Several years after my sister died, she came to me in a dream. I remember being so overwhelmed to see her that I was just sobbing and incredulous, repeating over and over something like “It’s you. You’re here.” She just smiled at me like it was any other day (and like I wasn’t hysterical) and said “I’m fine. Everything is okay.”
I woke up the next morning thinking, Wow. Maybe she is fine. Maybe everything is – finally –
okay. This is good.
Since my Mom died, I’ve been waiting for her to come to me.
She finally did the other night, but it wasn’t about me, it was more about my
Dad. In my dream (nightmare?) he was dying. He was very peaceful, laying in
bed, and I was sitting on the bed next to him on his left side. I was despondent. I
looked to my right, and there she was. She was vibrant, bright, young. She was
laying on the bed next to me with her feet near Dad’s, and she was propped up on her elbows. I looked at my Dad and said “He’s resting…I guess this is normal in
the progression…”, and then I looked back at her. She was smiling expectantly, beyond happy, with tears in her eyes. She nodded her head and said “I know.” She
couldn’t wait for him to come to her. She looked like a child on Christmas Eve
who knew her most coveted gift was under the tree.
When I woke up, I couldn’t decide if I felt better, or
doubly worse. And when I told the traveling husband about the dream later that
day, I cried.
Lately, I fluctuate between a couple of realities. The first
one is where I know on the surface that she died, and I can say it with a certain
amount of detachment, take the kind comments that usually come afterwards, and
move on.
Other times, it feels like I'm a little girl who's just been pushed off the high dive.
As I fall fast, my mind hits rewind and I see her in her
hospice bed where she was a shred of her former self. I see her in hospital
room after hospital room with tubes and monitors and I see the nurses and
doctors who floated in and out over the course of eight months, alternately
helping and pissing me off with their attitudes and answers (or lack thereof).
And then I see her as she was before, and this is the
hardest to reconcile in my head. I saw the decline with my own two eyes and yet
the questions remain. How can it be? How can vibrancy and resilience and
strength disappear and take with it the will to fight and live? How could I
have spent so much time hoping and praying and talking about her getting
better, and so little time preparing for how I would feel when that didn’t
happen?
Then I hit the water and sink to the bottom as the second
reality hits which is that she hasn’t just died. She. Is. Dead. There is an
odd difference. The first reality lives in my head. The second one lives in my
heart.
Recently the traveling husband reminded someone who wasn’t
being careful enough with me that “her mother died just four months ago.” It
made me feel incredibly loved and cared for, and reminded me that he may be
busy but he is first and foremost Papa Bear for this family. He stepped in
front of me as a shield, and that not only protected me, but gave me a moment
to let my own guard down. Which made me realize I’m playing it quite tough but
really, am hanging by a thread.
I’ll be stoic one moment and crying the next – you know how
that is right? When you lose something or someone you love (and friends have told me it hits just as hard whether it's been 10 weeks or 10 years) it's a cycle. You're on the pool deck, and it's okay. You go for a dip, and it's fine. You walk over to the diving board and tension rises. Then there you are, standing on the high dive contemplating everything, when PUSH and you're falling. You end up in the deep end, water up your nose and tears on your face, because the pressure is too much.
Eventually you swim back up, climb out, and warm yourself in
the sun again (preferably with a stylish cover up and a strong, fruity
cocktail). The clouds part and the day goes on and you realize that while you
were devastated and drowning, life completely moved on for everyone else. When
you came up gasping for air, kids were laughing, people were slathering on
sunscreen, birds were chirping. It’s like that scene in Jerry Maguire where he
gets fired at lunch, right? His head is pounding and his mind is racing. He looks at
his water glass and sees the ice cube crack. He looks around the restaurant
and watches people at other tables laughing and eating, all while step one of Jerry’s
World Crumbling takes place.
It’s the merging of realities, and I know I’m
blessed/lucky/grateful but it still kinda sucks.
My Mom was the Easter Bunny and the Birthday Fairy and the Best Kind Of Grandmother and Santa Claus all rolled into one, which makes
weekends like this one that much harder. She made everything special and made
everyone happy and always made everyone laugh (sometimes at her own expense).
Therefore, this week, I have been compelled to buy mass quantities of
chocolate and plan for lovely side dishes and plant flowers, so our Easter weekend
is as special as it can be. I will drink rosé and eat jellybeans and smile at
Nine and Eleven, because those sweet girls still want to hunt for eggs and get
a big basket of goodies. And I will fill those eggs and stuff those baskets and
shop until I drop for everything we need because I learned from the best that
it’s not shopping, it’s retail therapy, and I think we can all agree (maybe especially after crying through writing this post a little bit) I need
therapy in whatever form it comes in.
And then Sunday night, when the house is clean and quiet, I will climb into bed next to the
traveling husband. I will close my eyes, breathe deep, and hope she comes to me in my
dreams. I hope she smiles at me and tells me how lovely she thought everything
was. I hope she wishes me a happy Easter, and a good night’s rest.
And I hope I
get the chance to throw my arms around her and breathe her in and wish her a
good night’s rest, too.
I hope.