A Lonely Mourning

A Lonely Mourning

It was a Tuesday. March 19^th, 2013, at 10 a.m. My phone rang and I didn’t recognize the phone number, so it went unanswered. Curiosity kicked in because I thought I had remembered seeing that area code before. So, I Googled the number and to my shock, the search read, The University Inn, Tampa Florida. This address I knew well. It was my father’s. I knew something had happened to him. I felt it in my bones. And somewhere deep down inside, I knew he had died.

 

It’s not something that can be explained or rationalized or even truly understood unless something so unexpected and devastating happens to you. It’s a sinking feeling, in the pit of your stomach traveling to every recess of your being; a dream-like state that is perpetuated by your own thoughts and your own voice as you try to make fit, the magnitude of what has happened.

As I have previously written, I was not raised by my father, and in fact, he was only in my life until my parents divorced around 1974. After that, he fell further into the bottle, further away from his children and further into a lonely existence. I was a 3 year old little girl at the time, far too young an age to prepare for the loss of a father. Of course, as I sit here today I am reminded that there is no age where you can actually prepare for the loss of a father. Needless to say, I had little or no contact with him most of my life, despite my effort to find him and connect with him. For all intents and purposes, he did not want to be found, nor did he want to be a father. In my mind, he didn’t want me and there was nothing I could do to fix that. But life has a funny way of changing direction, changing our outlook and changing our fate.

My father did re-enter my life but I was grown up with a child of my own. We took things slow because we were not father and daughter, but mere strangers getting to know each other. We exchanged phone calls primarily on holidays or an occasional random weekday. I would talk about work or Mattie; he would listen, barely uttering a word. I was sensing that all the things I wished he could be, wished he wanted to be, just weren’t within his capabilities. He was struggling being in my life and I was just growing tired of it all. In that moment, I wanted to give up and let go. I wanted to be set free.

It’s not in my biological makeup to quit or to give up on anyone or anything that still holds a piece of my heart. So after a while, I decided to shift my focus and change my perspective on a situation in which I lost my grip. I gave all this pain I had experienced; all the tears I shed; all the struggling to “fix” my father, over to God. I had surrendered to my past. I had surrendered to my father. I had stopped fighting for him and began to fight for myself. The struggle was over, the tears gone, my pain had retreated for the first time in 40 years. I left whatever was meant to happen, in the hands of God, nothing more. And an amazing thing began to happen. Things started to progress and the estranged relationship my father and I shared for so many years began to unravel. Despite his uneasiness to relate to a grown daughter, he was making an effort to draw the stranger I had become, back to him, back to his heart. We did grow very close over the last year of his life. God had lifted me up and over the mountain of a wall that had separated a father and daughter. I no longer saw him as an absent, uncaring father, but as a man, a human being that could be no more perfect than I could be. And after a while, the deadening silence and one sided idle chit chat that used to fill the phone lines was replaced with laughter, and my fathers’ stories; stories that made him radiate from the inside out. He would often talk about playing the piano, like he used to do, his missed audition with Julliard in New York City, his now arthritic hands unable to grace the keys. He spoke of his regrets, his mistakes with my mother, with his children, with his life. On the other end of the phone sat a broken man who had nothing except for a connection through a phone line with a daughter that he knew had never given up on him. I could tell his heart was opening, reclaiming parts of his past that he had wanted to keep buried. He was coming alive probably for the first time in his life and he knew I was the reason for it.

Our last phone call was about 2 weeks prior to his death. It was one of the best conversations I had ever had with him. We spent an hour and a half laughing, reminiscing and complaining about the daily grind of life. As I listened, I smiled to myself realizing that this imperfect, beautiful, humorous man finally wanted me, finally wanted to be a father. I had given him the gift he had always been looking for, true forgiveness, unconditional love and acceptance. He was no longer unsure if a man like him, one that had abandoned his family, deserved a child to love him this much; and to have her be so incredibly dedicated to him. That sadness and regret was gone. He was my father and in that moment, he was free. And so was I.

The call ended the same way it always had. I said “I love you daddy” to which he replied “love you too baby”. Little did I know at the time, those would be the last words my father would ever say to me. We never spoke again. I suppose in a way, I should be grateful or feel blessed that I had that precious time, that last connection with him and somewhere under my sadness and pain, I’m sure I am. But in the bright light of day, I simply want to hide away, find the dark and be sad. I don’t feel blessed for having had him so briefly, but sadness for no longer having him, for no longer having, TIME.

