Waking up in my nieces' room this morning, surrounded by Twilight posters and the soft sounds of little girls' sleeping, I lingered in bed just a little longer than I should have. Maybe I was trying to hold onto their innocence for just a few more minutes before delving into the inevitable discomfort of the coming day.
Within a few hours, my two sisters and I were off to our mother's house to clean up one hell of a mess (literally and figuratively). Last month my mother underwent major surgery and almost lost her life. And, while she was in the hospital in a coma, her husband shot and killed himself in their home.
I cannot describe the thickness of the energy in and around that home when we walked in this morning. All of the anger, disappointment and sadness clung to the air like the cigarette smoke clung to the walls, making everything dingy and depressing.
Together we packed, we cleaned and we fought ~ the tree hugger, the neurotic caregiver and the high priestess ~ like strangers who know each other all too well.
And when the time came to pull up the living room carpet, the very spot where our mother's third husband had taken his life, the emotion came flooding in for all of us. Emily, who was raised by Randy in a less than ideal childhood, grabbed a kitchen knife and started to cut away the carpet with a fierceness fueled by her grief and our recent fight.
Then Lizzy, overcome with emotion and frustration at the entire chain of events, which she's been at the center of since moving to North Carolina two years ago to be near mom, began to rip away at the carpet with her bare hands. Within a few minutes, her 14-year-old daughter was right beside her tugging and pulling the carpet out with pure strength of will.
Finally, I began to roll the tattered carpet up and tear at the padding below while choking back curse words through teeth clenched in anger. Over the years Randy had put my family through so much ~ abuse, trauma, alcoholism ~ and now THIS?!? I was mad and not ready to forgive.
Then, like a wave, the salty tears started to flow from each of us one by one. Ripping and tearing at the carpet with our dirty, calloused hands, we cried as we pulled, pried and pealed away the layers of flooring and emotion.
I reached out and hugged my sister, who just minutes before I'd been having the most ridiculous argument with. We apologized and let our frustration with each other melt away in the presence of heavier emotions. As we held onto each other, we let go of our anger.
Then we all worked together in silence, systematically pulling up sections of old carpet and carrying them out the truck with tears streaming down our faces. It was surreal in so many ways... like a scene you'd see in a movie or read in a book. We were all in the moment together, all fully present in our sadness and our grief. It was awful. It was meaningful. And it was cathartic.
Tonight, as tired as I am, I can't seem to find the comfort of sleep as I sit in a tiny recliner at my mother's bedside in a room that stands in stark contrast to the one I woke up in this morning. As my mother sleeps I watch her 400 pound frame wrestle with unseen demons in her dreams.
I want her to be well, to heal. And yet I'm helpless to help her unless she chooses to help herself. I pray that she will, but the more time I spend with her the more my hope wanes as her old self-sabotaging habits sneak back in, defying her words and good intentions.
In two days I'll be back home in Florida. I'll slip into my routine of clients and coaching and swim meets with my son. I'll spend mornings working in bed with my dogs at my feet and afternoons walking on the beach, and all of this will feel a million miles away. I'll feel a million miles away, separated from a family I don't always feel a part of.
But today I was here. Today I was present. And no matter how hard it was, no matter how many tears I shed, I'll always be grateful in some way that I could be here for this... the hardest day.
Within a few hours, my two sisters and I were off to our mother's house to clean up one hell of a mess (literally and figuratively). Last month my mother underwent major surgery and almost lost her life. And, while she was in the hospital in a coma, her husband shot and killed himself in their home.
I cannot describe the thickness of the energy in and around that home when we walked in this morning. All of the anger, disappointment and sadness clung to the air like the cigarette smoke clung to the walls, making everything dingy and depressing.
Together we packed, we cleaned and we fought ~ the tree hugger, the neurotic caregiver and the high priestess ~ like strangers who know each other all too well.
And when the time came to pull up the living room carpet, the very spot where our mother's third husband had taken his life, the emotion came flooding in for all of us. Emily, who was raised by Randy in a less than ideal childhood, grabbed a kitchen knife and started to cut away the carpet with a fierceness fueled by her grief and our recent fight.
Then Lizzy, overcome with emotion and frustration at the entire chain of events, which she's been at the center of since moving to North Carolina two years ago to be near mom, began to rip away at the carpet with her bare hands. Within a few minutes, her 14-year-old daughter was right beside her tugging and pulling the carpet out with pure strength of will.
Finally, I began to roll the tattered carpet up and tear at the padding below while choking back curse words through teeth clenched in anger. Over the years Randy had put my family through so much ~ abuse, trauma, alcoholism ~ and now THIS?!? I was mad and not ready to forgive.
Then, like a wave, the salty tears started to flow from each of us one by one. Ripping and tearing at the carpet with our dirty, calloused hands, we cried as we pulled, pried and pealed away the layers of flooring and emotion.
I reached out and hugged my sister, who just minutes before I'd been having the most ridiculous argument with. We apologized and let our frustration with each other melt away in the presence of heavier emotions. As we held onto each other, we let go of our anger.
Then we all worked together in silence, systematically pulling up sections of old carpet and carrying them out the truck with tears streaming down our faces. It was surreal in so many ways... like a scene you'd see in a movie or read in a book. We were all in the moment together, all fully present in our sadness and our grief. It was awful. It was meaningful. And it was cathartic.
Tonight, as tired as I am, I can't seem to find the comfort of sleep as I sit in a tiny recliner at my mother's bedside in a room that stands in stark contrast to the one I woke up in this morning. As my mother sleeps I watch her 400 pound frame wrestle with unseen demons in her dreams.
I want her to be well, to heal. And yet I'm helpless to help her unless she chooses to help herself. I pray that she will, but the more time I spend with her the more my hope wanes as her old self-sabotaging habits sneak back in, defying her words and good intentions.
In two days I'll be back home in Florida. I'll slip into my routine of clients and coaching and swim meets with my son. I'll spend mornings working in bed with my dogs at my feet and afternoons walking on the beach, and all of this will feel a million miles away. I'll feel a million miles away, separated from a family I don't always feel a part of.
But today I was here. Today I was present. And no matter how hard it was, no matter how many tears I shed, I'll always be grateful in some way that I could be here for this... the hardest day.
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