On our podcast, The Creative Moment, my son introduced this saying. I don’t remember where he learned it from, and I paraphrased the quote, but we use the idea as motivation, as an idea to get through tough times, and to highlight a simple aspect of this life. There is a lot of living that happens in 365 days.
June was the anniversary of the death of my mom (you can read about that here: Meeting Death). There are so many ways that I am reminded of her, but there is simply still the void created by her passing. No text messages, or sending her photos of her grandkids. No visits planned (my parents would always visit us each summer).
And even though these last 365 days did not bring her back, life continued. Continued through rough days, suddenly being flooded with emotions, happy memories from a photograph.
I’ve written a few poems over the last year and published a collection of poetry, While Death Waits, that dealt with her passing. One of the most wonderful aspects of sharing the poems has been the connections and moments of honest human exchanges of stories. Every time I share some of the poetry based on the death of my mom, people have wanted to share their stories, their pain, the love they had for husbands, mothers, and siblings.
This past year has highlighted the most important aspect of each day; living is embracing the full range of emotions we may encounter at any moment. If you can keep your heart open and loving, even as heartbreaking moments happen, you will strengthen your spirit. You will know you have lived. Each day lived will add up to a year of life, and that adds up to a wonderful life lived…
This is an essay I wrote. It was not accepted for publication but I still wanted to share it.
“Meeting Death”
I finally met death in June of 2023.
OK, I didn’t meet death personally, but I knew he was outside my mother’s hospital room. I could feel him standing there, like a cowboy. Leaning against the wall, one leg up, bent with his foot against the wall. Hood draped over his head, hand casually holding his scythe, just waiting.
Over the years, Death has taken some important people from my life. My grandmother when I was in high school. A beloved principal I worked with for almost a decade. Maybe the most gut wrenching was the death of a former student. She was killed by a drunk driver who had a suspended license because of seven DUIs. It was her freshman year in college.
So I knew the heartache death brings to us, but I had never met him. Until my mother was admitted to the hospital, fighting colon cancer that had taken over almost every part of her body. I rushed 500 miles to see her. A trip I knew well because I had traveled that route home since April of 2023 every couple of weeks. Yes, you counted correctly, three months.
When my wife and I arrived at the hospital, I felt the difference in the air. The hallways seemed darker on the edges. As we hugged family members in the waiting room there was a silent moment when we broke the embrace. A lingering hand on the shoulder. A simple nod. Death had removed his name from our mind, but we knew…I knew Death was there.
So did my mom. I am still haunted by the way her eyes turned back time when we said good night. I saw her as a child afraid of the dark. She gripped my sister’s hand like a child crossing the street for the first time. Of course she said she would be fine alone. But her eyes pleaded for us not to go. The hospital was quiet. Visiting hours had ended, but the nurses didn’t rush us off. My wife and I had not checked into our hotel yet. My brother had taken my dad home so he could get some rest. My sister’s family was supposed to arrive soon. The nurses would be there if she needed anything.
I was torn. And to this day I feel like I should have stayed, even though Death did not visit her that night. At the time I didn’t think he would, I didn’t feel him waiting in the hallway, and that influenced my decision to leave and get checked into our hotel.
The next morning the sun was shining bright as I walked into my mom’s room. But it only created dark shadows in the corners. I caught my breath as I thought I saw the blade of Death’s scythe catch a ray of the sun, but it was only the metal part of my mom’s IV. I spent most of the day by mom’s side. Holding her hand, talking to her when she was awake.
I am a poet. And poetry helps me understand the world. As the day turned to night, I had a refrain play in my head, “while death waits.” Which became a poem and the title of my latest collection of poetry. But at the time I was emotionally trying to keep Death in the hallway. He could lean against the wall all he wanted. I was going to be a son for as long as I could.
And Death did wait. He waited until I was back home to take my mom. Death waited until she was home.
My mom was released Sunday afternoon from the hospital. Her body had found a state of being that allowed her to go home. Hospice care was arranged, a new bed was being delivered to the house later in the week. That Wednesday she had a good report from the doctor. The chemo seemed to be working, in the sense of allowing her to have more time. Death does not believe in time.