As the months carried on, I gained some perspective on my father’s death. I have learned that my father lived a lonely life, lived most of it without knowing the love and loyalty that comes with being a family. I have learned that possibly my father loved me as much as his heart was capable of loving anyone, that the time he afforded me was simply all he had to give. The hardest part of his death has been living in the loneliness he left behind, I am unable to share my grief with anyone. Life went on as it does and no one stopped to share my pain, no one knew the man I grew to know and love. So there were no tears but mine. Typically when a loved one passes, there are family members, friends, flowers filling the parlor, people hugging you and holding you up when the pain becomes too much. People cry for your loss, for their loss and they get through the process by telling stories, sharing photos, reliving the wonderful person he or she was and then knowing within themselves that the world was left a far better place because that person had lived in it.

It seems my father meant nothing to anyone but me. I knew no one would make a big production over his death, no one would cry or cling to each other because they felt the loss of an amazing man. There was nothing. No friends, no family, no flowers. Just me, left to my lonely mourning. He was cremated and shipped to me in a pretty wooden box. Not being able to openly mourn his death or  share this overwhelming pain with another person who loved him, who cared for him, who finally understood him; the man, not the father; for his betrayal and his mistakes. To not have had anyone else on this earth to bear witness to his life or his redemption leaves me feeling empty and alone. On the worst of days, when I feel as if I am drowning, I think of him, I hear his voice as soft as the wind, whispering that he is okay, that he made it, that I can let go, that in his death, he is setting me free. For the last time.

I miss my father every single day. Some days are better than others, it’s true, and time is doing its best to heal the empty, dark place he left behind. But life presses forward as it tends to do and I know that I have press forward, without him.

My only hope and prayer is not that this incredible pain lessens for me, but that my father died knowing how very much I loved him. I hope he knows how much he meant to me. I hope he knows that his life did matter, to me, his one and only daughter. I am his truth and I am proof that he was here.

I love you daddy.

Get Over it Already

It’s what I tell myself every day. Sometimes you just have to get over certain things, especially the things that you cannot change. Sometimes you have to let go, forgive those that have hurt you and move in a direction that at least resembles a forward motion. But then I ask myself, what if you can’t get past the very thing that is hurting you most? When you think the resentment and hurt will never go away, I wonder is there any way for that relationship to survive?

On an ordinary night in September, sitting in our favorite little bar, my husband looked tense and somewhat uncomfortable. I, of course asked him what was troubling him. We had only been married for 3 months and had been trying to get pregnant for 4 months. I thought we were happy and heading down the right path, heading in a forward motion. To say that I was ill-prepared for what he had to say to me was an understatement. He turned to me and proceeded to tell me that he was no longer sure that he wanted to have a baby anymore. As I sat there, on the verge of tears, I think he went into a spiel about wanting to do things with me, travel and have time together and that somehow he didn’t think a baby really seemed conducive to the life he had wanted to share with me. I think my whole body went numb and I had tunnel vision because I couldn’t think straight. Everything went black. But I did come out of my coma just in time to hear him say, “plus I can already see us divorced and me paying for a kid that I don’t see”.

I am sure the words he spoke were not meant to sting as bad as they did. I am sure his words were said with no more of a filter or a concerning nature than he would typically use in conversations with me. I am sure he didn’t think of how his words would translate to my already emotional heart. I am sure his words were simply meant, not as an actual predictor of our future apart but more of his normal cynical view of the world. His words, of course, hit me harder and deeper than he or I could have imagined.

After that day, I went into a spiral, downwards and backwards, definitely no longer a forward motion. From that point on, we never really spoke of a baby again. I went on birth control pills because by that time, I knew I could never allow myself to have his child. Not so much because he had denied me the one thing that I longed for but because I no longer trusted him to take care of me or my heart. And as much as I wanted another child, why would I bring a child into a world where cynicism and negativity was the pre-curser to their existence? I don’t know what happened to me that day. In a sense I feel like I shut down, like part of me died. A part of my new marriage died that day too. But more importantly, the belief in my husband’s love for me died too.

