Archive | Grieving

the super duper last thing

When I’m putting Squirmy to bed, she makes sure to call to me a few times to stall and I’ll go right back in to see what she’s thought of to tell me. After the third or fourth time, I start to get a little peeved. She says, “This is the super duper last thing, Mama!”

When I started kissingglue, I needed an outlet. It felt like I had so much to say and if I didn’t get it out, I was going to burst. I was not only willing to share my experience but needed to share it as a way to help me move forward. So I ended up living quite publicly.

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAI can’t even put into words how much this blog has helped me get through the hardest year of my life. I’m not done grieving, I’m not done healing, but I’m at a place where I’m done doing so here.

DSCN0701Thank you so much for reading this, for giving me feedback and support, for taking a step back and looking at your own lives and putting things into perspective. I have appreciated it all.

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This song came out when Greg and I first started dating. We listened to it a lot when we had time to just be us and in love. It’s a little haunting now but still so beautiful. I hope you’ll take the time to just stop and realize how much you have and let all your sweeties know how much you love and appreciate them.

This is the super duper last thing…

Thank you. I love you.

xxx,

Mariah

6

dark days/light days

Last Thursday, April 24th, was a really bad day. Everything seemed to go wrong. I knew it was an anniversary earlier in the week but I had forgotten until a couple days after it was over.

I never realized how much anniversaries can effect us. For years during the fall, Greg would have a few dark days and after looking at the calendar, he would realize that it was around the time that both of his parents had died (on different days and years in September).

Back in mid-March of last year, we first heard that Greg might have cancer. When we got home from the hospital and after Greg was asleep, I remember falling to the floor at the bottom of our stairs, crying so hard I almost threw up because I knew that he was dying. I just knew. I felt horrible for not being more positive about our chances but on that day, I was already starting to grieve the loss of my Greg. Before we even knew for sure, I was grieving.

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Then came April 24th. It was the day Greg’s oncologist told us that his treatment hadn’t helped and there was nothing more that we could do. It was the day that we gave up on fighting to heal his body. We succumbed to the cancer. There was a small discussion of traveling to the ends of the earth to try and fight this thing to the death. But we had no more fight in us. It had been such an exhausting two months and we were both on the brink of just breaking by the weight of it all. When Toby said those words, all we could do was exhale. Greg was the first to speak. I don’t remember exactly what he said but it was something like, “Okay. I guess we knew this was coming. I should probably start planning now.” It was a relief. I can’t believe I felt that. I didn’t want to feel like we were giving up but any more of life in this out-of-control, free-fall and I felt like our family would be crushed. Just totally break, lose it and never recover – just like Greg’s poor, defeated body. It was different than death. In death there is peace. There was no peace in this battle.

It’s hard for me to talk about cancer and quite honestly, easier to talk about death. I know that there are a lot of people that have had or are facing cancer and fighting it successfully. But to us and our experience, success isn’t the case. To me and my family, cancer equals death. And even the treatments we tried seemed to do more harm than good. And that’s another reason that we were relieved to stop the suffering we seemed to be inflicting on Greg.

The month of May has always been a sunny, happy time for me.  It’s May Day, Mother’s Day, it’s Angie and Brynn’s birthdays :), it’s the end of the school year, it’s lilacs and green grass and parks and bikes and sun. But it’s also now death. I don’t want this time of year to become our ‘dark days’.

Last year, after April 24th, that grieving continued – for all of us. But I think that’s also when the healing started. We had Greg’s party, which was full of love, so much that I can’t even put it into words. We continued to have family, friends and neighbors stop by and help us out.

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But now, we had nowhere we needed to be. No appointments. No hospitals. No waiting rooms. Just home. Just together. Just enjoying what there was left of him, focusing on loving him and the life he had left in him. And I think that’s something to celebrate; the opposite of dark days. Because even though we were all grieving and mourning his eminent death, there was something so beautiful in the way we lived the month of May. Even Greg was able to experience some peace and healing for himself….not a definition of dark, but of light.

xxx,

Mariah

 

3

reluctantly taking care of business

It turns out the days leading up to the anniversary of Greg’s stomach ache were much worse than the actual day. Last week, I had been gathering tax info for my accountant so I had to go through all of our medical bills and receipts. I even pulled out our CaringBridge entries and our 2013 calendar to help figure out our medical mileage. Greg’s handwriting had marked the days of important appointments, “Esophageal Ultrasound, MRI, UW biopsy”. And an appointment with his psychologist, written in classic Greg-style, “Brain Doctor – 11 a.m.”  :)  It was strange to be reminded of a time when we didn’t know, when we started worrying and then when we knew it was what we’d been dreading. It was almost as if I was a stranger looking in on us from the future…”Those poor bastards were so happy and clueless, they have no idea what’s about to happen to them.” It made me feel so sad for them – for us.

