10 Years Ago, my Mother Died

10 years. My mother died 10 years ago today. Amazing to see time continue:

“Mom’s heart went from 80, 20, 120, 4, gone. I let out a scream I thought I abandoned when I was a toddler. Right then and there I became not only a mother without a child but a child without a mother.  My mother died.”

That’s the way I remember it. 10 years ago.

Before all of this we were planning Thanksgiving. Mom decided she wasn’t going to cook.

“I’m too tired and sick to do it,” she said to me and my sister and sister-in-law, “I’ll just sit on a stool and tell you all what to do!”

We never even got that far.

I wanted to protest Thanksgiving. Why bother celebrating all we were thankful for when Mom died 5 days prior? I wanted to stay home and eat Jack-in-the-Box and not see anyone.

But Adam insisted we go. Ashlee cooked a delicious dinner. We sat in the dining room. Dad insisted no one would sit in Mom’s chair. It made sense. We sobbed as we ate the traditional dinner. I mean, our traditional Thanksgiving dinner. With the Italian flare. I am so grateful we did that. Families do that...they keep each other afloat when all you feel like doing is sinking.

My mother, my hero, died 10 years ago today. In the late morning. I literally drove to the hospital knowing that my mother would die that day. How messed up is that? I was 22. I was a baby. I tried telling myself I prepared myself for it. I knew Mom was older...this was inevitable.

Shit, that doesn’t help at all.

Here’s the only thing I can do...I can look at my life these past 10 years and see how Mom would have approved.

Teresa...Lena...you really work me at times...but Ma would have loved it. I was getting a taste of my own medicine. I was being kept on my toes.

“I told you so, I told you so!” she would sing.

Ya, ya, ya, Ma. I get it. All the women in our family are a special something or other.

I took the girls to the cemetery today. Teresa gets increasingly sad. “I wish I met your mom and Aryn!” she said today. Me too, kid...me too. Mom would have spoiled the crap out of you. Sneaking meatballs, candy and what-not. You both would giggle at the idea of pulling one over on me.

Adam and I were showing Mom our place we would be residing after marriage and she got to the second floor and gleefully exclaimed, “OOooh! And little baby feet running around!” when I showed her the extra rooms.

She loved being a mom. She craved being a grandmother more than anything.

I suppose all I can hope for is that I am doing my due diligence continuing her legacy with my family and my daughters. That’s all. I can’t be the grandma she wanted to be to the kids. I can just do my best to keep her spirit alive.

So I’ll cook the sauce. I’ll make the meatballs. I’ll sing “Mambo Italiano” from the top of my lungs. I’ll guilt trip my kids. I’ll hold them to the highest standard. I’ll show them pictures. I’ll cook for my family. I’ll stand up for what is right...even if I’m standing alone. I’ll do all of that because it demonstrates who my mother was.

Integrity and self-discipline. My mother. My hero.

Billy Joel

This day started out uneventful. I mean, if you take out the fact that my mother was in the hospital after just being diagnosed with cancer. It was October, and my head never swirled so much. Everything I depended on at that point became fragile. Everything I knew to be true became gray. Adam and I both didn’t work that morning so we both went to the hospital to visit mom. She was there but she wasn’t there. A very different version of my mother.

She was watching “You’re Life, AtoZ” or something like that. They were holding a contest that day. Call in and be the 3rd caller and get tickets to the Billy Joel musical, Movin Out. Cooli,  I thought to myself, if I win Mom would love to go.

I grabbed the phone and with no luck hurling my way in that particular time of year I heard on the other line, “Congratulations, you’re the third caller.” Um what...that isn’t supposed to happen. But there you have it. I won the contest. I took a chance and I was the lucky caller.

I gave them my details, I picked up the tickets. I planned for my mom and I to go together, to enjoy this show. God had different plans.

“I am just too tired, Ria,” my mother said to me the night of the show. I knew my stubborn mom. She was not going. There was no amount of coaxing I could do to get her to come.

So I did the thing I knew to do. I phoned a friend.  A friend whom I met in college and was a great sounding board for me. A friend who showed up without reservation and kept me sane that night.

