Between an Old Memory and Me

mem·o·ry

/ˈmem(ə)rē/
 noun
1. Something remembered from the past; a recollection

Memories are weird. You can remember minute details from your childhood and manage to forget where you put your car keys just 15 minutes prior. You can remember in perfect detail every second of the most traumatic day of your life but fail to recall what you got for Christmas last year. Every moment of your last night with your mom will never be erased from your mind, but 302 days later, you struggle to recall what her laugh sounded like.

Basically, memories are a bitch.

And thanks to APPs like Facebook, Instagram, and Timehop, I am served up memories on the regular. It used to be so fun, opening them up each morning and recalling some of my most favorite memories… a crazy night in college, a trip to Nashville, a girls night that ended with massive hangovers and blurry pictures, beach vacations, and even sweet puppy pics.

But now? Every morning is like playing Russian Roulette with my mind and my heart. Will I be reminded of how cute Daisy was when we first brought her home? Will I relive one of the countless concerts I’ve been to through photos and videos? Or will I be reminded of past loves and painful heartbreaks? Will I see a picture of mom from a year ago – so sick and fragile and pale? Worst of all… will I be reminded of a happier time, a time when she was healthy and smiling and full of life?

Early last week, an adorable picture I took of Seger just weeks after I moved into my apartment two years ago popped up on my Timehop. It reminded me of how sad and alone I felt in that moment, but also how determined I was to come out stronger than ever. On Thursday, Facebook Memories flooded my phone with photos and videos from one of the greatest Kip Moore concerts I have ever been too. My Friday feed was ironically full of #OnWisconsin posts and Bucky photos from the last time the Badgers earned a Rose Bowl bid.

And Saturday? I opened my app to see this photo, and I was instantly filled with immense grief and longing.

I took this photo of mom and Izzy the day she came home from her 18-day stay at Community Memorial Hospital last November – 368 days ago. I still vividly remember this moment, the happiness I felt when I drove her home, the joy on Izzy’s big fluffy face when she finally saw her girl again, the calm on dad’s face knowing that, for a brief moment, everything was right in the world, and hope. We all had SO much hope.

Lately, I have found that the more time that passes since we lost her, the more I ache for memories of the past. For memories of the most mundane, everyday moments that I took for granted and let slip through my mind. The further I get from her physical presence, the more I crave a time when she could be seen and heard and hugged. Mom WAS home. She was the very definition of it, and now that she’s gone and my memories are fading, I am afraid I’ll never find my way back again.

Every single day without her here leaves me feeling empty and unsettled. The misery and anguish that go hand in hand with the constant memories of her are multifaceted and range from “can’t sleep, can’t focus, can’t stop crying” at worst to “barley tolerable” at best. But these holiday months? I could have never prepared myself for the heartache I was about to endure.

This time of year brings back SO many memories, and even the tiniest thing – a smell, a song, or a photo – can send me spiraling down a scary dark hole of depression and anxiety. I used to LOVE Christmas and now? I am dreading it with every fiber of my being.  

Our last holiday season with mom was anything but merry and bright. Sure, there were moments of genuine happiness that I try to hold on to, but those winter months were cold and bittersweet. While we hoped for the best and avoided the cancer sized elephant in the room, deep down we all knew that we were facing our “lasts.”

Our last Thanksgiving. Her last birthday. And our last Christmas together. We knew that we would never have the chance to celebrate another New Year with her or watch her face as has she opened one of our presents that sat wrapped under the tree.

By mid-November, she had been fighting her cancer for almost six months when an extremely high fever and low platelet count put her in the hospital – where she stayed for the next 18 days. Those 2+ weeks were grueling… on mom, on dad, on poor Izzy, and for all of us who felt useless, confused, and left holding on to whatever hope we had left.

And now – a year later, we all find ourselves moving through our grief of losing mom in different ways. But the one thing that we all have in common right now is that we know there is no way in hell that we can keep celebrating things “after” like we did “before.” We couldn’t possibly make it through the Christmas as we have in the past, sitting cross-legged on the floor, wood crackling in the fireplace behind us while we sipped champagne and egg nog. There was always so much laughter, so many smiles, so many heartfelt gifts, and SO much love.

I’ve come to realize that while my mind can comprehend that she is gone, my heart cannot fathom a world without her in it. A world where I would come home for Christmas and walk through the door and she wouldn’t be standing over the counter, phone tucked under her ear, as she mixed up her famous shrimp dip. A world where I wouldn’t get to joke with her about the “treasures” she found on Amazon for her Christmas game while I helped her wrap presents. I wouldn’t get to watch her hide the new shoes that she ordered for herself because she knew dad would forget. There are plenty of things that can help me numb my brain, but my heart cannot grasp the thought that this is my new reality. My heart can’t let go of those memories. The painful longing, the natural pull toward her feels stronger than ever. And that’s what makes this time of year feel so damn difficult – my heart needs her here so desperately that my mind cannot shut off the memories that are too painful to remember.

So, this year, we decided to try and make some new memories. We’re trying to change up traditions and what we’ve always known in hopes of escaping even just the tiniest amount of pain and heartache. We still have no idea what that looks like – but Thanksgiving was a good place to start.

I just want to go on record and say that this Thanksgiving was the first holiday in 15 YEARS that I haven't had to travel. No Badger Buses, no Mega Buses, or Greyhound buses. No Amtrack delays or Chicago traffic when trying to get through I-80 during rush hour on the Wednesday before. And let me tell you – it felt glorious. I woke up in my own bed and prepped my amazing (if I do say so myself) Thanksgiving dinner. The best part, however, was that I had visitors!

Dad, Charlie, my aunt Patty and Mike drove down Thursday morning, and it was exactly what I think we all needed this year. We needed to get out of Milwaukee and “celebrate” somewhere new… somewhere that wouldn’t make us think of mom every second of every day and every where we looked. And while there was still so much pain and so much sadness, there was also a lot of laughter and joy too. Mom was everywhere – but in a good way. We told funny stories about her, we cried for her, we talked about how much we missed her, and we toasted her every chance we had. 

And while Thanksgiving here in Indiana might not become a new tradition, it certainly gave us some new memories to hold on to.