Tag Archives: loss

the Queen Mother

18 Apr

For the majority (if not all) of my adult life, when asked the question(s), “What do you do?” Or, “What is your title?”  My answer has remained the same, “I am a mom and a wife.”  This response comes as result of what I have found to be most fulfilling for me.  Ironically, what my parents considered to be an insignificant station in life, has been my most joyful experience.  In fact, when I became engaged to my, now husband, my father was terrified that I would be “stuck in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant!”  It was not a path encouraged, to be sure.  And truly I had no intentions of beginning my life into motherhood as early as I did, though am grateful Providence crowned me “mom” at a young age.  And so despite my upbringing having given me a different impression, I quickly discovered for me, motherhood was in and of itself my best reward.

I found myself, through the years, speaking to my earthly father (though he departed quickly to Heaven just one month before my son was born) out-loud, “Dad, you were wrong.  I am not ‘stuck’ in the kitchen.  The kitchen is my most favorite laboratory, and I am grateful to be here!”  Now pregnancy, that is another story altogether.  I seem to be allergic to pregnancy for I remained very ill until childbirth, with complications requiring bed-rest beginning at 19 weeks.  And though prior to ever having conceived I had hoped to have my ‘quiver very full’ with little blessings, my two pregnancies were quite enough–hands down!

So G-d blessed Brian and I with two lovely children.  Pains in the neck, at times, but genuinely enjoyable people.  Nice people, funny and quirky people.  Adventurous little humans, inquisitive, smart, engaging, wise, free spirited and loving.  And so being the mother of two was title sufficient for me.  Being a unit of 4, bliss–fun and full of abundance.

Which brings me to my present difficulty–relinquishing the crown.  I have been a mother of two for more years than not.  My experiences in life viewed through the lens of having two children–illnesses, education, relationships, sports, arts–the list goes on!  And now that I am down one, with the loss of my son, I still do not know how to navigate conversation or situations without wearing the crown most familiar.  Yet my heart is so achingly sorrowful that I wish not to touch upon the subject of our familial loss, though how can I avoid it?  But avoid it I must.

My writing has slowed down this past year, as has my sociability–or ability to casually converse.  My slowdown is due to fact I am keeping fast paced in the land of distractions.  That is correct, down time and thoughtful contemplation is not for me, not right now.  I use work, I use the comedy radio station, I use solitaire, I use the present, I live in the moment and I use music from my own childhood which connects me only to pre-children Rivka.  If not well versed at letting go my station, I am very keen at keeping distracted.

Do you have children? Yes, I have two.  How old?  My son 23 and my daughter 18 (yes, I’ve allowed Cole to age).  Oh, are they in school?  My son is a Marine and my daughter will transfer to a university in the fall.–Now here is where strategy, BentRivka style is implemented—  

I always lead with my son’s information and follow with my daughter’s so I may distract my present company by weighting her circumstance more heavily, which allows for the perfect transition to the general topic of education/academia.  Voilà, the conversation moves from the personal to the general.  And hopefully NEVER circles back to the subject of my son.

You see, I can’t.  I am still the wearer of the crown.  I am still queen of my castle and I remain ever devoted to my station.  I will go down with my ship and I will not abdicate the throne.  Sadly, I don’t know how.  And every time I try to wrap my mind around the possibility, the disbelief of my new reality envelops and its well of sorrow too profound to draw from.  Engage distraction #1…etc.  Aaaah, the sweet smell of survival!

So being my literary well is presently lacking, I invite you to a little piece written while in the land of the living, back in December 2012.  It was during a time of difficulty, to be sure, though definitely not a time of distractions.  Bon appétit!

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Muted Tones

2 Dec

If you have ever walked the road of grief, depression and/or oppression you will understand fully, this particular writing…

My culture and society do not recognize the black veil of mourning (yes our society once did), or the fact that black clothes represent grieving (they use to, but not now).  I’ve written about this aspect of life already and will not harp on it further, at least to the degree of reiterating my desire to have my clothes reflective of my sorrow.  No, that is not my direction today.  My direction today is to give a nod to living life in muted tones.

Muted tones?  You ask with a quizzical, half-hearted interest–if even that!  Yes muted.  Though the black veil of mourning is not covering my face, my soul is wrapped in a dark blanket of grief.  This grief mutes the colorful tones of life.  And I experience this world, currently, without the glitter and glitz of technicolor.

The translation of my predicament is this: my soul is sheltered thus my vision is fogged, or veiled.  It is akin to looking at a beautiful sunset (or sunrise) with colors bursting in multiplicity, clouds accenting the Painter’s canvas with utmost perfection so much so that the breeze takes a reverent pause.  And all who are privileged to view the masterful presentation are awestruck by the art of life.  And I, alongside the other viewers, am also aware of the beauty, though awe is not mine.  For the veil through which I look has slightly muddled the picture.