Not only was the process of leafing through those three months a painful reminder, it was frustrating to do because this was Greg’s job. HE was supposed to do taxes. HE was supposed to figure out our mileage and look through receipts and make phone calls.

The other day I finally figured out our healthcare so that I don’t have to continue paying $1,104.65/month to occasionally visit the doctor!  As I tried explaining to the woman on the phone what a frustrating experience it had been working with them (insert reasons I had to call them weekly to fix something), I started sobbing to her. Greg would have been taking care of this for us.

A few weeks ago, Greg received a packet in the mail stating that he was the beneficiary of a small account that his mom had had. She died in 2004 and this company was JUST NOW aware of her passing. So I called and filled out the proper forms to get it transferred to my name. They left me a message a week later so I called them back. The woman on the other line couldn’t disclose any information over the phone because the last name that it had been transferred to was different than mine. I heard her laugh a little when she said that. I thought that was strange but she told me to just fill out the additional forms with my real name when I received them and it would be fine. So earlier this week I got a package in the mail from them addressed to MARIAH CAREY. So maybe someone had that name in their head as they were mindlessly typing in my information and I’m hoping that’s all it was. I’m not a person that gets angry very easily but for some reason, this makes my blood boil. It felt like they were making fun of me. Here I am trying to get something taken care of from my deceased mother-in-law left to my now deceased husband and it’s like someone is making a joke about my name. And how do you make a complaint about that? “Hey huge corporation – I’m already sad and you hurt my feelings!” This is something Greg would have taken care of for me…and not only would he have taken care of it, he would have made it right. And made me feel better.

Yesterday I had to call Greg’s old employer to ask a question that was pertinent to our taxes. I typed in their 1-800 number that I found online. I forgot that this used to be Greg’s work number and that it was still in my phone. So as it starts to ring, this is what I see…

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“Hi Baby! Can you please take care of all this stuff for me so I never have to deal with it ever again? And then can you please come home? Okay, love you! Bye.”

xxx,

Mariah

2

tummy

Here it starts.

Today marks the anniversary of the stomach ache that revealed Greg’s cancer. I didn’t think this would be so hard but leading up to this day feels like someone punching me in the chest, all over again.

We were at a child’s birthday party and after a couple pieces of pizza, Greg started feeling bad. I realize this is a weird photo to include and I’m not even sure why I took a picture of him laying like this. Here we are at a kids birthday party; a fun place to play and run around with our kids in the middle of winter. But Greg is in pain and has to lay down in the middle of it. I walked over to him after I took this picture and he stuck his tongue out to the side and smiled like he felt silly but just couldn’t help it. I wish I would have known how much pain he was in – this day and every day after this. I look at this photo and just want to scoop him up and rush him off somewhere to save him. But even in this picture, his cancer was already at Stage 4.

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At some point, we asked Greg’s oncologist how long the cancer had been growing. They estimated that it had been about 6 months based on how fast it was spreading. I look back at this photo of him during a really fun date night  in August and wish we would have known on this day. Or maybe the day after this – I wouldn’t have wanted to ruin this night. It was perfect. And then I could have somehow saved him.

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I’m counting on my girls to help me get through today. Like every day, I guess.

xxx,

Mariah

4

my own group therapy session

I wrote this on Monday evening but I didn’t want to post it because I didn’t really like it and felt like I was being too negative. Plus, I was exhausted from crying. I remember when Greg was sick and I couldn’t bring myself to post on CaringBridge because I didn’t have anything positive to say. I guess I still feel the same way about writing something that you will all see. I want to be able to have a happy ending or at least some hope to leave you with. For you and for me. So, to add a little happiness to what you are about to read…I’m feeling better today. The sun was shining and I let Squeaky play in the van out in the parking lot (buckling and unbuckling her ‘babies’ is so much fun!) while I stuck my head out the door for a little sun. I prepped everything to work on taxes with my accountant next week. I THINK I finally figured out our health care situation. AND Squirmy and I found a game on the iPad to play together that had us cheering and high-fiving each other – the game is Where’s My Water. I’m sure you have all heard of it already and have been playing it for years and years but we had a great time with it tonight!

