids someday.

I worry about major life decisions without her advice, I worry about struggles without her love to support me.

I wonder why she had to go through so much pain, why her body had to waste away to nothing, why, why, why…

And how in the world am I going to move on from this?

I can, for the most part, shove this all inside and ignore it, as I always have done with pain. But it creeps up and if I don’t surround myself with distractions it hits me, more persistent than any emotion I have tried to set aside before.

I wish she was here to hug me right now. She would know the right words to say.

I hope this doesn’t make me sound desperate and alone, because I have wonderful, amazing friends and family who have been so supportive of me through this. But they aren’t mi Madre, my Marme, my Mom, and they never will be.

And I haven’t figured out how to come to terms with that yet.