Driving into Phoenix I was anxious. I hate driving in Phoenix. Too many one-way roads. Too many possibilities for car accidents. Marissa and I pulled in and realized almost too late we were on the wrong side of town. I stood in the middle of Phoenix with Marissa sobbing, “We missed it...its like the omen of my mom’s cancer. We didn’t make it to the show and I don’t see her making it out too.

Amazing to think that friends that I made at ASU defined me. Shaped me. Enabled me to grow.

Again, I never took the time to tell you all what it meant to me. So I am saying it now. Thank you. Thank you for showing me how adult friends behave. Thank you for unapologetically being there for me. It was innate for you. It was pure. I hope to someday return the favor. I hope that I can be there for you all in your darkest times. Before this, all of us had happy times. Dancing at school, enjoying each other's company. We grew together because of the real life happening in front of us. I am who I am because of you. Aaron, Cerrin, Marissa and Rachel. It is you all who showed me compassion as an adult. Again, I say, thank you. My dance family.

As the night went on, we found the theater. Marissa and I enjoyed a memorable presentation of  Moving Out. I clapped, I sobbed and I was transformed into a place where Mom wasn't sick and I was happy again. Theater did its due diligence. It floated me away from my reality.

Hello 10 years...you suck

10 years is long enough to finally bare it all.

The wine I am drinking right now will help encourage me to be honest.

September 2007 I was living the best life. I was married. I was pregnant. I worked at the best place in the world. I was afraid to be a mom at that time. I took weekly picture of my never-growing belly. A red flag down the line. Something I subconsciously chose to ignore at the time.

I was asked to do an AFP screening. A typical screening, but I was hesitant.

“You’ll want to know sooner than later, Ria,” my mom mentioned, “In case something is wrong, you’ll want the best care possible right up front.” How is it that my mother knew the inevitable without actually knowing the inevitable?

I agreed. And I got that call. At work. “Nothing to worry about,” said my OB, “We just need to do further testing is all”. Ok. That I can do.

I spoke with a lot of parents that day. At my work, moms were encouraging. They told me they too had issues with AFP testing and it always turned out fine. <Phew!> That is a relief.

I had my level 2 ultrasound scheduled that next day. Why so quick to rush? I wondered this to myself. They rush, when it is emergent, I would soon learn.

That visit. Fuck. It was hard. It was the first real test Adam and I went through. As a couple, we had to be strong enough to support the other yet vulnerable enough to let the other take care of us. We made jokes even in that room. That’s when that rule of our marriage flourished and became known. We laugh about EVERYTHING. The good stuff, the bad stuff, everything in between. And it began in that room. When we were getting the worst news ever.

“Your baby has an enlarged heart. There is fluid around it which indicates heart failure. There is no bladder and the baby is missing a kidney. They will die soon.”

Fuck.

I Am Ready. Yes.

I was 22. Young. Naive. I didn’t know anything of miscarriages, stillbirths. Any of it. I just knew that in life you got pregnant and then had a kid. I was taken by surprise when I was informed that my baby had issues that needed to be investigated further, They called my work number. MY WORK NUMBER! The call that prompted me to say, “Thank you for calling The Little Gym, this is Maria how can I help you!?”  That connotation makes me gag. Not because it feels fake or that I was suffering a terrible time. But because my duty at work was always much more than that. As a teacher it was more than any of that.

Aryn shaped me. I am not the best mother because of him. I am not the best wife either. I am me. And Aryn afforded me the opportunity to enjoy that...knowing there are people who cannot.

No one convinced me to hold him. Here I was...scared...lost...abandoned...and childless and no one thought to say to me, “Hey, you will not get another chance...hold your baby. Hold him tight”. Nope. All I was left to doing was viewing my son in a tupperware while everyone around me cried saying it was for the best.

22.  That is too young to realize the importance of life and death, if you ask me. I just learned I could drink without an adult….that I WAS the adult...that I could be the best wife I wanted to be. But God had different plans. He decided that this was necessary.

Life has had many ups and downs since Aryn. Adam and I are still happily married. I’m writing this in my kitchen as I look over at him sitting in our living room, winding down from yet another exhausting day. Day in, day out, I know I can always look up and see him there. Friends come and go, and sadly, even children will come and go. But your spouse is with you forever. I find such comfort in that. We chose each other.

