For Better and For Worse

As our wedding draws closer, I have an inexplicably heavy anxiety and fear woven throughout my excitement and joy.

I knew that planning a wedding came with a special set of frustrations and headaches. What I wasn't prepared for was the upheaval of all I thought I had satisfactorily buried. This process, in the midst of excited anticipation, has also been one of the saddest and loneliest I've experienced.

I can't begin to express how empty this feels knowing that neither my mom nor my fiancé's mom is here to share in all of this with us.

Part of me is still angry that not only did my biological mother not desperately want to keep me, I lost my adopted mom when I was still a child, and then I lost my mother-in-law-to-be; my last chance to have a mother figure in my life as family. I don't know what the words are to explain how that feels...

Every meltdown has me wondering if maybe I'd be having less of a meltdown if one of them was here to listen as I agonize over all the stupid details that probably won't matter in the end anyway, but more importantly, as I hash out all my fears about trust, commitment, my life's direction, and the risk of letting someone in so close that it would tear me apart to lose them.

My dad tells me even if he knew what was in store for him and my mom before they got married, he still would've gone through it. It was all worth it in spite of the two decades of hell watching her struggle physically and mentally while fighting to keep his entire family afloat.

There is some solace in that for me; even with as heart wrenching as it was, he doesn't wish it just never happened at all. I am lucky and got to witness my dad set an extraordinary example of commitment, devotion, and love in the face of impossible odds. I've watched many others turn away for much less.

I adore the man I'm marrying, and I know he adores me right back. I believe he would stand by me if our world came crashing down. And that terrifies me. This man loves me for who and what I am. I have trouble doing that myself some days.

I spent years making myself strong and fiercely independent. It's not that I entirely closed everyone out– I just didn't let anyone get close enough to really hurt me if they disappeared somehow. Now I feel completely dependent, vulnerable, and as raw as though someone ripped away all of my scabs and scars.

Thankfully, my husband-to-be is infinitely patient and possesses a steadiness I can only hope to one day attain. He's becoming quite skilled at soothing my demons when they attack out of nowhere.

I avoided writing for the last year because, quite frankly, this is all embarrassing to me. I feel like a failure because I can't "just" focus on the good parts. I don't have the eternal optimist's silver lining to paint around my little gray cloud. Sure, I've learned a lot and wouldn't be the person I am today if I hadn't gone through all of that, but I don't think I'd be a horrible person if I would've had a stable mom in my life. Who knows, there's a chance I'd be slightly more well-adjusted.

But maybe it's not always about turning something into what it's not. We so often look for the heroic inspiration in every sad story, but perhaps sometimes the lesson is to let it be what it is. Maybe the healing is in the acceptance.

I am incredibly excited to have found this man with whom I want to spend the rest of my life, and I can't wait to see how our story continues to unfold. I am looking forward to our wedding and seeing all of our closest family and friends together; I know they will make it an unforgettable night. I am also indescribably sad because there is, and will be, an irrevocable emptiness.

Yann Martel so poignantly wrote in Life of Pi, "To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experiences of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures who people the tree of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you…"

Our lives will never be the same, and that's ok; it is how it should be. We will carry on with our lives creating new habits and patterns around the emptiness like a tree around a knot in its wood. Some experiences will usher in sadness alongside happiness because I will always wish for the sun to shine.

"Joy and Sorrow are Inseparable"

I never thought that would happen. 

It's not even that I just didn't think it would happen for me, I just didn't think of it at all. 

But here I sit with a gorgeous rock on my left ring finger thinking about what day would be best for our wedding. 

That's a long way to come for someone who, at one point, didn't expect to make it to 30. 

But here I am at 30, and I'm so happy it feels unreal, like if I blink one too many times, it'll all disappear. 

I have a beyond wonderful fiancé, a cozy little home that becomes more ours each day, a job that doesn't feel like work, an adorable tiny wiener dog, and amazing friends whose devotions blazed more brightly than ever this year.

It's certainly no fairytale story; we've struggled a lot in the last year and a half. But, we've made it through an immense amount too. 

We've suffered all that comes with the loss of friends we thought we'd never lose, the sorrow that comes with any big life transition- even the happy ones- and the heart wrenching grief that comes with the loss of a mother. 

All of these things have brought us closer than we would have ever anticipated.

The 16th anniversary of losing my own mother is rapidly approaching, and every year around this time, I feel the same sort of antsy anxiety as though my body is subconsciously prepping itself for the morning of October second. You'd think after over a decade and a half that sensation would subside, but I have yet to discover otherwise.

I am incredibly grateful for my life now, and so very sad that absolutely none of it contains the presence of my mom. Even her memory is barely a whisper contained only in the few people left in my life who ever knew her.

It's a strange realization to know I have, by necessity, built the last 16 years without a piece that seems so vital. And it's beautiful. And I'm happy. And I'm sad.

As my fiancé and I make plans for our wedding, our joys highlight our sorrows, but our sorrows graciously serve to highlight our joys.

It is a good life.

Turning Point

I do this every year. 

Every year on this day, I add plus one to the count. 

Today makes 15. Fifteen years since mom died. 

It's weird every year. Every year I wonder how it's been so long already...

I miss her, always. Though, after years of contemplation, I finally realized I've had her on a pedestal. 

It's something we all do when someone we love dies. We forget the awful and remember the good, as I think it should be. 

Mom struggled with nameless debilitating health issues for over two decades which meant the whole family was just trying to survive. Our lives were dedicated to her.

The reality for me is that if she were still here, I would likely not have taken all of the chances and opportunities I did. I wouldn't have traveled so much, I wouldn't have lived in two other states and most importantly, I wouldn't be as close to my dad and sister as I am now. 

Last year (the 14th year) was a big year because it was the point at which she had been gone longer than she was with me. 

This year is big because, although on some level I always knew it, I'm finally fully realizing and admitting that while her absence has been scarring and I miss her always, dare I say it....

Life has been better since she's been gone.

When I say that life has been better, I don't mean that I've been enthralled to not have her here. I'm consistently sad when anything happens that I want to share with her- the good, the bad, the happy, the disheartening...

Hearing the trite old saying that she's still with me somewhere out there is annoying at times because her being "out there somewhere" is not an acceptable substitute for being "right here to hug me and tell me everything will be fine."

I'd give anything to have my mother here if she could be happy and healthy, but she rarely ever was for any of the time I knew her. So while I detest trite platitudes, the saying that she's better off because she's not suffering anymore holds some truthful solace.

This is a big anniversary because it's an intentional step away from grieving.

I can't spend the rest of my life wishing for something that I will never have again. I can spend the rest of my life grateful that I had it for the time that I did. 

Happy 15th year mama. Here's to peace for both of us.