My dad called Friday morning. I remember the sky was so blue as he shared that mom had passed away earlier that morning as he sat by her bedside. I wanted to ask if he had seen Death in the shadows, but there were too many tears between us.
In September of 2023, my wife lost her mom. My mother-in-law was at home with her husband by her side. They live in the same town as us. That last month, my wife spent many nights with her mom and dad. I’ve never had the courage to ask my wife if she felt Death waiting in the house.
Because I know now that Death doesn’t actually wait.
This is the 10th year of my family choosing one word for the new year. Yes, everyone in the family picks their word then we display it in the house. This year we have magnetic puzzle pieces that are displayed on a metal plate we are hanging in the dining area. The puzzle is put together. Our older children have a second puzzle piece to take with them to display in their own homes, but we wanted to have all the family words in the house to symbolize that we are still together even as life is taking everyone on their own journey.
My word for the year is REAL. My first thought was to use IRL, but it felt too ironic to use a texting phrase for the purpose of my word, even though it fit my goal associated with the word. To be more real in my life.
Yes, part of the idea is to not spend so much of my life in front of a screen. At least not doing meaningless things. Obviously many aspects of my life, my poetry, my writing, even friendships, are connected to the digital world. But I want to choose real experiences first, choose people, choose playing games, walking, and conversing with others. Even in the digital world. I want to make the connections I have with people more than a shallow tweet or clicking an icon.
The other aspect for choosing the word is meant to help me breakout of the wall around my heart / spirit. I wrote about this feeling in November of 2022 in the blog post, “Tigger”. That feeling of living behind a wall was reinforced this year for a number of reasons. Yes, the passing of my mom and mother in law is part of it, but there are other small daily things that have added bricks to the wall I have constructed; from the classroom to the hurdles of chasing my dreams. I’ve spent too much energy adding bricks and mortar around my heart.
I am hoping this word helps in removing them because I don’t know how to get back to feeling happy and unafraid of living freely.
So my word for 2024 is REAL.
If you participate in the one word idea, share yours in the comment section.
I needed something to change my mood today. So I decided to write a music based blog post. Two of my favorite things. Plus it has been about six months since my last music based post. It was time to share some music with you.
First song up is “Never be a Right Time” by Tom Grennan. Right now, my second daughter and I jam out to this song in the car. This is one of the wonderful aspects of life, sharing a song with someone. A song that both of you light up to when those first notes start. Right now, this is ours.
Second song is a personal classic. My best friend and I are creating our top 100 songs of all time. We are having a hard time deciding on what format the final list should be presented in because we both have songs that are not available on streaming services. We have the cassettes or CDs copies of the songs, but to burn CDs for the final 100 songs would take some time. Now, YouTube does have some of the songs… but not all of them… but it does have one of the songs I want on my list… from 1987 Saga, “Only Time Will Tell”!
The third track is a song my daughter introduced me to, and it just makes me feel good when I hear it. And that’s what this post is about. Lily Mae Harrington, “TGTBT”.
And the last track for this post is not as ‘happy’ but that is OK. My mom and I would share music with each other over the years. One artist we both love is Teitur. When I visited my dad this summer, he was playing music in the living room. As we got settled he asked if I remembered how mom and I loved Teitur. He then switched the music to his first album (which I had given my mom as a Christmas gift).
I could tell he had been listening to music to help with the pain of losing his wife, his best friend. Music is one way we build connections with people. Music takes us back to moments in our lives. Music helps us in so many ways… Here is “Rough Around the Edges” by Teitur. (Yes, in my top 100 of all time!)
Which song should I play as an intro? “Live Like You Were Dying” by Tim McGraw? How about Kris Allen’s “Live Like We’re Dying”? I’ve got some more songs that didn’t make the radio but have the same message.
And I agree with the message. But death is not a pop song. A life isn’t 3 minutes and 20 seconds long. The death of my mom this summer and the death of my wife’s mom yesterday morning has taught me some hard lessons that you won’t find in any lyrics because there are some tough things to process.