Anyway, I still don’t like this post but I’m going to share it anyway. See below for some ramble-y, 3-day old whining.

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I don’t feel fun anymore. I THINK I used to be fun. A fun mom. A fun daughter. A fun friend. I’m just not fun. I’m too stressed. I’m crabby. I don’t know how to participate in small talk so I just shy away from conversations regarding anything about anything other than my immediate sphere of circumstance. I have tried participating in some conversations but I float away, feeling like I have no right to be talking about daily things, silly things, trivial things. Things that don’t pertain to life and death. I still don’t know what’s going on in the news and that’s depressing to me. I try participating in things in the community but I’m held back by inability to converse and the fact that I’m now a single mom with no back-up parent. My girls like babysitters but I sometimes think I get them too often. They are usually very crabby and clingy to me the next day. I don’t want my girls to think I’m leaving them too, but mama just needs breaks. And it seems so selfish of me but after I get a break one day, I need another one a few days (sometimes HOURS) later! It’s never-ending guilty feeling.

I was supposed to go to my first group therapy session tonight but it was cancelled because of the snowstorm. I was actually looking forward to starting some kind of therapy. The next one is a month away and that feels like ages from now. I keep telling myself it was meant to be because everything that has happened since Greg died has felt bigger than me, more deliberate, just meant to happen. Every door that opens, I wander through. I do this because I’ve always liked going with the flow but in some ways I don’t feel strong enough to attempt anything else. It’s exhausting to stress about going in a different direction so I just float through that open door. Maybe this is the way I’ve always done things and I’m just more aware of it now. I’m paying attention more, wondering in what ways Greg is still helping us along.

I’m used to mourning the loss of Greg but I guess I’m now feeling like mourning the loss of me. The old me. The fun me. The aware me. The crafty me. The political me. The self-deprecating me. The save the earth me. Some days I just don’t recognize this crabby lady. This lost lady. This lady growing grey hairs and new wrinkles who’s yelling at her kids to go to bed or plopping them in front of the tv or telling them that she’ll read them a book only to realize she forgot to call the IRS to request 3 years of back taxes because she can’t find them anywhere in her computer files or that she hadn’t even thought of what to make for dinner and all that there is in the fridge is old tofu and yogurt. I realize that there are a lot of people going through hell in their lives worse than I am so I don’t like outwardly complaining. I just hate seeing me this way. Me not being able to handle it all. I’ve always been someone to pick myself up and go. But I still feel lost. I can pick myself up but I just don’t know where to ‘go’. Then I do my floaty thing.

We’ll be coming up on a bunch of anniversaries soon…the day Greg got his stomach ache. The day I KNEW it was cancer. The day we got the actual cancer diagnosis. The day I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe because I knew he was dying. The day he started radiation. The day he started chemo. The day the oncologist told us there was no more plan. The day hospice came to our house. The day he was taken to the in patient hospice unit by ambulance and the girls started screaming and crying and clinging to me when they found out I’d be going with him. The day of his party. The night I woke up and cried to him because I knew there would be so much to do when he died and he wouldn’t be there to do it with me. The day that was the beginning of the end. The last time I held his hand.

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Greg and the girls on February 23rd, 2013, the day before the stomach ache.

People always tell me that firsts and anniversaries will be hard but I never really believed them. I didn’t really even think of ‘firsts’ until I had a shitty time this Thanksgiving and Hanukkah and an even shittier time at Christmas. I wanted it to be good but it was all just too normal. Normal stuff we would usually do but with that big, gaping hole right next to me. I guess Monday, the anniversary of Greg’s stomach ache will feel like just a normal day. I’ll have to plan something to make it not normal. Maybe then I’ll feel a little better.

I don’t feel like this every day. Just some days when I feel I’ve done a shitty job of what I’m supposed to be doing. Or when I just don’t give a shit about this or that. Or when I feel like I should have my shit together a little more. Shitty shit shit.

On a bright note, I do remember making some people laugh the other day. And today I was watching an old video of Squirmy and Squeaky dancing that Greg had recorded almost exactly a year ago. It made me laugh so hard I cried. It’s been a very long time since that has happened.

Well, I guess that’s my therapy session for this month. And a successful one at that, since I have a pile of snotty tissues on the floor next to me. Maybe next month I’ll be able to say it all out loud.

xxx,

Mariah

P.S. I did NOT go with Greg right away to the hospice facility. I stayed home to make sure the girls were okay and happy having a picnic before I said goodbye…just in case you were wondering.