It has been 10 years since I was in the hospital doing the impossible. So many memories float by as I reflect on a decade of realization.

I reflect on the idea that our life isn’t how we thought it would be. I never envisioned what 32-year-old-me would be doing...yet here I am. Living.

I reflect on the idea that mourning the death of a child is hard. Not wished upon anyone. It sucks. The timing of it all sucked. Fall was my favorite time of year...and now...it is tainted with the memory of Aryn….and my mom.

I feel as though I am babbling on in this post. Delaying the inevitable.  Again, something I wish I could have done 10 years ago. The inevitable this time? The stories I didn’t tell the first time around with this blog. I call this “Walk with Me” so I know I need to share it all.  And sadly, it has taken me 10 years to get to this place of comfort to finally do it.

I am ready.

An act of kindness...

Today doesn't mark any anniversary from my journey. It doesn't signify any annual remembrance of 2007. Valentine's Day in this aspect is not the focus or the memory here. This is just life on a random day. 

I have many days like this. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just, life. It seems, however, when left most vulnerable and taking life in, it is then when snippets of 2007 come creeping back to me. It is nothing like a movie, where there is a beginning, middle and end. That seemed to only happen as it was happening. 

So many intricate details of that time. Big events, that were monumental. And the smallest of occurrences that seem to not mean much at the time. They all come back in short clips in my mind....and generally out of order. There is no rhyme or reason why I find myself thinking of certain things on any given day, but it happens. Perhaps a smell sends me back, a look, a joke, or even an object. Like this blanket seen below that Teresa and Lena are sitting on in our back yard.

The love between two sisters.

I was still attending ASU when I was losing Aryn and my mother got sick. I was so close to graduation I could almost taste it. Unfortunately, I would take another 3 years to get myself back into school to complete my degree. But in that time, I still associated with college friends, professors, old high school friends, and of course my family and work life. I was surrounded by so many people.

It happened, like all of these events, so fast. One minute I was basking in the glow of pregnancy, making my way from class to work. the next I was informed that Aryn had passed away. It took an entire weekend for the hospital to be open for my induction. But since that Friday, November 2, I was done at ASU. I stopped going to class and had to withdraw as I could not physically, emotionally continue. Only a few knew of Aryn's fate just prior to my leaving ASU. 

As the story goes, Monday I went to the hospital and Wednesday Aryn was born. My mother would be admitted to the ICU that Monday after. 

It was in no particular day while my mother was still in the ICU that I walked to my mailbox to check my mail. Not necessarily an important task, but an opportunity for me to walk with myself and pause my life.

I received 2 items in the mail that day. The first was a packet full of hand-written letters from many o my classmates in the dance program at ASU. Words of condolences, prayers, and inspirational uplifting reminders. I began to sob. This was so very thoughtful from people who hardly knew me...or knew my mother. I felt strength in each of those letters...each line giving me a push to be brave. 

I never got to tell these people how much it meant to me. So I am doing it now. Thank you. I still have all of those letters. Thank you for lifting me up.

The 2nd item I got in the mail was a small package. Soft, and from an out-of-state address that was unknown to me. I showed it to Adam who encouraged me to open it. And I did. Out came a dark, beautifully warm blanket. It had plaid on one side and a picture of 2 angel girls playing on the other side by Dona Gilsinger. 

Front of blanket with image by Dona Gelsinger

Inside with the blanket was a typed letter. They expressed their sorrow for the events unfolding in my life and they wanted me to have this blanket. 

They wanted me to think of God's love wrapping around me every time I took comfort and warmth with the blanket.

How amazing! This blanket was a gift from a high school friend's in-laws. Certainly people who have never actually met me. But it was such an act of kindness I was moved to tears yet again. It is a staple in my house. Perhaps, if you've ever visited my home, especially in the cold winter, you have seen this blanket draped on my couch. It is a gentle reminder of God's love, the love of people who never even met, and how even almost 10 years later, I carry my memories of 2007...even on my couch. 

And so it was on this day that not only is that gentle reminder a part of my every day life, but I smile knowing my daughters are creating their own memories with "Mom's blanket". They are using it to play in the warm sun and share in their laughter and love with each other. And that, was an amazing act of kindness that continues in my home every day.