 Fast forwarding 2 years, the words still ring in my ear and stings just as bad as they did sitting in that little bar that September night. I fear these feelings of resentment and hurt will never go away. We are functioning as best we can. We both know something is wrong but neither of us bridge the gap anymore. I do my best everyday to get over it, get past it, put it to rest and move forward but I simply don’t have the strength anymore. It hurts far too bad. I watch movies or see commercials about babies and I always end up crying and feeling heartbroken all over again. He watches me cry and says nothing to console me. He knows this was a decision, a life altering choice he made for both of us. I didn’t have a option. I am 41 years old. My time to have children is dwindling fast and as I said, I no longer have the trust in him that I used to, the kind of trust it takes to bring a life into this world. He is not a stupid man. He knows the hurt that I feel. He sees it on my face every single day. He knows what he has done and now he cannot fix it. I try to voice my opinion, my hurt and frustration but I can no longer articulate my heartache to him. I feel as if he doesn’t deserve that part of me.  Maybe he doesn’t deserve any part of me.

 Our plan all along was to get married and have a family of our own. In the 10 years I have known him, he has always wanted children so I don’t know what happened in the couple months since we had gotten married. Maybe this was his plan all along which I cannot even begin to wrap my brain around. I can’t allow myself to believe he purposely deceived me; that he pretended to want children to get me to marry him. I can’t allow myself to believe that he would hurt me that badly. My only other thought is that he wanted children but maybe, just maybe, he didn't want to have them with me.

As for the moving forward thing, I will find my way, I have no doubt. I always do. I am just venting, releasing the pain with words in hopes that it will go away. I am truly saddened by a decision he made without me; a decision that I cannot change. But I also don’t want this to overtake me, make me lose sight of all that I do have. I don’t want to be angry with him. I don’t want to be sad anymore. I want to look forward. I cannot allow the pain of never having another child overshadow my one blessing in this life. I am so grateful for the privilege God gave me to be Mattie’s mother. He has been the greatest gift of my life.

All I can do is promise myself that tomorrow I will try and give my blessings more power than my pain. I will promise to look forward no matter how hard it may be. I will promise that I will do my very best to put it to rest and get over it. But my one question is this…When he looks back on his life, a life possibly with me, or without me, a life with no children to watch grow up, no one there to carry on his name, I wonder will he be able to just get over it?

It's No Joke. Exercise and other things are a Bitch!

After months of doing nothing short of opening a bottle of wine, I decided that it was time for me to take my health and my life into my own hands.

My plan: Get up early every day, take my vitamins, exercise and drink plenty of water.

What happened yesterday: I woke up early, took my vitamins, exercised and drank plenty of water.

What happened today: Hit snooze button 5 times, forgot my vitamins, was too sore from exercise yesterday to exercise today, and at 10:00 am I have only consumed about 8 of my 64 daily ounces of water.

I would say that is not too shabby, right?

My main problem areas for which I need solutions:

1. I am not a good sleeper, I never have been. I have trouble falling asleep, staying asleep and not having knife-wielding clown dreams so when I finally fall asleep, I need to stay asleep. When my alarm clock goes off at 6 am, I simply cannot get myself out of the confines of my bed because the fact of the matter is I quite possibly have only been asleep for a few hours. So exercise in the morning (which I am told is best) is very difficult for me.

2. When I come home in the afternoon, I become a crazy person as I am trying to still clean up the mess from the day before. I walk through the dog hair tumbleweeds to the sink full of dirty dishes and become a frantic lunatic to figure out something edible for my family to eat for dinner. I open a bottle of wine and sit and stare at my surroundings. I think to myself, this would be a wonderful time to take a walk.

3. I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore. I am so incredibly busy caring for everyone and everything around me, that I constantly put myself on the back burner. This is I am sure, typical of many other working mothers. Secretly I tell myself that I must take care of myself in order to continue to work myself into the ground caring for everyone else but I simply don’t feel like there is time in the day. Either that or the guilt I feel doing something for myself, is simply too much for an ordinary weekday.

