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January, 2012

  1. A Song About Blue Skies

    January 21, 2012 by Blondette

    Today I attended a high school show choir competition. My cousin, Lizzy, was competing with her team/squad/group (crap, what are they called? A gaggle? A herd?)

    This is also how I came to cry at an inappropriate place and time. Yes, I started crying right there in the front row…during show choir. No amount of glitter and glitz could keep my eyes from leaking. Nuh, uh.

    In my defense, the song was about a new day and a new start. Something about blue skies. IT WAS RELEVANT TO MY LIFE. (Damn teenagers!)  I’d left my job of 6 years, I’d started working with a personal trainer, my mom died, and I got a new job. All in less than 60 days. But I guess it’s not the first time teenagers have made adults cry and it certainly won’t be the last.

    I’ve worried that people don’t think I’m emotional enough and perhaps I’m not grieving hard enough. I assure you, as soon as this becomes real to me, it will be hard. I was less than composed when Bob called me. First, there was the disbelief. Surely, this was a joke. I waited for it to be a joke. It was not. My body was first to accept that there was no impending punchline. It quickly said “Legs say crumble on kitchen floor…rest of body say shake like shake weight, eyes say leak a lot, heart say pound, lungs say “can we get some air in here?” vocal chords slow can only say one word now…no.” Eventually, my brain kicked in and I was able to compose myself. You’ve seen some of the first thoughts I had that night and those that followed that week.

    But after those first 24 hours I’ve felt some sort of bubble. I don’t feel like my mom is gone. I sort of see her in front of me to my left. And I feel her. She is the bubble. She’s not gone. On my way to the competition today I asked her not to leave me yet. For a moment, it felt as if she had.  But I can still hear her voice in my head “Hi Hunny…I love you! I’m proud of you every day of my life.” I can still see her slightly crooked smile. And her hands…I can see her hands. And her poor, sparce eyebrows that she over-plucked when she was younger and which never grew back.

    It’s quite hard to be sad when you feel so much love. Unless a group of glittery teenagers sings to you. Then you better watch your back.

     

    Category heart of the matter, humor | Tags: , | 1 Comment

  2. Eileen’s Song

    January 18, 2012 by Blondette

    Below is the eulogy I delivered at my mom’s funeral today, January 18th, 2012. This is not the full text of exactly what I said because I added a few things while I was talking, but this is most of it. 

    My mom almost named me Sara. Sara Leas. It would have been a lot of pressure to be a much better baker. Instead, she named me after her grandmother, Catherine and called me Katie.

    I was her second child. My brother, Brian, was born 2 years earlier, with dark hair, and without webbed feet. I used to think my brother was my mom’s favorite, but I eventually realized that it wasn’t about favorites. He was her first baby – he made her a mother. And being a mother was something she cherished deeply.

    Growing up, she read to us. She hugged us. She let us drink pop, but not eat sugary cereal.

    How do you pay tribute in 2-4 minutes to the person who nourished, nursed, and nurtured you?

    On Friday night, when the news was fresh, I immediately thought of the things we would never do together, things mothers cherish about having a daughter: we would never pick out my wedding gown, she would never see a grand child, she would never feel the kick of my baby inside of me. I would never be able to ask “did you feel this/think this/feel this when you were pregnant with me?”

    And then I tried to remember everything about her. Every little morsel that was her.

    She loved music. She was disappointed that she never got to meet John Denver.

    My mom was smart. She believed in education and she was a good teacher.

    She was witty. God knows my affinity for puns came from somewhere and it was not from my dad.

    She was a little naughty and sassy. You can see it even some of her childhood photos.

    She was faithful. She believed in God.

    She adored Bob.

    She often ate a bag of popcorn or a giant plate of broccoli for dinner – with Butter Flavored Pam and salt when she was a staff nurse working 12 hour shifts (which were more like 13 for her because she was so conscientious)

    In some of my last conversations with my mom she spoke of her hopes for her children (she did this often). She was excited that I’d been thinking about moving back to the heart of the city because it meant we’d be closer, and she spoke about her love for her husband, Bob, and his love for her.

    I know her body – the body that hugged me when I was sad or scared, the body that worked long hours to keep a roof over our heads, the body that swelled and broke with life to bring my brother and me into this world, the body that housed a most tender and loving spirit and heart – her body, my mom’s body, has stopped.

    But, she will never leave me.

    She is every breath I’ve ever taken. Every tear I’ve ever cried (even those, okay especially those – cried at sappy Hallmark commercials.) She is every off-key note I’ve ever sung (and there are lots) and every kindness and love I’ve ever shown.

    Last year, I was struggling at work and I knew I needed a change. Though I was terrified I knew I could make it through because my mom loved me.

    Even though she did not work outside the home in her last years she still had an occupation. She had 3 in fact. Her first was that of Eileen, lover of knowledge and the written word. Her second was wife and love to Bob. And her third was mother.

    Her love will never leave.

    Category heart of the matter, Life Lessons, writing | Tags: ,, | 7 Comments

  3. Dear Friday January 13th 2012

    January 13, 2012 by Blondette

    Today, you took my mother from me. She was 56.

    She will never help me pick out my wedding dress.

    She will never step foot on Irish soil.

    She wanted to go to Mandy Patinkin.

    I didn’t hug her on Tuesday because I was sweaty from the gym. She lent me a clean, dry shirt. It is in my laundry room. It’s orange with stripes.

    She sent me a text message that I had yet to answer. So I called her today. But she did not answer. When Bob called to tell me, I thought it was her.

    I am sitting with my cat. I pulled my bible from the shelf.

    I am watching/listening to Catholic (Christian) funeral songs on YouTube. I am crying.

    Today you took my mother.

    Keep her safe.

    Category heart of the matter | Tags: | 2 Comments