The hardest lesson is the reality that death brings the end of a life. That’s it. One moment they are in this world, there is a chance, a hope, possibility to talk, to eat breakfast. After the last breath, that is all gone. As I stated in an earlier post, there is not even a today for that person, for us. Their story has ended.
Even as a poet I can’t describe the empty space in life that death makes when someone has passed. When I went home to visit my dad this summer I felt it in the house. Yesterday, we visited my father-in-law and I felt that same emptiness in the house. They are just gone.
I know there are memories, pictures, and the effects of the relationship built with someone. But the physical reality of them not here challenges my heart. There are no hugs, no laughter, no opportunity to share moments with them. There is a silent emptiness that reminds me that they were here.
Both my mom’s and my mother-in-law’s death destroyed them physically. Which in turn took away a part of who they were as people. My mom couldn’t read her mystery books or take walks. My wife’s mother hardly moved, she was in and out of consciousness. The fear in my mom’s eyes haunts me. My mother-in-law’s painful mumbles echo in my head.
Part of who we are is connected to the condition of our bodies. When the body starts to deteriorate, so does our ability to be who we are. I had never held my mom’s hands so much as I did the months leading up to her death. At times that was the only way to say I was there. To say I love you.
Death is not a final scene with soft music playing in the background. It is a harsh reality that challenges everyone.
Then there is life, which continues, even as I mourn the loss of two mothers, two wives, two grandmas. Two stories that have ended. Yet, the sun rises each morning. Orion appears in the night sky. Other stories are being told all around me.
I don’t want to live like I’m dying. I want to live so that when the time comes for my story to end, my loved ones can close the book and say, “that was a good story.”
I finally had to use one of the WordPress prompts for today’s blog. The prompt was “What are you curious about?”.
As I normally do, I brewed a cup of coffee to sip on as I sit here writing this. This is a routine for me. Whether it is poetry, stories, or blog posts, I usually have a cup of coffee next to me. I love when I get the chance to go to the Blue Moon to write for a while. I usually get a Bizarre Orange Encounter latte when I write.
But I will also have coffee when I am reading. When I know that I will have 30 minutes or more minutes to just read, a coffee cup sits next to me.
I remember reading (from somewhere) that coffee houses were important places during the American Revolution. I have attended open mics and slam poetry events at coffee shops.
When my parents would visit us, my mom and I always had an evening coffee. I have had long conversations with friends over coffee, some of those moments were at the Blue Moon. I got engaged at the Blue Moon (even had wedding pictures taken there).
During our high school days, when I slept over at my best friend’s house, we had scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. Yes, we thought we were cool drinking coffee in high school. This was the 80s before everyone was drinking some form of coffee. It was still seen as an adult thing to do.
It is interesting how coffee is an aspect of my creative and personal life. I enjoy trying new blends. When visiting new places I try to visit local coffee shops.
And I will always remember how my mom would hold her cup with both hands as we talked about life. Life is good when you have a good cup of coffee, especially if you are sharing it with someone.
Grief is an interesting monster. One that feels comfortable in the dark or the sunlight. It can rise up to stand as tall as a giant but be light on its feet. Moving so fast you can’t hold on to it, yet still in grief’s shadow. Or the monster can shrink down to sit in your hand, but be so heavy that you have to use both hands to hold it. Its weight making your knees bend, taking all your energy just to stay upright.
I am sad.
I am sad because of the passing of my mom. And I know part of the lingering feeling is that we will have the memorial for her in September, when all the family can be there. A milestone in the grieving process has not happened.
But there have been other milestones that have fed the monster. She passed away just a few days from her birthday and a few weeks before my parents’ 52 anniversary. Life moments that should have been celebrations.
I am sad.
I am sad because death is the end of the story. Even while my mom was in the hospital, there was hope, there was the idea of tomorrow. So many things that were possible with tomorrow. There isn’t now. There is no tomorrow. There is no today. I used to send pictures to “Mom and Dad” on my phone. Now, I send them to just “Dad”.
That’s why I am sad.