4. I would say, in part I am somewhat lazy or rather, unmotivated. I want to be in shape, have flatter abs, smaller legs and arms and I crave to be a size 4 again and yet I am not willing to give up certain things…like wine, bread, cheese or pasta. So shoot me! I am a real woman with curves and I wish at 41 I could come to terms with my body and stop wishing to have the body of an 18 year old. My mother keeps telling me that 20 years from now I will look back on my body and be amazed at how beautiful I was. That is hard to imagine. Supposedly in 20 years I will be praying for this not so flat belly, these not so muscular ex-dancer legs and these not so skinny arms.  So in my issue stricken desire to be a thinner, healthier version of myself but not give up anything I eat or drink illustrates my laziness aka my unmotivated tendencies. Ugh!

5. Metabolism sucks. Period. Unless you have one of those fast metabolisms where you can eat whatever you want and not gain a pound. In which case, I hate you! Think back now. The days of senior prom week when the dress you were going to wear was just a tad bit too tight and you gave up, I don’t know, GUM for the week and miraculously you lost 5 pounds. I guess this is where I revert to that 18 year old body image. I want it but don’t want to work for it. I suck and so does this slow metabolism that hit me when I was 35.

6. Media and magazines will destroy the true image of beauty. I wish someone would come out with a magazine featuring 35+ women that were sizes 8 and up, who were happy with their bodies and ooze their confidence on all the shmucks, like myself that are in peril over eating and dieting and hating themselves because they are not a svelte size 2 like LeeAnn Rimes or Victoria Beckham. I want someone with a Marilyn Monroe body advising me on how to love myself, how to stay motivated and how to cut back but not eliminate everything I love. Is that too much to ask?

As I re-read this blog, I am more struck by the fact that most likely, my issues have more to do with me being lazy or unmotivated rather than any other of my complaints. Of course, this is also me, being way too hard on myself. I am harder on myself than I ever would be on a friend or even a complete stranger. But I suppose that’s how it goes sometimes; being my own worst critic. Oh well. If self punishment were a true motivator, I would be putting down this piece of cheese in my hand and putting on my running shoes. Unfortunately, it’s not.    

My Teenager is Driving me Crazy

Why is it when I ask my 13 year old son certain questions, he looks at me like I am a zombie Cyclops with that one eye smack dab in the middle of my forehead that he can’t stop staring at? I honestly don’t believe I ask my child anything different/complicated/over the top/ridiculous more than any other parent. Here are my top 10 questions for my 13 pushing 25 year old and his responses.

1. Did you brush your teeth?

Response: Of course Mom

My Thoughts on his Response: (He is smiling and looking away, so I know he is LYING)

Why does he not understand the concept of taking care of his teeth? And why would he want to walk around all day with that odor permeating from his mouth?

2. Can you feed the animals? (2 dogs, 2 cats and a Beta fish)

Response: In a minute Mom. They won’t starve if I finish my game first.

My Thoughts on his Response: Um….No they won’t starve but if you got up and did it right now it would save me coming in there and kicking you ass!

3. Are you trying to make me crazy?

Response: Yes.

My Thoughts on his Response: Well I guess I don’t have a clever come back for that answer. At least he was honest with me on that one.

4. Why can you not put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher?

Response: Because it was already full of clean dishes.

My Thoughts on his Response: Um…that would mean you would FIRST have to unload clean dishes from dishwasher and then place dirty dishes within the contraption. Ugh!

5. Can you clean or at least Febreeze your room?

Response: It doesn’t smell in here Mom and quite frankly I know where everything is.

My Thoughts on his Response: Not only does it smell like a locker room with everyone having funky feet and nasty armpits but I could write my name in the dust on his TV to send him a memo.

6. Can you please, please take a shower tonight?

Response: Oh come on Mom, I took one last week. Plus I went in the pool a couple times and chlorine kills everything. Don’t you know that?

My Thoughts on his Response: My child just infected the neighbor’s pool with his funk. And what ever happened to using SOAP dear child of mine???

7. Aren’t you going to eat dinner?

Response: Nah, I had 6 bowls of cereal and a couple Pop Tarts before you got home. I am not really hungry now.

My Thoughts on his Response: That the second I clean up dinner, do dishes, put them away and sit down with my wine, he will want something to eat which doesn’t involve HIM doing anything.

8. I understand the need to smell good but why so much cologne babe? I could smell you 6 blocks away.

Response: I didn’t use that much, Mom. God why do you have to always say stuff no matter what I do?

My Thoughts on his Response: If only Febreeze worked like his Axe cologne.

