No one reads this but...

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Beautifully made.

My mom was so beautiful. Even in her last days, less than 100 pounds - her smile shone through. Wrinkled skin, so warm to the touch. I could count her veins. Soft hands; she'd stow away little bottles of name brand lotions for herself. Hands that could heal, hands that lifted in prayer, hands that could comfort. She would stare at her nails, always perfect rounded. Soft, downy hair - like a kitten. Grown in from the chemo. Salt and pepper, pretty. Sometimes she'd get too hot, and her soft hair would glisten. She was so proud of her hair, though. In the days where she felt better she'd run her hands through it and smile. She'd tell me how happy she was to have hair again. Her nose, a small indent from the breathing machine. She'd lost feeling in half of her face. I wanted her nose. Long and straight. Not too large. She threatened to tell my grandma I didn't like mine, since it was a "Gardner nose". Large pores. Brown eyes, so dark, they sometimes looked black. She'd tell me she always wanted light eyes, like her kids. I would tell her brown is my favorite color. Lips that would purse in frustration - a look I grew to know and use myself. Lips that would smile at sweet words from her children's mouth. Lips that would inadvertently curse - and then those lips would laugh when we teased her for using a swear word. Coffee stained teeth. A tongue that would lick her lips in satisfaction after she ate her very last bit of yogurt (fruit on the bottom!).  Her soft, round tummy shrunk over a period of months into a shapeless form. She always had called herself fat. I never saw it. I just saw my mom. When I was a kid, I would lay on her legs, dotted with small blueish purple spider veins. She'd stroke my hair with her soft hands. I'd listen to her tummy gurgle and watch TV. I wish I had more days like that. More days to study her face. To know it. She was beautifully and wonderfully made.

It's probably not fair.

But I still think of you every time I'm in bed alone. I think of how you laid next to me, and the space between us seemed as endless as it is now. But the sparks, and the twitching fingers, the anticipation of the first kiss... I miss it.

I miss you.  I loved you.

I feel like there's no way around it. You're a centerpiece in the chapters 20-24 of my life. I would have done anything for you. And you're moving on... I watch you slowly spiral into someone I don't know at all. Someone who I don't recognize.

But I still think of you how you were. How we were. How you could guess my thoughts and finish my sentence. I miss your laughter. I miss your voice. I miss you.

Things that I love.

Nanci; a short, unfinished list

Crooked teeth
Voice
Warm hugs
Laugh
Hair... even the peach fuzz once the chemo took over
Hands; her fingers
Flannel shirts
Mom jeans
Sneakers
Books; so many books
Generous to a fault
Love of Christ
Love of neighbors
Love of family

Most of all... that I felt loved.

Regrets

"Regrets collect like old friends... here to relive your darkest moments."

I regret not telling my mom good-bye the day before she died.

I regret knowing it was the last time I'd see her, and not kissing her and telling her I love her.

I regret being afraid of her death.

I regret not advocating for her when I visited and saw her health deteriorating.

I regret not getting her flannel shirt from the bags of clothes destined for the thrift store.

I regret not begging her to stay one more day when she left me in Nebraska; I regret wanting to be an adult.

So many more regrets....

I wish I could get this devil off my back.

I thought that I was okay...

I thought I was feeling better.
I thought that the pain was just fleeting
Fleeting, not constant

It was buried.
It was still here.
The cancer... is a cancer.

It's still here.
Closing in on me.
Metastasizing.

The thing about grief...

The thing about grief is that it's never-ending. People who don't know, will tell you it gets easier. People who do know will sit in silence while you express your fears, your guilt, the constant hum of their missing presence in your life.

My only advice?
Ignore the ones who don't know.
While it is nice to have someone acknowledge your pain, it's also often more harmful than good (Oh, you 'know' how close we were? Well, I 'know' that you don't!).

My dad said yesterday that it's time for him to move on.

Move on...
What does that mean? How come he can... after 30 years... and I can't? Susie told me she 'moved on' after three months. I know my brother hasn't. I know I haven't.

The thing about grief is that it's okay not to move on. I've forgiven myself for my selfishness over this situation. I have wonderful friends who let me have my release. They let me tell the whole story. Because it hurts to hold it in. And they understand. It's an exchange. Something we do for each other.

The thing about grief is that often, people laud you for having a family to lean on. What they don't understand is that you don't want to make it hard for your family. You don't want others to feel the stress of your situation. I'd rather hold it in than see my brother cry or hurt.

The thing about grief is that you need to take your time. My sister looks at me strangely when I speak of therapy appointments and anxiety and stress and situational depression. She lost a mother as well. But I lost a close friend a week before my mother to a vicious cancer that was unrelenting. I lost a grandfather figure (one I loved more than my own flesh and blood grandfathers) two years before. I lost a baby - one I was so excited to welcome to the world. One that I wouldn't abort, that I wouldn't feel years of guilt about. One that would know my love. I lost my faith.

So yes, it will take me a while to grieve for all my losses.  But the thing about grief is that it is okay.