 

6

last words

I recently clicked on some silly article about things men do that women love. One of the things was the way their eyes soften when they look at us. I remember the way Greg’s face relaxed and his eyes would ‘smile’ when he looked at me. The article made me think of the last thing he said to me.

We had a lot of people around us for the last month of Greg’s life. At times, our entire bedroom was full of people but we could always catch each other’s eye to share a little smile, send a little love without saying anything. On Greg’s last day, he was starting to get confused and was quickly getting worse. He had moments between clarity and confusion that reminded me of my Grandpa during the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.

Later that afternoon, Greg caught my eye from across our bedroom filled with family. His eyes softened and he smiled. It was like those beautiful blue eyes were trying to tell me, once again, everything I already knew, before the thoughts slipped away. He said to me, “Hi Baby. Hi Red. We made it. And look at the results.”

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Nothing else made much sense the rest of the night and a few hours later I couldn’t even understand the words he was trying to say.

But that statement. That little statement means so much, I can’t even express how much. Maybe it’s because these are his words for me. His LAST words for me. When I think about them or whisper them to myself, I feel like I might hyperventilate. Without being this obvious proclamation of how much he loved me and would miss me, I consider the sentiment behind it to be the ultimate statement of love. My Greg, on his death bed at 46, his eyes smiling at me, his Red, told me that we made it. We did it. We succeeded. We succeeded with flying colors because you just look at those babies we made and the love we shared. That love and those babies. That is ALL that life is.

Yeah Baby, we made it.

xxx,

Mariah

4

death and bodies, part 2

Since Greg died in the early morning while the girls were asleep, I had a choice to make. Should I wake them to say goodbye or just let them sleep and tell them when they woke? Part of me wanted to just let them sleep because all I wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and cry and cry and cry. But deep down I knew that was not the right answer. We had done our best to be truthful and include them as much as we could when Greg was sick. I knew I had to wake them so that they were able to have closure in their own way, as much or as little as they understood at the time.

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When Greg was healthy, he went into work around lunchtime and every day the girls would hug him goodbye and make sure to put a bunch of kisses in his pocket to last him throughout the day until he got home. On Greg’s last night, as the girls were saying goodnight, he gave both of them a crystal butterfly box full of his kisses that would last them their entire lives. We still take kisses from their boxes every night before bed. I do too. I figure there are probably a few in there for me as well.

That evening, Greg had taken an obvious turn for the worse and we knew his time was very close. I told the girls that Daddy might not have much more time and that he would be dying soon. We had talked about it a lot before this but because he hadn’t been ‘actively dying’ I could always tell them he still had time. As I was tucking Squirmy into bed, she asked me, “Is Daddy going to die tonight?” I told her yes, he might. She nodded and cuddled up in bed.

I woke Squirmy and Squeaky at about 5:30 in the morning and told them Daddy had died. They both clung to me and Squirmy started crying with me. I took them upstairs to see Greg. He had the white teddy bear tucked under his arm that the girls picked out for him when he was away from home at hospice.

We had a little ceremony to say goodbye to Greg before the funeral home people came to take him away. The girls both continued to cling to me but they saw him. The thought of them being scared of him hadn’t crossed my mind until we went into the bedroom to see him. But they had also seen Greg with his eyes and mouth open while he slept so they were used to it. A few times, Squirmy buried her head in my lap. Squeaky held me tight but her eyes jumped around to watch facial expressions, taking cues from everyone around her. The Hospice Chaplain said a few prayers, the girls and I quietly sang the Barney, I Love You song and we played the Talking Heads song, This Must be the Place (Naive Melody).

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I don’t remember if either of them touched Greg but I don’t expect a 2 and 4 year old to have the same kind of experience that I did. They are both so young. I’m just glad that they were there. They were (and continue to be) a huge support to me even if they didn’t know it and they were there to be a part of something very important. While they both exhibit a surprising understanding of what happened for kids their age, it’s still quite hard for them to grasp the concept. When the funeral home people took Greg away, the girls said goodbye to him one last time and watched as his body was wheeled out the door. Then they went back to playing with their cousins.

And that’s when I went back upstairs, curled up in a ball and cried and cried and cried.

xxx,

Mariah

0

death and bodies, part 1

Years ago, I heard a news story about how removed from death we (as a society) have become. We have a harder time dealing with the finality of death because we aren’t exposed to or spend time with dead bodies anymore. People die at the hospital, a nursing home, a hospice unit and are taken away and we don’t have the chance to get our final goodbyes at home.