9. You haven’t been out of your room all day. I think you should put down the video games and come out here and spend some time with me. Don’t you?

Response: Negative, Mom. I told you that I may want to design video games when I graduate college. All this game playing is mere preparation to what could be a very promising career.

My Thoughts to his Response: This kid surely knows how to blow smoke up my ass doesn’t he? Video Game Design? Since when? Oh God, where is that bottle of wine I opened?

10. Why is it that you want to drive me crazy?

Response: Because it’s fun.

My Thoughts on his Response: Again, honest and I am far too tired to argue.

It is what it is

I always say, “It is what it is” and today is no exception. I use that term often and quite honestly, loosely. The sadness of my ordinary life is compounded by the fact that my father in law has Cancer and is dying. Although his finality is looming, no one knows how much time he has left or what his final days will be like. But I am, once again, in a position of not knowing what to do or what to say, to anyone, especially my husband.

The truth of the matter is I have lost a lot of people in my life. However, I have never lost a parent. For most part of my life, I have only had one parent; my mother. So the thought of losing a father is foreign to me, other than the obvious which is that I never really had a father to lose in the first place. I really have no comprehension of what my husband or his siblings are going through. I can try to understand their anger, their frustration, and their sadness but not truly. I cannot conceive of ever losing my mother so I imagine their thoughts and feelings are overwhelming to each of them. I do my best, every day to be there for my husband, to be my best self for him. Not just because he is losing his father, a part of his identity I don’t think he has ever come to terms with, but because for the longest time, I have loved him. It seems even with sadness and tragedy as the backdrop of our present life, I can do nothing right, nothing to console him. It is a commonality in my world these days to feel as if I am anything but what he needs. I have felt for some time that Mattie and I are nothing more than an obligation; a nuisance to what would have been his otherwise, uncomplicated life. But I would think at a time like this, he would find a reason to reach out to me, find a reason to feel comfort within these 4 walls he calls a home. He does not. He is angry and impossible and yet I continue to hold on, to shut up, to sit on the sidelines, waiting for him to need me. He is a part of me. He has been since I met him and yet, I feel as if I am failing him, and failing fast to provide what he needs. Even though I believe he longer knows what it is he needs or wants. My opinion doesn’t count anymore but I think he is so used to being unhappy and angry that he doesn’t understand when love stares him in the face. Mattie adores him for reasons I cannot fathom. I love him for reasons I can no longer express to anyone who asks me anymore. Nevertheless, mine and Mattie’s love remains and holds a vigil until the person we both know and love, returns. I don’t know if that day will ever come. Sometimes people can become so wrapped up in keeping up with their convictions and their idea of what’s right that they don’t see when they went terribly wrong. I can only hang on for so long. I haven’t really discussed my time frame with anyone other than Mattie and although I think I tell him far too much of my adult world to such a young man, he understands me like no other. He knows I am not happy and that no matter what I do does not make Tom happy. He is young but not stupid. Nor am I. I think because of my childhood and feeling as if I have wasted a huge part of my life on people that didn’t deserve my attention or my sadness, I am quicker to dismiss the things in my life that no longer work or hold happiness for me. I suppose dismiss is not the right word because I feel in my heart I reject a lot of things that hurt me or cause me sadness; my marriage nor Tom have been either of these things. But I know that I will not live the rest of my life unhappy. I simply won’t. Not for the biggest, most beautiful house in the world. Not for a false sense of security or stability for my child or myself. Not for someone that spews anger in every direction. And certainly not for a man that refuses to provide love, attention and acknowledgement to the two people in his world who deserve it most. So, today as I sit here, I can only repeat my own declaration; it is what it is. No matter what I do. For now, I can’t change my surroundings. I can’t reason with someone who won’t be reasoned with. I can’t talk to someone who doesn’t care what I have to say. For now, I will remain silent and carefully watch the train wreck that is heading straight for me. I will stay by his side, taking whatever he throws at me, in the attempt to give him the space and/or support he needs to deal with his father’s illness. I will take it all in, take the blame, and take the bullshit, all in the name of loving a man who absolutely refuses to let me love him.

