September 22
Today, in the 4 o’clock hour, I merged onto the freeway, heading home in my ribbed tank, with my ponytail flying wildly in the air. My groceries were packed tightly in the back, needing to get into my fridge. Suddenly, I realized I was doing the same thing at exactly the same time on the “very same” date eight years prior. Literally down to the ponytail, ribbed tank, a car loaded with groceries on a warm and sunny September afternoon. However, on that day eight years ago, before going into Costco, I texted my brother and sister to see if they would be up for exchanging names for Christmas that year. I was excited to see their responses as I headed into Costco, having no idea that would be my last text with one of them. On the way home that same day, I felt the urge to stop by my parent’s house to say hi to them and my sister. Just before I pulled off to their exit, I remembered all the groceries in the back that needed to get into my fridge. I let my foot off the brake and accelerated back down the freeway.
As soon as I got home, I began to unpack groceries and throw together a quick dinner so we could eat as a family before my husband left for his hunting trip. It was right then, as onions sizzled on my stovetop, that my phone rang. I let it ring while my hands moved quickly over the stovetop, determined to call back after dinner. It began to ring again. I looked at the caller's name on the screen, surprised by their immediate second attempt. I picked it up, unprepared for the frantic voice on the other end, as I tried to unpack the message that was being sobbed out in broken pieces. Stunned, I hung up, grabbed my keys, and frantically walked in circles around my kitchen island, trying to make sense of things and what to do next before I shot out the front door, apron and all. My husband was hot on my heels as he took the keys from me and drove me to the ER, where I would spend the next 8-10 hours at my sister’s side as numerous strangers desperately fought for her life, and I sent up desperate prayers begging God to let her stay.
But He didn’t and she didn’t. She slipped right out from us. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Tragically.
The world stopped that day. For all of us. I didn’t know if I would ever be the same after that. If I would ever be able to experience joy and laughter again. I couldn’t even imagine such a thing. I clung as tightly to her and the memory of her as I could for fear of truly losing her forever. I stayed low and quiet, except for the sobs that came as they wanted and the strange sounds that escaped me at night as I tried to find sleep. I always saw her there. Reaching for her, trying to save her from falling, waking myself and my husband each time as I called out to her.
Eleven months later, my beautiful mama slowly withered up like an expired flower and breathed her last. My mama. Oh, the blanket of grief that seemed to be my constant companion in those years. After awhile , grief went from feeling cumbersome to just being a part of who I was and where I was comfortable . In fact, I remember one day, about a year or two after my mom died, specifically feeling a shift in my soul, and that heavy blanket of grief lifted off of me. I felt bare and vulnerable. Exposed and uncomfortable. Somehow, that grief had become a source of familiarity and comfort to me. It felt like my greatest connection to the women I had lost, and I feared that if I parted from it, it would be a final parting from them.
Since that first September day, I have experienced different heartaches and more tears, but I have also experienced life’s greatest joys and celebrations. I have thrown bridal showers, weddings, and baby showers for three of my children. I have celebrated loved ones' birthdays and anniversaries. I have been held close by my lover. I have experienced the roar of the ocean and the lull of the sunsets. I have had the privilege of raising my daughters into women and sharing friendship with them. I have attended the births of my grandchildren and held them close.
And…I have indeed laughed til my stomach hurt. And I hope to do it more. And I don’t feel guilty when I do. And I no longer fear losing connection with my mom and sister anymore if I partake in the joys of life.
I have experienced glimpses of the highest levels of love, elation, joy, and a peace that surpasses the need to understand. I have had to let go, but I have also been able to behold. I have uttered gut-wrenching goodbyes but have also whispered some of the grandest hellos. But isn’t this what life is really? The ebb and the flow? Both the heartaches and the simplest and grandest joys?
I had the most beautiful reminder of this today before I even went shopping. I sat outside on my front porch in silence as I ate my lunch contemplating the significance of the day. I heard my dad’s banda music announcing his unexpected arrival as his truck made its way up my driveway. I knew he especially needed a hug on this day that broke his heart in tiny pieces those eight years ago. I met him at his door as he got out, setting my salad bowl on the hood of his truck so I could grab onto him with both hands. Without words we grabbed on to each other and began to rotate between dancing and hugging, both to his music with tears popping out of our faces so quickly as if they too were trying to keep in step with the Latin rhythm that was booming from his radio. We were overcome by our own heartache, but we were also entering into the pain that the other one was feeling, all while experiencing the joy of being together in that moment. Neither of us needed words to know that this is what was happening. And this to me is the beauty of life. The tears and the joys that mingle together simultaneously because of love. Because of the gift of experiencing love in this life. Without love or the desire for it, there would not be heartache or loss and without love there would not be the powerful connection of joy. I don’t wish for one of them, but I am thankful for both. And I am thankful for the hope of one that gets us through the other.