The monster attacks without warning. I never know the monster’s size or its intent. I only know that I am sad.
While we were in Wyoming we got rained on while the sun was shining.
The family was leaving the hotel. We stepped out onto the sidewalk under bright sunshine, then we were hit with big drops of rain. Enough to get us wet, but not soaked. My three daughters, who have never been to Wyoming, darted to the car laughing.
They had never seen a sunshower before; where wind carries rain from miles away. For a moment we were caught in a storm while the sun was shining.
I laughed as my girls clamored about what had just happened. But as I started the car, hitting the wipers, I thought the moment was a perfect metaphor for the day, for life in general. At any moment rain can appear, a storm, even if the sky stays clear and sunny.
There is a moment in the book Tuesdays With Morrie that captures this idea. Morrie is leaving the hospital after being diagnosed with ALS and the sun is shining. He shares how he was angry at the day for being so beautiful while he was facing devastating news. How could the world be so wonderful while he was dying?
I understand Morrie better after these last six months with my mom’s battle with cancer and her death. As my wife and I made quick trips to see her, I would feel the tension between the beautiful skies and the fear and worry of my mom’s health. On one trip my wife and I went downtown to get a coffee. It was a beautiful day. The baristas were wonderful. The coffee good. My wife and I sat enjoying a mint brownie. But we talked about what the future could be like without my mom in it, what would dad do, and when we should bring the kids to say goodbye.
Sunshine and storms. Smiles and tears. Wonder and fear. A life.
Seriously, this may be the most organic blog post ever. As I write these words, I do not know where my thoughts will take this blog. You have been warned.
I am sitting in my chair, rolling with my “Deep Thought” playlist and Pearl Jam’s song, “Just Breathe” is playing. I am trying some new coffee, which isn’t too bad. And I am lost.
Ohhh, “Bad Man’s Song” by Tears for Fears just started playing. Love this song! You should check it out.
OK, back to being lost. Besides on what to write for this blog post, I am feeling adrift at the moment. Part of that feeling stems from visiting my dad back home. The energy in the house was missing my mom’s gentleness. Her soft laugh. There was an undertow in the house as if life was trying to find a way to fill the emptiness in the house, but it didn’t know what to fill it with.
Life continues going no matter what happens to us as people. My mom died just a few days before her 69th birthday. Earlier this month was my parents 52nd anniversary. My dad has major holidays coming up. But even harder milestones will be the first University of Wyoming football game, then the start of basketball season. Let alone, drinking coffee alone each morning.
This life is an amazing gift but comes with responsibilities that challenge our very being. The first is that we are responsible for the quality of our happiness. Even when others try to destroy us, tear us down. Even when the randomness of life breaks us. We are still responsible for every breath we take. It is a heavy load to carry, especially if we run from it. Which I fear too many people do in so many different ways.
But to move through hardships, you have to move into them. And that means feeling the pain, screaming at God, crying when a song moves you to. I had never hugged my dad as he cried before until this visit. The moment needed to be felt, instead of running away from it.
We then drank coffee together in the kitchen. Yes, there was still an emptiness in the room, but we helped life fill it with love and the pictures he showed me of last fall when they went hiking. There was my mom smiling on a bridge in her University of Wyoming gear.
I’ll end with a song that played while I was writing… (Seriously it did!)
I’m heading home tomorrow to visit my dad. It will be the first time back home since my mom passed away. I know it will be different. I don’t know how I will handle it. There will be a silence… I am most stressed about being in the kitchen. Now my parents didn’t dance in the kitchen, but it was the hub of the house, especially when I was growing up. I would sit on the counter to talk with my parents as they made Sunday breakfast. When I became an adult, we would lean against the counter, coffee in hand and just talk.
A digital frame sits in the kitchen, a Christmas present from us, with pictures of my family playing on it. Bags of chips are still placed on top of the refrigerator, even though they got a new fridge a few years ago. The microwave still sits on wooden table in the corner.
It will be different now.
Life is different now.
But I will be back home soon. I’ll stand in the kitchen, coffee in hand, while dad and I fill the silence talking about memories.
It is all Connected 