Smackdown in the cul-de-sac

My 13 year old son, Matthew has grown taller and bigger than me in recent months; not to mention has developed a physical strength comparable to that of Superman. Granted, I am only 5’ 6 but I am no skinny-minny. I have curves, a small inner tube of sorts around my waist which surprises me everyday even though I know its there and boobs that enter a room before I do.  And even though I consider myself tough, I am a girl and pride myself on, not being necessarily fragile or delicate but definitely a girly girl. I like pretty shoes. I like the color pink. I like to wear makeup and at nearly 41, I pride myself on not being a frumpy mom, even if the trendy clothes I buy are found at Walmart or Target.

When Matthew was younger, he was obsessed with WWE, Wrestlemania, Smackdown, Raw or anything that had to do with this sport (if that’s what we are calling it). I obliged him by taking him to wrestling events (I even got to touch Batista’s flat, chiseled stomach once which was kinda enjoyable), buying him all the little figures of John Cena, Ray Mysteria, Triple H, Big Show and about 100 others, wrestling rings, posters, etc…I figured it was harmless. But what we would also do is have our own wrestling matches. Yup, just me and Mattie, Of course at ages 7-10, all I would really have to do was flip him on the couch, sit on him and tickle him until he gave up. It was simple. This wrestling tradition has never ceased in our house. Ever. Not even now, that he stands taller than me and nearly outweighs me. He now thinks this ritual is hysterical. My bruised and battered body no longer finds the humor in this activity. Nevertheless, it continues. Short of he and I rehearsing a “money in the bank ladder match”, there are bodies (mine) being thrown onto the couch or the floor (whichever I hit first) arms being twisted (mine). He now sits on me and “tickles” me. I use this term loosely.  It is more like big, long, very strong sticks being pressed into your flesh at mock speed. I surely wouldn’t call this tickling of any kind. But I, being a tough, girly girl will not give in nor will I give up. I fight him until I am banged up and bruised. You know I used to shout to the kids rough housing, “Knock that crap off. Somebody is going to get hurt”. Well that somebody that is rough housing and getting hurt is now ME.

I know he doesn’t hurt me on purpose. He merely has no concept of how strong he truly is. All I have to do is “tap out” and he will stop; which of course, I refuse to do. I may like pink and pretty things but I am still a mom and I have to show this kid whose boss. But just like there is no crying in baseball, there is NO crying is wrestling either. There is a bunch of whining going on and “ow” (s)  and/or “crap” (s) that echo through the house but for all the words I utter or scream, he shows me absolutely no mercy. So to end the torture, I must act truly hurt. Another kind of mother may feel guilty in lying or pretending to be hurt, but another kind of mother may not have a 140 pound kid holding them down and twisting their body like a contortionist. After about 20 minutes or so, he finally lets me up and as I catch my breath, he taunts and teases me for losing, for being weak, etc. for which I truly want to kick his ass. But I will let it ride this time. After all, he won fair and square and to be honest, I cannot take him “taking” me again. There will be no ass kicking tonight. I will retreat to my corner, head held low, praying that the wine and the Advil will soon kick in. Mattie shouts, “That was great Mom. Sorry I kicked your butt. Better luck next time.” He laughs that deep laugh that I love and walks out of the room. Yea, I am thinking, there shouldn’t be a next time but I know full well when the boy challenges me again, I shall try with all my might to take him down. It’s a connection we have; a “fun” that only he and I share. My only hope is that when he reaches 6’3 and 185 pounds, he will turn in his heavy middle-weight championship wrestling belt and leave his mother out of the Smackdown in the cul-de-sac.

Signs

Most everyone is familiar with the old adage, something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. This saying can be dated all the way back to the Victorian Era. It was English culture that believed each line of this poem represented good luck tokens for the bride. If the bride wore these tokens throughout the day, it was a sign that her marriage was to be a happy one.

I have always believed in signs. Sometimes I look for them and find none and then other times, I am not looking and one smacks me square in the face. Some signs are obvious, some, not so much. As I look back on my wedding(s) (yup, that would be both of them) there is one similarity. I wore my Nana’s blue chalcedony brooch which I always loved as a little girl. It was given to me after my Nana passed away. It holds really no value except for what it means to me. It was a piece of her and now it was a piece of me. Since she died when I was 13, I knew she would never see me walk down the aisle so wearing the brooch made me feel closer to her, as if somehow she was there with me. Looking back at the 2 years since my second wedding, I wonder if she might have been trying to tell me something.

