Mom

I miss my mother. It’s nearly constant. The more birthdays I celebrate, the closer I come to the age she was when we were closest. We spoke daily. About every little thing and nothing. I am so beyond grateful for the relationship I got to have with her. I realize daily how much she got to teach me without even knowing it. 

In no way do I intend for what follows to infer that I thought my mother was vain. I will admit that in my less wise days, I believed she was. I’ve come to understand her languages. It’s looking back on journals and memory that keeps me close to her today. It’s also bittersweet to ache for that dynamic now. 

She worried very much about appearances. We were poor for many years. She did her best to present her family on our best foot as much as she could. Her ability to make the best of an absolute shit show was a work of art. Especially now that I can see who she was with my more mature perspective. 

My mother was an endlessly faithful woman. Her faith wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t always logical, but she found her comfort and peace in it. It’s what gave her the will she had. Making sure her face was pretty. Her hair was colored and presentable. She loved getting her nails done. Because despite her monetary weaknesses, she felt rich as a mother. 

Putting on a good face is all I really know how to do. It’s the foundation of my coping skills. It’s how I figure out how to make the best with what I have. Like an archaeologist, I will dig and scrape until I find silver linings. Even if I have to create them by putting on some makeup, putting effort into this new hair, slipping into some comfortably cute clothes, and going to trivia. 

We had many conversations about my deconversion. It wasn’t one of the easier topics we were vulnerable with. We frustrated each other because I was becoming cynical to the very tool she used to get through crisis. I wonder how those parking lot chats would go with a basket of fries and coke today?

Her eyes always lit up when she saw babies in public. She was that woman who would coo over strangers’ babies at Walmart. Her face glowed when she got the joy of holding their tiny hands. Her love of babies and children was a constant thread in my life. Seeing those memories now, I see a much more fatigued woman. 

I see babies in public and get what she must have felt. Instant, reflexive smile. An instant mood lifter for me is the sound of babies laughing. Seeing my granddaughters just exist makes my cheeks hurt. 

I would love to ask different questions these days. Perhaps it’s my own subconscious yearning, but I feel more like her than I thought I would. I feel more of my mother’s versions of life’s pleasures. Her joy in the benign. I feel like I can understand some of her weights. Her very silent suffering. 

I miss my mother. As my body has morphed into a post menopausal condition, I feel she could relate to the disappointment. As multiple sclerosis stole her physical and mental function, I can remember now the dimming in her eyes as she lost pieces of herself. 

She’s frozen in time. 

She knows me through the veil. 

Her presence is felt when I need it most. When the persevering is hardest, I can hear her laughing and telling one of her theatrical jokes. 

Grief never ends. It just evolves. 

It's Time

I’ve needed to write this for a while. I’ve known since Christmas. Rewriting drafts of this blog has shown me just how conflicted I’ve been about it. Writing this makes it real. It’s the way I hold myself accountable. Once it’s in writing, I’m held to it.

My house is on the market. Pending the sale of it, I will be returning to Arizona.

Even typing it feels heavy.

There’s a mixed market here, so I’m truly praying the sale goes smoothly. Seeing the sign out front feels like watching a body decay in front of me. It’s grief. Another end of a season. A season I wasn’t ready to end.

I carry a soul-shaping gratitude for being able to enjoy living in Tennessee. There will be a proper ode crafted later. But for now, I’ll just say: I have been exactly where I’ve needed to be. The Tennessee humidity played a role in my healing.

I got the privilege of bonding with my kids in a way I wouldn’t have had I stayed in Arizona. Taking the leap and leading my family here has grown us as a unit. My kids are my favorite people on this earth. I got to bear witness to the first year of my daughter becoming a mother to twins.

Convictions were strong about ever returning to Arizona. I felt if I went back, something had gone horribly wrong. These past three years have adjusted that perspective.

I now come back, healed.

Things did go horribly wrong. I needed to be where I was to experience it. I’ve needed the home I bought to be where I fought for my life and won.

As I’m preparing to leave this home, I’m deeply aware of the changes my body is going through.

I am one of the lucky ones, according to labs and recovery. My long-term outlook is very optimistic. On paper, I’m in great shape. But there is a laundry list of things medicine can’t remedy.

After a bilateral mastectomy, breast reconstruction, chemotherapy, hormone therapy, and a recent bout with double pneumonia, I’m seeing now the real scars of breast cancer.

My vision has taken a huge hit. Seeing at night has become a major challenge. Thanks to age and chemo, I have early signs of cataracts. The very thing that might lessen these symptoms is the very thing that might bring the cancer back.

Neuropathy crept in when I thought I’d escaped it. I drop things because my fingers stop working. They cramp easily. Even opening a milk jug can be impossible. Playing the piano isn’t as easy anymore, but I still play. Noticing this change nicks an artery.

Insomnia is fun! No, not tired. Fatigued. Not depressed either. It’s bone-dry lethargy. I don’t sleep for more than maybe three hours at a time. Most days, I feel like I’m either just waking up or getting ready for bed. There are spurts of energy that I capitalize on. I’ve found that increasing my D3, K2, and B12 helps a lot. But it’s a battle.

I take daily medications, each with their own side effects. On top of healing from chemo (which is wild, because it’s almost been a year). It’s a process to get used to it all, and I keep my fingers crossed for more good days than bad. One med to keep the cancer away. One to keep my sanity in place. One to manage the inferno underwhelmingly referred to as "hot flashes."

My brain took a hit. My memory isn’t as sharp. I fumble words. Another nick to an artery. It’s not debilitating, but I feel the deficit. Some days, I stare off without realizing it. Like I’m still in active treatment. I’m learning how to compensate. But I worry about what’s permanent.

Through absolutely no one’s misstep or failure, I haven’t been able to plant strong enough roots in Tennessee to sustain the next few years of reclaiming my life.

The bonds with my people in Arizona have strengthened despite distance. Being closer to that familiarity feels like the sanctuary I need.

What once was a reason to leave Arizona has become exactly what I need: consistency and predictability.

I’ve never seen Arizona from this reformed perspective.