When I was younger, I thought that was a good thing. I was terrified of death, the thought of finding a loved one dead, dead bodies at funerals, even my own family members (grandparents, great uncles and aunts, etc) and I wouldn’t get close to the casket, let alone actually touch the body.

At some point in my relationship with Greg, I had the thought that someday I would see him die or find him dead. I know that’s a morbid thought but it popped into my brain and I thought, “Well, yeah – since he’s 11 years older than me that’ll probably happen…in my 70s or 80s.”  And I kind of terrified myself by that thought. Of him dying…not really, because it was going to happen when we were much, much older. But I was terrified by the thought of his dead body. I had never been very close to a loved one who had died so I guess I just assumed it would be like the other deaths I had experienced.

Turns out that assumption was wrong. And I’m so glad I was wrong.

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The evening of Greg’s death, his bed was surrounded by our friends and family, talking to him, crying with him, calling loved ones who live far away. We all stayed up late to sit with him but at about midnight, after a hospice nurse had come to check on him and confirm that he was ‘actively dying’, I decided I’d like someone to be in the room with us, to take shifts. My sister-in-law (J) and I stayed up, quietly sitting and laying with Greg, trying to stay awake. I lay on our bed which was pushed up against his hospital bed so I could be as close to him as possible while J took a spot on the floor. I held his hand and talked to him. His breathing had become so labored and it was beginning to be painful to watch how much he struggled to get a breath.

I tried to stay awake and Greg started to call out after awhile. It was hard to understand what he was saying. I thought he was saying, “Red” and “Mariah” but I really didn’t know for sure. His legs were restless and I got a little scared that he was in pain so I helped make him comfortable and gave him a boost of his medication.

I lay back down and then it was quiet. I’m not really sure when it happened but I think we may have fallen asleep because Greg had gotten quiet. I felt bad that I hadn’t been awake for his last breath but when I woke up shortly after, I was still holding his hand. And it was warm; warm but limp. And I didn’t want to let it go. In fact, I couldn’t stop touching him. It was like as long as I was touching him, he would still be here with me. Maybe I wanted to touch him as much as I could before I couldn’t anymore. Or maybe because I had missed touching him during the couple months he was in so much pain and we couldn’t squeeze him for fear of hurting him. Or maybe I was scared that when I stopped, he would become that dead body that I was afraid of. But that didn’t happen. I was never scared.

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It was about 3 a.m. when Greg died so while we waited for the hospice nurse to come and clean him up, the chaplain to come to talk with us, the funeral home to take him away to be cremated, I just kept touching him. He slowly became colder. He died with his mouth and his eyes wide open. It should have been scary to me but it wasn’t at all. It was how he slept the last few weeks so I was used to seeing him that way. The hospice nurse told me that I could ask the funeral home people to keep his face uncovered until he was out of our house. So I did. And as they carried him down the stairs and to our entryway, I gave him one last kiss and touched his face as it peeked out from the body bag. That lifeless body that had been so good to me, to him, until it eventually failed.

Death, ghosts, the dark – they’ve always scared me. I know that becoming a mother has made me much more brave. Because how can you be scared when you have to kick some ass (ghost ass, intruder ass, mean kid on the playground ass!) to protect your kids?!  But now that I’ve witnessed a loved one – my loved one – die, death seems more like a friend. Not something scary at all but something very natural, almost comforting.  Because he is there and he has done this first, for me, so I don’t have to be scared anymore.

xxx,

Mariah

 

0

patience

Most days are good. Some days are not. Sunday was not. By the time the girls got to bed and I started thinking about how ugly the day had gotten, I was ashamed. One girl loses it, then another one does and then mama just joins in. It’s hard to turn things around once that happens.

I used to have more patience. Since I was (am) a stay at home mom, I felt good about the way I parented. I remember being able to hold it together during a kid crisis. And that used to be a huge part of who I was because I didn’t work another job. My kids were my only job and I was going to be good at being their mother, dammit. It’s depressing to see that part of me now compromised. Greg used to look to me and would even brag to other people about what a good mom I was. On these bad days, I can’t help feeling like I’m letting him down.

My kids don’t have a father anymore. And on top of that, their mom is losing it. Kind of a double whammy to them.