What is the tangibility of the reported “awe?”  The tangibility equates to happiness.  Happiness for something, anything.  It is a weird place to live, this world of mine without happiness.  Oh I do have joyful moments, for my soul has enough experience to not cloud that perspective.  But happiness, she has sailed away at the moment.  And while she is tarrying, I am somewhat paralyzed.  Not in physical movement but in actions of the heart.  …I want to shop for holiday gifts, but I get into a store and cannot think beyond the reality of my loss and the ‘whom I’m not shopping for’.  I leave the store empty handed, or worse yet, with a purchase that doesn’t make much practical or sentimental sense. I know I have a tradition of baking for our neighbors and friends, but for the life of me I can’t get my soul excited enough to think up a good plan.  I want to bless others, but as my mind tries desperately to focus on what that means, I draw a blank.  I want to make phone calls, but can’t find my voice.  I want to visit with friends, but can’t remember how to converse.  I want to be normal–well “normal” was never mine to begin with! 😉

Thankfully my sister was in town for Thanksgiving and she (and her husband) did everything to ensure our holiday tradition was observed.  For if left up to me, we would have ended up enjoying a warm bowl of pre-made ramen noodles courtesy a pot of boiling water.  I could hardly think one tangible thought past the need to stare into space and not speak one word.  Yes, I was surrounded by family whose children are a complete joy to interact with.  But the enjoyment of them is experienced through my veil.  I have weird and unique miracles all around me, reminding me that our G-d reigns and is watching over us (me).  It is just that the lack of happiness scares me a bit.  It keeps me muted.  And sometimes I worry I won’t recognize an emergency situation because the impact of seeing through my veil disables my reflexes–whether the emergency is physical, emotional, or spiritual.

Even writing is elusive.  I have considered writing quite a few times since my previous entry, but when I sit down to express myself the paralyzation sets in and I stare.  I am quite boring at this particular stage of grief.  How droll am I.  To paraphrase Mr. T, “I pity the fool who has to spend time with me!”

Person: How are you? Me:  I’m ok, thank you.  How are you?  Person: Fine.  So what’s new?  Me:  Nothing, and you?  Person: How’s your new job?  Me: It’s going well, thank you.  Person:  Do you like San Diego?  Me: Yes, but it’s not my home.  Me:  Well I’m glad you are well.  Thank you for checking in, perhaps I’ll see you again soon.  Take care.

And then I bolt before the conversation turns to my children, my family, my heart.  Which is probably why I am in a place of muted tones.  For I am constantly running away from the same wall that keeps appearing before me.  I turn and run right…the wall appears.  I turn faster to the left and run like hell…the wall appears.  I move backwards with grace and ease, running like a pro…the wall appears.  I run straight, steady and poised; the wall, the grief, the loss…appears.

I spend minutes in futile wonderment…what is the difference between happiness and joy?  Are they synonymous?  When the bible speaks of the “joy of the Lord” what does that mean?  Does it translate to peace, this ‘joy of the Lord’?  If so, I have that–peace that is.  Not to be confused with reconciliation.  Reconciled to this life I am not.  But I do have peace in knowing my reconciled state is irrelevant to the cycle of life, thus in a quasi manner, I live a peaceful life.  …futility at its finest (and that is just a glimpse).  It is here I see the blessing of my job.  For focusing on work keeps me from loosing myself in the wreckage of my thoughts.

I breathe deeply here at the end of a long and sorrow-filled note.  I breathe deeply for I am sitting at the wall, its color is gray, though the sunset this evening was magnificent!

Thank you for allowing me this moment of grief sharing.

 

my Jameson

29 Sep

I am not a drinker of alcohol.  I drink water regularly and enjoy my two carefully measured cups of coffee each day.  But alcohol, including wine, is something I’m just not a fan of.  And yet…

The week my Coley passed away, I could not sleep at all.  Now the one alcohol I knew would help the insomnia was whiskey.  I have not had trouble with whiskey in the past.  Primarily because one shot is all it takes to put me down.  Down as in, to sleep.  So one of my dear friends brought me over some whiskey, in a plastic water bottle.  I had a shot and sure enough went right to sleep.  But awoke at 1:30a.m. with the same despair as before, only with a slight tinge of a headache.

A headache from whiskey?  Not something I was accustomed to.  But the whiskey was a lower end product (I am honestly unable to remember the brand right now) and I attributed the slight ache to the cheap brew.  Yes, my body is particular to quality.  My palate? No.  For any and all brands taste the same to me–like junk!  I really have no pleasure in the flavor of any type of alcohol, whiskey included.

So I gave the “water” bottle back to my friend to replenish her supply.  And then off to Europe we went.  And then off to Japan.

While in Japan my sister and brother in law came to stay with our daughter for a few days.  And knowing my struggle with sleep, and the nightmares that were keeping me up (even the nightmares while awake) my brother-in-law bought a bottle of good whiskey for me to have on hand…Jameson.

That bottle is still unopened in my kitchen cabinet.  I have decided that now is not a safe time to open it.  Why?  Why wouldn’t an opened bottle be safe in my house?  Especially when I do not like the taste?  Because life right now is hard.  Facing each day from a mourners perspective is fragile.  And because the sorrow of our loss is so great, so prevalent still, and because the call of the spirit-filled elixir is upon me, I’ve decided the bottle remains closed.

My filled-to-the-top and ready to serve, Jameson, will wait its turn.  And when it’s opened, perhaps it will be amongst friends and family who will help partake in a small portion causing no harm to themselves or me.  Right now it reminds me that healing is not yet mine.  Healing from the loss, healing from cancer’s touch, healing from the hardship as result of Cole’s brain tumor.  Not mine, not yet.  And neither is the whiskey.

Now I can, on occasion, have a sip or two while at a friend’s house or family member (my other brother-in-law happens to love Jameson).  That is a different scenario.  But in my house, the bottle will remain closed.  The road that its opening beckons me to is not a safe one.  Is not a road I wish to, now at 43 years of age, traipse upon.  I miss my son too much.

So what do I do, in the meantime?  Well as soon as I post this note, I will go to my kitchen (my laboratory) and create something out of almond meal, lemons, strawberries, and some good cinnamon-sugared pecans.

Now cake I can handle! 😉

mourning

Cole’s empty room

mourning

Missing my son, a look inside