Maybe I should have regrets – but I don’t. I have learning experiences.

I don’t believe in regrets. At worst, regretting something you did – or didn’t do – can eat you up on the inside. Not to mention that it’s an excuse to remain stagnant. At best, regretting something you did – or didn’t do – will change you for the better in the future.

I don’t think I could live with regrets, at least not relating to my mom. Yes, I can focus on the last time she called me when I lost my temper because it was the umpteenth time she called me that day. I didn’t know, of course, that she’d wake up the next morning, unable to talk.

But that wouldn’t do me any good. Crying because of that phone call won’t help me in the future. You think I don’t get annoyed when my grandfather calls me for the fourth time in as many  hours when I’m at work? I get annoyed. You think I cherish every phone call with my grandmother? I don’t. You think I memorize what everyone wore at every dinner so I’ll have that last great memory? No way.

Because that would be anticipating an end, waiting for disaster. Being polite on the phone because this could be the last conversation, or memorizing what everyone wore to dinner because it could be the last one we have together – that isn’t living. That’s waiting for the end. Instead of looking ahead, it’s being glued to the present, just in case it becomes the last piece of the past.

As many of you know, exactly a month to the day after my mom died, I fell in love. On the one hand, here was this incredible thing that happened to me. On the other hand, wasn’t I supposed to be mourning the loss of my mother? These two events, in such close proximity to each other, are probably the two single biggest events of my life so far. And they literally symbolize the exact opposites of each other.

So I was walking all around smiley and happy and couldn’t feel better, and then I would beat myself up inside, because this is not how somebody in mourning should feel. I thought I should probably stop seeing The Boy because of it, and it was a comfortable excuse considering the sudden lack of personal space I was experiencing. And then I’d beat myself up again because the 2 years leading up to that point weren’t exactly what people should go through either.

I hate when people say things like “It’s what she would have wanted.” That doesn’t change anything. Of course my mom would want me to be happy, and I’m positive she wouldn’t want me crying all day. But it feels like it’s a justification for actions that are out of the ordinary. I’m pretty sure tweeting how happy I was and how much I loved the month after my mom’s death was not, by all accounts, normal. On the other hand, who cares? It’s not like anything in the past 2 years had been normal.

So I was faced with two choices:

1) Feel bad

2) Feel good.

I chose to feel good. And I don’t regret that at all. Yes, it probably took me a bit longer to deal with things because I was distracted. On the other hand, I have no idea how I would have coped with those first few months. Luckily, I won’t ever know.

I have a few so-called regrets in my life. But I honestly see no reason for them.

I regret quitting dancing for 13 years. But while I couldn’t change the 13 years that I didn’t dance, I changed the time after that. I started dancing ballet again. It’s been just over two years since I started dancing again, and it’s been great, even if I don’t go as often as I’d like to.

I regret not listening more in history classes in high school. I can’t change the past (no pun intended), but I can change the future, and the knowledge is at my fingertips, if I just allow it in.

I regret the years I spent in the wrong major. But if I didn’t have the wrong one, I wouldn’t have accidentally found the right one.

I regret yelling at my mom because of that phone call. But there’s nothing I can do to change that. I just tell my self – justifiably – that I was under enormous amounts of stress and pressure at the time.

I wouldn’t change any of my “regrets.” I’m sure I wouldn’t “not” quit dancing – because maybe I wouldn’t know how much I loved it. I’m sure I wouldn’t have been more patient with my mom on the phone – because it was impossible at the time.

So I’m pretty sure those regrets aren’t regrets. They’re learning experiences.

 

The Kubler-Ross stage of grief: Denial – rewritten

Many of you have probably heard about the Kubler-Ross stages of grief. These are several stages that individuals who have been diagnosed with a terminal illness go through, and have been extended to include those who have lost loved ones.

Wikipedia defines the stage of denial basically as a “this can’t be happening” stage. I actually spent a very long time in that stage – probably around a year, until the second tumor came around.

Several weeks ago, as more and more people began to ask me when I’m getting married already (the answer: not any time soon!), I suddenly began to cry. The Boy was in Paris visiting friends, and I was going to join him a few days later, but as usual, when I have too much time to think, all my suppressed feelings suddenly emerge and a realization dawned on me:

I am not ready to face a wedding without my mother.

This epiphany launched a spiral of unrelated thoughts that can only be described as chaotic, which lead to another epiphany:

I am in denial.

I never really understood what people meant regarding denial after someone’s death. I mean, hey – they’re dead. I haven’t seen my mother in almost 10 months (insane, I know). I know she’s gone, I feel she’s gone, I’ve accepted she’s gone – but I haven’t.