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Since Greg’s death, people treat us differently. Of course they do. I would too. I see it and it’s fine. Because this is what has happened to us and if people are more nice/attentive/caring/responsive/forgiving, then yes, that’s okay. What I’m having a hard time figuring out is if and how *I* am treating the girls differently. Our situation is constantly making me second-guess myself. I don’t think I’ve changed the way I parent but it’s hard to know since we’re at a completely different phase in life. I have never had a 5 year old and an almost 3 year old until right now. Who knows if I would do things how I am doing them if Greg was still here. But now not only does the fact that my girls are fatherless effect things, *I* am also in a completely different mindset. A double whammy to me as well.

The most upsetting thing to Greg about dying was that 1. He was going to be leaving us and 2. He wasn’t going to be here to help us through our pain. And that was the point, I guess. A double whammy for him too.

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My mom gave me a counseling book when Greg was sick that had a chart including roles that family members assume when someone in the family is seriously ill. I don’t remember the wording exactly but Squirmy was the angel or the pleaser, I was the one who tried to do everything for everyone and was the forgotten one and Squeaky was the problem person. For those short months, there wasn’t much we could do about it. I am very aware of these ‘roles’ and I do not want to be the person who keeps these labels attached to my children. I sometimes secretly (and now not so secretly!) love it when my Squirmy does something out of character and is a little naughty. It makes things feel more balanced. And when I look at Squeaky who is so creative and silly and makes us all  laugh, I know that she isn’t a problem.

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Today, things don’t seem as daunting. The last few days since Sunday have been good. Great, actually. We have all been getting good sleep and the few times there has been a kid crisis, Mama has been able to keep her cool. I’m hoping, as things heat up a bit with Christmas coming, traveling and getting everything done, I’ll be able to keep cool and stay cool. Deep breath.

xxx,

Mariah

2

playlist from 2013

On Friday, I was making a million more rosemary butter cookies for my annual cookie day on Saturday (more about cookie day later this week). The girls were at a friend’s house and I was streaming a radio station from Madison that I really like (I haven’t found a radio station up north that I like yet – waah!). We have a Sonos system that Greg bought back in 2006 that I use to stream radio stations – I highly recommend it. We have access to our entire music library plus any streaming radio throughout our entire house/apartment.  Music is such a big part of our lives and we don’t have the TV on often so we have never regretted spending the money on it.

When I was alone making the cookies, I heard all three of these songs that I’m going to share with you. Sometimes, I don’t realize how much I’m effected by things until I’m away from the girls for a little while and can take a moment to pause. These songs are going to stick with me forever and they are always going to help me break down if I ever need to. I think they also help me remember thoughts and feelings from this year in a way that even pictures and videos cannot. I love them, even though they all make me cry, sometimes really hard. Here they are:

“Carry on” was played a lot when Greg first got sick and I felt like it was a personal calling for me/us to just keep going because that was all we could do.

I heard “Stay” for the first time as I was driving by myself late one night to the in-patient hospice unit to spend the night with Greg. He was getting so sick, so quickly and when I heard this I started to panic realizing he was going to be gone too soon. He wanted me to stay with him all the time and I struggled to spend the time I wanted to with him. There were so many things to take care of during that time, I just couldn’t do it all. I stayed with him when I could but there were times that I had to tell him no. There was also a part of me that wanted to plead with him to stay with me, to not die. That seems so silly. He couldn’t help it that he was dying and he already felt so bad knowing he was leaving us.

I’m sorry (or you’re welcome!) for the naked-y video of Rihanna.

“Gone, Gone, Gone” was played a lot this summer and Squirmy, Squeaky and I all love this song. The girls like to sing/yell, “Like a drum, baby, don’t stop beating!” They like it turned up loud and I like it turned up loud because it gives me a chance to sing/yell while drowning out my sobbing.

“Gone, Gone, Gone” is also a good tune to make up your own lyrics (since it’ll be stuck in your head all day) while trying to get your kids to do things. “For you…for you…I made you this sandwich – can you please now eat it up?!” or “For you…for you…Squirmy’s going potty – can you please try to go next?”, etc.  I do this often, with lots of different songs. :)

Even before he got sick, Greg had a playlist for everything. But when he was stuck in bed, he spent even more time carefully choosing songs to listen to; songs from his past that were important to him and had effected him and helped him become the person he was. Things for me were going so fast that I just didn’t have time to pause and choose my own playlist. I just flicked on a radio station and my playlist was chosen for me as I rushed on to the next thing. And since these are the songs that were playing, these are the songs I’m going to remember.

xxx,

Mariah

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