Grieving - a wierd adventure

Tears are coming out of nowhere. A sadness permeates my entire body.  My eyes hurt.  Each limb feels heavy. The filter on my emotions has a hole in it.


Having the last parent die is different than the first parent dying. Each death is a different experience.  True. Thinking that you will grieve the same -- big mistake.


Now in my family I have a reputation.  You know the kind of reputation that follows you to your grave.  I am known as the family crier.  According to my family all the tears came to me. "Well you know you DO cry alot." "You cry at everything, Renee." "You've always cried alot, this is no different."


But it is different. Different from my perspective. My Mom died. The person I've known longer than any other is gone. Not available anymore.  


She and I had an interesting relationship.  The roles reversed.  I took care of her as if she were my child.  Granted a grown child with a mind of her own who resented being treated as if she had no freedom of choice.  She had freedom and chose not to exercise it. She relinquished it to me.  Then she relinquished it to God.  Now, she's truly free.


So I cry.  I gasp for breathe I cry so hard. The snot comes dripping out of my nose.  Between the tears and the snot, I soak tissues.  I cry for her.  I cry for all the things that she might do differently. For all the missed opportunities for her, for me, for others.


I cry for all that she accomplished.  I cry for her children, grandchildren, and friends.


Do people think has because I cry more than they do that the tears are fake?  Or that they don't mean anything?  Or that I am not hurting?  Do I need to stop expressing myself naturally in order for others to see that there is pain, upset, compassion?


One time my Mom said to me, "Well Renee, it doesn't seem like you are upset because you aren't crying."  I thought about that for a moment.  Realized that if I did not cry she did not take what I was saying as real.  I then verbalized the exact same statement but with gulps and tears.  "Bitch!", she spat.  


I laughed and said "Mom, it seems like if I don't cry you don't think I mean it."  


So I cry so people will know that I mean it.

On being in Spokane

Well it'll be a month tomorrow since we moved from Denver to Spokane. Much has happened in the interim. It is beautiful here. Big open blue sky that goes for miles and miles. No mountains breaking up the horizon. Spokane's sky occurs as vast and endless. The weather has been ideal. Hot, but not too hot. Cool in the mornings. Perfect 70s in the evenings. Two cloudy days which disappeared by noon.

Fairchild AFB has been here for awhile. Huge trees line the roads, well manicured lawns and open spaces. Everything is taken care of and clean. Our home on base has been remodeled. We are one of the lucky families. Our two bedroom has new hardwood floors in the main areas, new carpet in the bedrooms, and new tile in the kitchen and bath. All new appliances. A full basement. One car garage. Central air. Covered patio in back. I am present to how blessed we are. Stacy and I created our next home in our minds...

Ranch style, open floor plan with at least two bedrooms (1 for us and 1 for an office), room to store our things (full basement), hardwood floors, small backyard to relax in with minimal grass for the dogs to enjoy, and newer interior. Simpler, cleaner, less maintenance!

God provided exactly what we asked for and more. We knew that in military housing that privacy was at a minimum. Our home is at the end of the block (on a corner) that backs up to a park. My view out the office window is of a jungle gym (rarely used), green grass expanse, large column poplars, with maples in the distance, the perimeter road with green expanse after that. Beautiful.

My honey and I have been slowly unpacking boxes, getting rooms organized, and choosing which wall to hang things on. Some people call it nesting. When we got married, Stacy moved into my home. Now we have our home. While we will be in this particular house for only a year, it has been fun exploring our preferences together.

Finding out that he REALLY doesn't like my copper whale (which also happens to be one of my favorite pieces). It's been educational watching him test the waters with what he can say, how he can say it, and not hurt my feelings. It's almost like he's never had the freedom of spoken opinion before. I enjoy providing him a safe space to be him. Express his feelings and preferences. What works for both of us. (We found a spot for the whale that pleases both of us. Yeah us!)

Our home is coming together. Seemingly small things like, where to put the towels, which drawer will hold the silverware, cereal top shelf or bottom, curtains or blinds, oatmeal or eggs for breakfast. A myriad of small choices that comprise this life we have. Choices we make together that strengthen our bond. Each choice a thread. I just got present to that I am creating the equivalent of a 600 thread count sheet. Soft, strong, and comforting.

