Phone Call

There are many nights when I approach what I so endearingly call, my dungeon, and I know exactly what I want to write and the memories I want to record.  The words come with an ease as the thoughts have been flooding my mind throughout the day.  Tonight, however, it doesn’t feel quite so easy.   Even as I walked the steps to my desk something felt different.  I felt something that has been  bubbling under the surface throughout the day. . . .

. . . And to be honest, I feel nervous.  I wonder how honest I should be.  How transparent.  What belongs in a blog and what should be left out?  Then I ask–why am I writing this blog?  (I still don’t really know the answer to that one).  What I do know is that pounding away on this keyboard somehow makes me feel better.  And so at this moment I don’t know what I will write or even if I will ever press that “Publish Post” button. . . I just know I need to write. . .

Sadness. . . . that is what has been bubbling under the surface today. . . This is why. . .

Three times today I went for my phone to call her. . . my Mom, that is. 

I don’t know when that will end.  In reality, I dread its ending as much as I dread it happening.  To have the thought to call her is such a reminder that she’s gone, but to not have it makes it seem so, I don’t know. . . final?  Usually when it happens I laugh at myself or tell Chad and move on with my day.  Today, though, it happened so many times and that “ugh” feeling has stuck with me. 

Let me be clear. . . I do not want to come across here as a victim or someone needing or asking for pity.  This is just my story, my journey, my adjustment, my grief.  And today, this is where I find myself.  Missing her, wishing she were here, and angry that she is not.  I miss telling her all the tiny, insignificant details of our day.  I miss calling her just to tell her how cute Chanelle looks in pigtails.  I want to pick up the phone to report the silly things Charlie said or how fed up I am with the stubborn 4-year old attitude he displays sometimes.  I wish I could tell her that Chanelle told me that she would use her magic wand to change me into Chanelle and she would change into Mommy and then she would know how to make the fish face. I miss hearing her say, “you’re a good, Mom”. . .

Tonight I would love to pick up the phone and tell her about how the kids spent the day at the air show and that Chanelle even fell asleep on Gramps’ shoulders during the Blue Angels.   

Or I’d love to tell her about the morning we spent at the arboretum and the seemingly hundreds of pictures we took while the kids played, explored, and enjoyed a fall like morning.

Or, I might tell her about roasting marshmallows in the fire pit out back and how the kids wanted their marshmallows burned, not roasted.  And that Charlie called the fire lava and Chanelle sang the Hokey Pokey the entire time.

And I would love telling her these insignificant stories, because they wouldn’t be insignificant to her–just as they are not insignificant to me.

So, here I am this evening.  Missing her but also filled with so much joy at having these moments. . . these memories.  It’s funny how you can feel such gratitude and such sorrow all at the same time.  I guess that’s the beauty of life, of people, of emotions.  What this journey is teaching me is that it is okay to feel what I feel.  In fact, it is vital for healing to allow myself to feel all of it.  To walk through it with confidence that each step is one step further than I was. . . and each step proving once again that. . . I’m going to be okay.