I am in denial that I won’t ever see her again. I’m only 32 years old! She was only 56! It’s insane to think that I have decades ahead of me where I won’t get hear my mom’s voice, or feel her hug (which is clearly unique), or smell her scent, or feel her touch, or hear her say she’s proud of me, or have her at my wedding, or have her when my kids are born, or have her teach me how to be a mother, or have her calm me down when I’m freaking out that OMIGOSH you mean I am supposed to take this kid home with me when I can’t even keep a plant alive for more than 4 months? or have her advise me what washing machine to buy because ours broke down this weekend, or teach me how to make that amazing artichoke salad of hers, or have her babysit, or get her advice (because let’s face it, our moms know best), or have her meet The Boy, or tell me that I’m not insane when I feel I am, or see her get old with my dad – or see her get old at all.

I am in extreme denial about all of it, just a different version of denial than is discussed in most literature. It’s probably the kind reserved for my kind of cancer survivor.

This denial has been present for quite a while now, I just couldn’t put a name to it, and now that I have, it is all I can think about. I don’t know how to get past this stage. It’s not like the actual denial stage where someone can say suck it up it’s going to happen.

I guess I need to patiently wait for the acceptance stage that, funnily enough, I am also experiencing.

What complicated lives we lead…

 

Everything this Daughter of Cancer is thankful for – and there’s a lot

This blog is usually about the negative aspects of my life as they relate to my mother’s death. However, it is important for me to point out that I have so much to be thankful for. This year took away one of the most important people in my life; But it also gave me many gifts.

In honor of Thanksgiving, I’d like to list everything that I am thankful for:

I am thankful for my family. I probably wouldn’t have gotten through this year without them. As cliche as it sounds, they are my family and I love each and every one of them, even if they annoy me sometimes.

I am thankful for my health and the health of my family members. This was never under-appreciated, but it’s never been more appreciated than now.

I am thankful for my amazing nephew and niece. I don’t even have words to describe how much I love those two kids.

I am thankful that my sister and brother-in-law made them.

I am thankful that my mom had the opportunity to be a grandmother. While she was taken way too soon, and my children and nieces and nephews will never know her (my nephew remembers her, but he was 3.5 when she died), I am thankful she got to express the joy of having grandchildren.

I am thankful for the 31 years that I had my mother. When I’m feeling really down, I remind myself that many people didn’t have that long with their own mothers. Or those who have mothers, but not the privilege of having a wonderful mother like mine.

I am thankful for The Boy. He has enriched my life in ways I never thought possible.

I am thankful for The Boy’s family. They took me in as their own from the day I met them, and I can honestly say I love them all.

I am thankful for my incredible friends. Amazing isn’t a strong enough work to describe this point, but unfortunately there aren’t enough adjectives to describe how lucky I am in this department. It always amazes me how they were always there when I needed them, even at the expense of their own personal lives.

I am thankful for my dance studio. Other than losing about 20 lbs and making more of the aforementioned incredible friends, the studio was my refuge. It is what kept my head above water and kept me from sinking. It retained my sanity and gave me a sanctuary where I could be temporarily released from my thoughts and the darkness I was in for so long. It gave me a way to be with and around people without actually having to be with and around people. For that I will be eternally grateful.

I am thankful that I get to wake up every morning and go to a job that I love.

I am thankful that nothing happened at the break in when we just moved into our new apartment; That nothing was stolen and no one got hurt.

I am thankful that my father found a new companion.

I am thankful that she is a wonderful woman who we all really like. I know that I will grow to love her one day. I am already crazy about her sons.

I am thankful that through all our pain, we are able to see the many gifts that we have, and that, in my opinion, is the greatest gift of all.

 

Another breed of cancer survivors

Wikipedia defines a cancer survivor as “… an individual with cancer of any type, current or past, who is still living.”

I am pretty sure that the definition should be amended to include those who lost a loved one to cancer.

You see, we – my grandparents and sisters and dad, and all of my mom’s good friends and family – we are cancer survivors as well.

We are the leftovers of my mom’s brain cancer.

We are the ones left with picking up the pieces. My mom is gone, but we’re still here, and so many of our daily activities are constant reminders of her death. Whether it’s celebrating my niece’s birthday without my mom – and remembering she was at the previous one – or celebrating my nephew’s birthday – and still feeling slightly shocked that instead of my mother, my dad’s new girlfriend is celebrating with us – these are all symptoms of our survival. (Side note: We really love my dad’s new girlfriend and her sons – but that’s for another post.)