First of all, it must be said, that I was always close with my Nana, even years after her death, I have always felt her love and guidance all around me. I feel as if she has given me a multitude of signs over the years. There have been unexplained things, items moved in my house, things falling off shelves, things rolling on the floor and an overall feeling that she was with me. At times, she has scared the crap out of me. Like the time that the beautiful Buddha she made in her ceramic shop sudden lost its head and rolled on the floor in front of me. No one was touching it or even near it. To me that was her way of saying “Buddha doesn’t belong here. So MOVE him!” To which, I quickly did, without hesitation. Since then, Buddha has found an appropriate home every time I have moved him and subsequently has kept his head attached to his body.

My first wedding went off without a hitch. It was a beautiful service, a beautiful reception all the while wearing my Nana’s brooch pinned safely on my garter belt. Unfortunately the marriage did not work out but I know my Nana was there blessing my day. My second wedding, although beautiful, has undoubtedly taken a detour I hadn’t expected. Things are not working between us and the harder I try to make things better, the worse everything becomes. I feel as if I no longer know the man I married.  Nevertheless, the day of my wedding, I was so incredibly happy and looking forward to a life with someone that I had loved for so many years.  I once again attached the beautiful brooch to my garter. Without my knowledge, in the chaos of getting ready along with 7 bridesmaids, 1 junior bridesmaid and 1 flower girl, the brooch fell off onto my sister in laws floor. I heard a noise but didn’t stop to look down to see if I dropped anything. We all continued getting dressed and were then packed like sardines into the limo. Half way between my house and the venue, I realized my Nana was no longer with me. Her brooch must have been the “thing” I heard hit to floor. I was devastated at the thought of not having it with me….Plus, God help me if I was missing the “something old, something blue” token. I was near tears in the back of the limo when my future sister in law gave me her sapphire ring to wear for the wedding. I was grateful to her, allowing me to continue this wedding tradition but for awhile I was inconsolable in the limo. I was soon reminded by my girls that I needed to pull it together. After all I was getting married to the man I had waited so long for. My Nana would surely understand, of this I knew.

Fast forward nearly 2 years, and I can’t help but wonder if my Nana chose not to be present at my wedding. Did she know something I didn’t? Could she see this man that I loved so much turn into someone that I would no longer recognize? Could she sense the sadness and loneliness that was to befall my life? Did she know that he would change and become a selfish and angry person? Did she see him, before God promising to love and watch out for Mattie only to have him abandon those promises? Did she see it all, watching me from heaven? Of this, I do not know. I am not sure I ever will. It saddens me even more that she may have tried to tell me and I simply ignored her. Maybe she was giving me signs all along and because I loved him so much and could not imagine a life without him, I ignored all her pleas.

I still love my husband and I wish so much that he was once again, the person I fell in love with all those years ago but as I have stated, I don’t know where he has gone and I certainly don’t know how to get him back.  He lives in a world very different than mine, a world of mistrust, unhappiness and anger, everyday. And nothing I do or say can bring him to love and trust me. My spirit is broken and I feel as if I have been “duped”. I feel more defeated than I have ever felt in my life. I try to look for the positives in any situation. (That is my glass half full mentality that I simply can’t abandon.) I know that I was blessed with an amazing child, a wonderful family and adoring friends all for which I am incredibly thankful and seldom take for granted. They have been my rock. They have been my soft place to fall when I feel as if I cannot take anymore. They have uplifted and encouraged me. They remind me regardless of how my husband feels or how he behaves, that I am a vibrant, intelligent, beautiful, caring woman that deserves the best that life has to offer. I try to remember their words as I soul search about what to do with my life.

The funny thing is when I feel my worst, I look to my Nana to give me a sign, and I simply don’t see one. I want her to tell me if each decision I make is the right one or the wrong one; to give me something tangible, to help guide me. Maybe she did what she could and now I have to start the work of cleaning up my own mess, learning how to once again, take care of myself and Mattie. I look at the Buddha comfortably atop my living room shelf, I look to the stars, I pray to the moon for her guidance but to no avail. I have never felt abandoned by her despite her absence. Knowing her, it is simply her way of telling me there are some things in life where signs are obvious and cosmic, even deliberate and not even I need someone to show me what I already know.