I love this life that I have. Thank you God for bringing Stacy to me, having him choose me, being all that I desire and need -- strong, compassionate, loyal, funny. Being loved unconditionally is such a delicious treat. Being trusted with his heart is a task that I treasure. I am honored to be his wife and his partner.

Mom died...

Anneliese Emma Pfeifer Miner died on August 1, 2010.

She's my Mom. She is still my Mom. Clearly it was her time and for her quick release from this world, I am grateful. Thank you God. I prayed that there was no fear and that all those things people say (from near death experiences) are true.

That Dad, Oma, Opa, Uncle Sylvan, Aunt Ilse, Pete, Stefan, Brandy, Uncle Bob, Aunt Edith, other countless friends and relatives were there welcoming her. That she wasn't afraid. I pray that she smiled at the end. That wonderful memories rushed past her, love surrounded her, and that she felt peace.

At 83 it would seem she had a good long life. She certainly lived longer than anyone expected. After a near death experience in 2003 -- each day was a gift. I was privileged enough to have her live with me. Not that each moment was treasured -- but I would not trade any of them. The time I had with my Mom was precious. I actually got to know her. Her true self -- not the made up stories of who we think our parents are. Small conversations caught between loads of laundry. Her outlook on life. Snips of stories of life during the war. Glimpses of my grandparents. Conversations that have been passed down generation to generation. Pictures of past life. Her capacity for forgiveness. Her faith. A level of intelligence I am happy to say I inherited. Her temper. Her generosity.

A strong sense of survival. Of doing the best with what you had. That complaining never changed anything. Oh she complained about how dry the chicken was -- but she never complained about having to leave her home, or that her children didn't visit or call enough. Well that's not true. I often heard from her that she missed me and she would ask if I was mad at her -- because I had not stopped to visit with her in days. Even though I lived in the same house.

I marveled at how she never cried. Never. She felt sadness but tears NEVER escaped from her eyes. We spoke of that a few times. She said she didn't know how to cry. How does someone not know how to cry? I don't remember learning how to cry. I assumed it came naturally. Not for my Mom. Not when her Mother died, her Father, her grandson, or her husband. No tears. I wonder if people thought she was heartless.

Far from heartless. A quiet person with few friends. An underlying insecurity permeated her life. That she wasn't pretty enough. She was gorgeous -- amazing skin and thick hair. She wasn't vivacious like her sister. No she wasn't and that was okay. (I found a letter from my Mom to her sister unsent where she expressed jealousy of not being more like her sister and how she had made her sister wrong.) Sometimes it's easier for one person to shine. She stayed in her marriage even with all it's flaws. She honored her vows. She kept her promises. Did she lie once in awhile -- oh yeah. Did she exaggerate? Yes. Did she want to be treated like a queen? Yes. Was she perfect? No.

She had a wicked sense of humor. Loved a good looking man. Adored cats. Prayed for her family and friends every night. She worked hard until she retired -- then she did what she wanted. Which was nothing. It was her retirement!

How does one measure a good life. By our standards or theirs? I would hope a combination of the best of both. Embracing our strengths and letting go of too much judgement by some of how one should live one's life versus our own condemnation of not having done or been enough.

My imagination has her sitting in a comfortable chair reviewing her life. A timeless review of all that she did in her body during her tenure on earth.

I wonder what kind of daughter she thinks she was. Does her opinion match her Mother's opinion? Did she and her sister embrace? Did Dad find out that she loved him? Then I wonder if it matters or does it only matter when you are alive?

Since I believe that we choose our paths before we are born -- what lessons did she want to learn and what did she learn? Did she accomplish her goal? I pray that she is pleased with the path her life took. She sees the contribution she made and how she impacted all those around her. That whatever lesson she was to learn that she did. That the next phase of her soul's journey is fulfilling.

I love her unconditionally. I know, unfailingly, that she loved me and did her best. In the end that is all any of us can do -- is our best. Thanks for doing your best.

I shall miss you the rest of my days until we are together again.

I love you.

With upmost appreciation, gratitude and love,

your daughter Renee