We are the ones who are grieving on a daily basis. The ones who need to figure out where we go from here, what changes we need to make, such as the previously-mentioned deletion of phone numbers and email addresses.

We are the ones who keep having to tell the story. Every time we run into someone who didn’t know my mom was sick and we have to tell them she died, we are survivors all over again. Even though the process isn’t as painful as it was at first, it still isn’t easy. When I speak of my mom as being dead, I am completely disconnected from the words coming out of my mouth. As far as I’m concerned, I could be talking about the rain in Minnesota. Because that’s my way of surviving.

We are the ones who feel the effects of her death every day, even in stupid things like accidentally saying “My mom would love that!” and then feeling bad for the person who heard it because they don’t know what to say.

We’re the ones who can randomly start crying at any given moment (this isn’t as bad as it used to be) and then have to start explaining why. And, of course, feeling bad.

We’re the ones who have lost additional friends – and even family members – because they don’t know what to say to us anymore. Now that our mom died, they’ve simply stopped speaking to us. This has happened on every level of friendship – and even family – that we have.

We are the ones who are labeled. The Ones Whose Mom/Wife/Child/Grandmother Died of Brain Cancer.

We are the ones who are looked upon with pity, both by those who know us and don’t how to talk to us anymore, and those who just find out.

We’re the ones who easily freak out about anything. Every time my words get mixed up or I use a feminine instead of masculine word or get a headache or can’t feel some random part of my body – I flip out, because those were my mom’s symptoms. Yes, I know that it’s not hereditary, and no, I don’t call the doctor about either of them. But just like every sound in my building has been scaring me since the break in last month (for the most part), this is something I can’t change.

My mom’s glioblastoma affected our life profoundly and forever altered who we are. It has changed us in every possible way, and its devastation is felt almost on a daily basis.

The original definition of “cancer survivor” is a positive one; It is one of triumph, one that shows that even though cancer has attacked, people can survive.

I can only assume, then, that we – the friends and family of those who have died – cannot be included in the official definition because we are the negative side of cancer.

But we are, in fact, cancer survivors as well.

 

Breaking in(to) a new apartment – literally

Important Note: If you are a friend of the family, please do NOT tell my grandparents about this. Thanks.

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve posted on the blog. There are several reasons for this:

1) I was in a pretty good mood, and when I write – I cry. In my attempt to avoid crying, I avoid writing.

2) I’ve had a busy few weeks – The Boy and I moved in together.

While this post was originally supposed to be about the move and all the excitement around it, it is actually going to be a bit different.

You see, we moved into a new apartment on a Thursday. On Saturday we went for a healthy walk around town, and split up. The Boy went to the movies. I embarked on the adventure of my life.

When I arrived at home, I opened the door, and someone was looking at me – and it wasn’t The Boy. In my infinite wisdom, aware of the fact that The Boy is not a short, dark Arab, I yelled out, “Who’s there? You’re not The Boy! I’m calling the Police!” The robber calmly walked past me, so as to not sprain his ankle, heaven forbid, walked into our bathroom, closed the door behind him (I’m thinking, dude has to go potty?), stepped on the toilet seat, and jumped out the window.

4.5 meters down.

That would be almost 15 feet.

I’m pretty sure my neck broke during that fall.

Any normal person, at this point, would do one of two things:

1) Faint

2) Call the police

I, of course, elected a different path:

3) Call The Boy

You’re thinking, OK, that could make sense, he lives with you, he should know. But why did I call The Boy first?

I couldn’t remember the phone number for the police in Israel.

Wisdom:0 Stupidity:1

Oooh! Oooh! Do I get the Dumb Victim of the Year award? If so, I’d like to donate the prize money to purchase Google Wave invites for all my friends and colleagues.

So I called The Boy and told him (quite calmly, I must add) that we have a burglar in our apartment (have being the operative word, seeing as the robber was still in the apartment), and that I can’t remember what the Israeli 911 is. Being French, he needed a moment to think about it, told me the number, and ordered me to get out of the apartment.

You see, seeing as I hadn’t fainted at the sight of someone in my apartment who is not The Boy, I guess I figured I should babysit the apartment to make sure no one else would break in.

While the burglar was still there.

Wisdom:0 Stupidity: 2

So I called the police, told them there was a robber in my apartment and that he just jumped out the window, and 2 cops were at my place while I was still on the phone.

As I was showing the cops the window the robber had jumped out of, and the missing glass, the male cop got a call on his radio that there was another break in at the building next door, or another one down, and went running. As he broke into a sprint (good doughnuts are really hard to find in Israel) I suddenly get a phone call from my friend who I had made plans with. Here’s the transcript of the call:

The Nugget: Didn’t you say you were on the first floor, apartment on the left?

