Stepping Back into the Fog

It is past time for a blog from me. I can feel it as if the page is nudging me. No problem, I think. Most of my blogs tend to write themselves. But now I put my fingers on the keyboard and get nothing. They just don't move.

I recognize this fog of grief. I don't want to but I do ... and I know it will take a while for it to lift and allow me to focus. You see, my mom died last week. Yes, she was almost 96 years old; yes, she had no idea who I was for the past 2 years; yes, her quality of life was nonexistent. Yes, it was time for her to go ... but the loss still hurts.

This foggy feeling is all too familiar from when my 29-year-old daughter Jaime died 8 years ago (although it seems like yesterday). Jaime was young with her whole life ahead of her, she suffered courageously for 5 years with end-stage melanoma, and she was fully aware that she was dying. It's not the same ... and yet it is.

Because here we are again ... left behind with the intense emptiness, the conflicting memories, the messiness of dealing with death, the missing link from our family chain. Another piece of my life, my past, my youth has been ripped from my grasp (see my blog There Goes Another Little Piece of My Life).


I know I am not alone in these feelings. Many loved my mom and are affected by her death. Not only our close family and friends, but over almost a century she touched a lot of people. My heart aches for their loss as well as mine.

Matter of fact, I'm sure everyone reading this has experienced grief, and we all deal with it in different ways ... but we all must deal with it. It can't be avoided ... it can't be ignored. We grieve because we have loved.

Death is part of life, but as part of the melanoma community, I see death visiting our group way too often. I see their pain, I know their pain, I feel their pain ... but it is their pain. Now this is mine once again ... and I don't like it.
 
This treasured photo is from around 1979. Three generations: my mom, my daughter Jaime, and me! There were three of us then, but now I am the only one left. The two most important women in my life are now gone. It wasn't supposed to be like this ... it is not the way I planned it.
 
My life has been changed once again, and I don't like change. I am angry that I am once again forced to walk this path of mourning. I don't want to because I know what lies ahead on this long journey, but I also am aware that I have no choice. The good thing is that I know I can do it ... and so I will.

But right now, I am fragile, not broken, just fragile. My thoughts are scattered and don't want to leap onto a blog page. My fingers don't want to move, and my brain is resisting every effort to find the right words.

So I ask that you be patient as the fog clears because I have lots of future blogs to write ... I just have to find them ... and me ... again.

Rest in peace now, Mildred Jane Fox Helm (Sept 26, 1919 - July 7, 2015) ... Mother, Nama, Jane, Millie, or Blondie. You will be always be loved and missed by many! Thank you for giving us 95 years ... and forgive me for my selfishness in wishing there were more! I love you, Mom!!

Melanoma Mama (Jaime's mom, Donna)

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There Goes Another Little Piece of My Life

Most of you reading this are probably a lot younger than I am, with most of your life ahead of you instead of behind you, so you may not understand this blog. That's okay ... just come back when you're older and maybe you will get it then.

One day, years ago, when my dad was in his early 90s, I asked him why he seemed so sad. He told me that his past was dying as, one by one, each person he had known in his younger years was departing. I didn't understand then ... but I am getting the picture now.

When I watched melanoma devour my 29-year-old daughter Jaime, I felt like I was losing her piece by piece. Whether it was the disease or the surgery to try to stop the cancer, all I could do was sit by her and hold her hand and love her while she left me one piece at a time.

Then when Jaime died, she took a huge part of me with her ... so many pieces from the past, present, and future. How many pieces did I have left? I have tried to make the most of what was left of me, with the love and support of my dear husband and sons ... but it is like trying to put together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Over the years since she has been gone, more pieces have disappeared ... her pets die, her husband becomes part of a new family, her car is traded in. Piece by piece, I grieve the lose of each one because it is a part of her that is no longer.

With each year that passes, I am losing more pieces of my past ... piece by piece ... although I really didn't think about it until this week. This week I was slapped in the face with reality; my past is being torn away, just like Jaime was, one piece at a time.

Last week  I received the news that Gary, my 1965  prom date (Fairmont West High School, Kettering, Ohio) and my first serious boyfriend (not counting Elvis), had died. Gary and I shared a past together of about 5 years during high school and college. It was a Romeo and Juliet-type romance, and like the play, it didn't end well. But he has always had a place in

my heart.

I last saw Gary at our 25th high school reunion; our 50th will be next year. We had a wonderful week-end catching up and learning about our families and current lives and the people we had become over our lost 20 years. After that we corresponded for a while and then lost touch. My thoughts and condolences are, of course, with his 4 sons and his ex-wife, whom I met and is delightful.

Gary's death has had a profound effect on me that I wasn't expecting. Every time I read one of my classmates' obituaries, even if I did not know them well, I feel like "there goes another little piece of my life." It seems so many are leaving me behind with memories once shared that now only live in me. Gary and I shared years of memories, some good and some not, but they were memories that only we shared. Now there is just me, mourning not only the loss of an old friend but also the pieces of me and my youth that he took with him.

Rest in peace, Gary ... goodbye, my friend. You were not perfect, but you were perfectly Gary! I'm glad you were a part of my life, and you will not be forgotten.

I am not a deep-thinker so this blog is giving me a headache, but please consider this as a reminder that we need to live each day the best we can because tomorrow is not promised. Tell your friends and loved ones what you want them to know because there might not be another chance. And work on your legacy so when your obituary is written, it will say that you kicked some butt or were a bonafide badass or really did something with the time you were here.

 “What you are is what you have been. What you’ll be is what you do now.” – Buddha

Melanoma Mama (Jaime's mom, Donna)

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