45 and 11.

The first week of May used to be completely joyful, I swear. It’s my birthday! It’s Mother’s Day!! Spring has sprung!!! Nothing better than babies and flowers and the blessing of another year to celebrate (and lots of exclamation points), right? I don’t know what the universe is telling me, but this time of year has overwhelmingly become the Bermuda triangle in my life.

Let’s back up.

Last year, on May 3^rd, I celebrated my birthday. On May 6^th, my Mom went into the hospital for an outpatient procedure. There was an issue that caused her to bleed out on the table, which led to a Code Blue. They brought her back, took her into surgery, and thus began her long, painful, slippery slope. Two days later was the anniversary of my sister’s death, which I commemorated by basically begging her spirit not to take our Mom from me yet. And then came Mother’s Day, which after the prior several days, was emotionally supercharged to say the least.

I say all this now that I’m through it like I’m just ordering breakfast (I’ll have a Code Blue, a bleed out, and a dead sister please. Oh! And coffee.) but if you’ve been accosted by any number of the above things, you know just how much of a jolt each of them can be individually, let alone stacked up in a matter of days.

So this year, on the cusp of that memory-filled week, I find myself feeling funky and pensive. It’s kicking off with an interesting birthday because when my sister died, she was 45 years old and her daughter was eleven. It hits home more now than ever before, because in a couple of days I’ll be 45 years old too, and Eleven is, well…eleven. Eleven going on 16, but that’s another post entirely.

I’ve been thinking a lot about where Laura was in her life when she died, where I was in mine, what we had in common, and where I am now that I’m as old as she was when she left us. It’s an ongoing monologue in my head, filled with unanswered questions, hypotheticals and regret.

And as I consider my life and everything that has been keeping my head and heart heavy, something has become very clear.

I spent my entire 44^th year in emotional shackles.

Right after my birthday I had two days of decent, followed by seven long months of high-strung fear and fragility, where I fluctuated between worried, panicked and hysterical. Mom dying marked the end of that period, and also catapulted me into what has now been five months of wandering around in a grief-induced haze.

I think it’s safe to say that last year sucked balls.

I think it’s also safe to say that the universe is trying to open my eyes and shift my focus to something bigger. Or maybe something smaller. Or possibly just something ELSE.

Mom is gone, yes. I’m shattered by the loss, yes. I miss her every time I go to call her, yes. And when I call my Dad, leaving a message is nearly impossible after hearing her voice on their machine.

My sister is gone, yes. I am different than I would be if she hadn’t died, yes. I mourn the loss, and everything she’s missed, and everything I am missing about her, and it’s not lost on me that I am now where she was, at least in age and motherhood, when she died.

But. They are together. They are safe in heaven and they can see me and my niece and everyone else in the family from where they are.

Last year, I spent most of my time desperately trying to prolong someone else’s life.

This year, I think the universe/my Mom/my sister is telling me to spend most of my time trying to drum up a whole lot of happy.

I have the chance to do what my sister didn’t, which is see my daughter turn 12 while I enjoy my 45^th year. I have the opportunity to respect my body, and love the life it holds, the lives it’s created, and the life I share with the traveling husband. I am able to celebrate, and while the past year has held more dread than party, it’s time to Footloose it up and start dancing again.

I will still worry, mostly about my sweet Dad, and a little bit about the impending birds and bees talk I need to have with the girls (GULP).

But I will try this upcoming week to see each milestone as a chance to quietly acknowledge, and then purposefully step forward from, the sadness and heartache they bring. It’s with me, but it’s no longer all of me. I think I need to start year 45 with a renewed Clear Eyes, Full Heart, Can’t Lose mentality.

Also, cake. And maybe a teeny hangover.

Happy birthday to me.

xo

Thirty-two

It's been a minute since I've written here, I realize. I've been spending the time both sitting under clouds and admiring their silver lining.


The first couple of weeks in May are loaded for me. First off, I celebrate my birthday at the beginning of the month, which as I get older is equal parts dark cloud (I'm getting OLD) and silver lining (lucky me - getting old is way better than the alternative!).


But five days after my birthday marks the anniversary of my sister's death, which always puts me in a funky, pensive mood. Inevitably, I replay where I was when the phone rang. The way I questioned the validity of the news, and made my husband call the sheriff to get confirmation, even though the sick pit in my stomach told me I already knew it was true. The rush of regret I felt then, and still feel now.


I think about how she was when I was a little girl, her mannerisms and quirks. How she sounded, smelled, looked, laughed. What she ate, what she wore, the car she drove, where she lived.


And then, how she died, where she was, what she must have been thinking and feeling. Was she afraid? Did she think of me? Uncontrollably slippery slope, I realize, but each year, at least once a year, that's where I am, and that's where I was yesterday.


And then, in the middle of that day and all those thoughts, I saw a picture of my niece. My sister's silver lining. She is hands down the best thing my sister ever did. That girl has gorgeous, strong, colorful wings that flap furiously and take her around the world, and yet she is able to stay grounded. She has seen the darkest of clouds at a young age, and chooses to seek and find and focus on global silver linings instead.


She is the opposite of my sister. She is health and peace and life. I can feel her thankful heart beating all the way from the other side of the world, and seeing her graceful profile in that photograph reinforced for me how grateful I am that she is here.


By just being alive, my niece dulls the pain of my sister being dead. Talk about silver lining. If I could, I would wear that shiny girl like a bracelet. 


Speaking of bracelets and birthdays (and let's throw Mother's Day in there too as an uncomfortable transition because, wow, Debbie Downer blogger), the traveling husband frequently says I'm too hard to shop for, because the only jewelry I wear with any regularity are my wedding rings.


I wear my rings all the time. (I only take them off to slather my finger with this weird cream I have to use because apparently I have eczema on my ring finger from washing my hands too often, as moms tend to do when they have kids and stinky, hairy, slobbery puppies. Nothing makes you feel old like a doctor telling you that you have eczema on your finger. Except another doctor telling you that you have eczema in your ears. Really? In my ears? I couldn't wait to tell my husband that it's official, those aren't potato chip crumbs in my ear, I have a real issue. Marriage with me just gets sexier.)


Surprisingly, I have a point.


Which is that I don't need diamonds for Mother's Day (or my birthday). Right now I need the kind of sparkle that only a silver lining can deliver. I would like some hugs and kisses and potentially breakfast in bed. I want to know that I'm loved and appreciated in the form of me not having to cook or clean anything, and I want lots of smiles and attention in the form of me being sent to a spa where a silent masseuse skillfully turns my body into a noodle, and then hands me cucumber water while ushering me into a private room where I can soak in a warm bath. 


Keith Urban/Robin Thicke/Bruno Mars (if he were taller) serenading me while this is happening is optional, but it would be a nice touch.


But even if none of those things happen, I'm happy. A bit melancholy, perhaps, but happy. And grateful to have another year with all the people I love.


The eczema can take a hike, but all the rest deserves a big outhale, and so, I think, do I.