Me: Yes (why I stopped talking here is unclear)

The Nugget: Why aren’t you answering the door?

Me: Cause I’m downstairs with the police

The Nugget: *Crickets*

The moment The Nugget came outside, the female cop who stayed with me started to run, and yelled at me to follow because they caught the robbers.

And I’m all, I can’t run, I dance ballet. At best, I can chasse the way there.

I go back to the street, with The Nugget right behind me, and pass 2 cops holding 2 suspects who were definitely not my burglar. Then I reach the third cop, exactly when The Boy got back, and told the cops that he could totally be my guy.

I told them what pants he was wearing, what his height was, the color of his skin, and his approximate age. The Boy and The Nugget took me aside to sit on the bench on the street, and I suddenly saw that there were – no kidding – about 7 or 8 cop cars and a gazillion cops.

I mean, I  know I’m famous and all, but still.

At this point, any normal person who had actually gone straight to Option Number 2: Call the Police would probably digress back to Option Number 1: Faint.

Not me.

Nope. I saw all the cop cars and the cops and I had an incredibly logical thought:

OMIGOSH I need to take a picture of this and post it to Twitter and Facebook.

Wisdom:0 Stupidity: 3

At this point, one of the cops came over to me and asked that we go back to the apartment so I can give my statement.

So we’re upstairs, and I give my statement to Little Cop on the Prairie, who is smaller than my molar teeth. I gave her my personal information and recounted the story. Then another cop came in (Ethiopian – this is important for later) who also took my personal information for a different report that needed to be filed, as I was finishing up recounting the steps with the Little Cop on the Prairie, and then the other cop asked me to tell him the story again.

I asked that he copy from Little Cop on the Prairie and he said OK.

The CSI Tel Aviv guy was in the apartment, dusted the door and window for prints, and found nothing but a shoeprint, but that’s fine.

I was actually calm for the entirety of the evening. Only at night, when I was in bed, my mind began playing tricks on me.

For example, at 3:30 in the morning I was thinking, “If someone breaks in during the night, my Nokia E71 is on the coffee table and it’s expensive” – so I got up and brought the phone next to me.

Then, at 4:30 in the morning, I thought, “If someone breaks in during the night, this is not the optimal thing to be sleeping in” – so I changed clothes.

Then, at 5:30 in the morning, I thought, “If this were an episode of Criminal Minds, and I actually survived the break in, the robber would come back and kill me cause he knows where I live and that I ratted him out” – but there was nothing I could do.

All in all, I’m OK now, but for the first few days after the event, I made The Boy keep the bathroom and shower doors open so I could see if someone was in the apartment, and I still have minor heart attacks every time I come home alone. I never actually had a nervous breakdown after the break in, and for the first few days after, The Boy kept asking me if I was OK and if I needed anything, and even had his mom call in and check up on me to make sure I was OK.

This post has nothing to do with the loss of my mother, other than, perhaps, the fact that I would probably have called her for the number of the police in Israel instead of The Boy. Not that I could actually know, seeing as I never had both of them at the same time.

Neither here nor there

* I always wondered, while watching cop shows, how people knew how to approximate height. In my case, I know how tall I am, and I know that the guy was shorter than me, so I subtracted about 5-10 cm, just as an approximation.

* Little Cop on the Prairie left her walkie talkie on our coffee table, and came back after a few minutes accusing me of not answering my phone. I said my phone is on, she said I’m not answering, I said my phone’s on, and she read off the number she called. I told her that she switched the last two digits and she said, “Ugh, those Ethiopian cops.” The Boy, The Nugget, and I were shocked. We haven’t reported this in case we get broken into again and need cops on our side.

* Other than Little Cop on the Prairie, all of the cops were amazing. I don’t have a single bad word to say about them – they were quick and efficient and very nice.

* When I called the cops, they told me not to touch anything. I swear, I actually said, “Don’t worry, I used to watch CSI – I know.”

Wisdom:0 Stupidity: 4

* My signed statement actually says, “I called (The Boy) because I couldn’t remember the phone number for the police in Israel.”

* For the record, and I only found this out the day after the break in, you can actually dial 911 in Israel and you will reach the police.

 

Physical deletion – or the absolute inability to do so

A few days ago, as I walked down a street, I found a cell phone on the ground. Knowing how much my life depends on my phone nowadays – seeing as I no longer know hardly any phone numbers by heart – I immediately picked it up and decided to locate the owner.

What do you do when you find a cell phone? Call the one person who will know how to find the owner, even if they don’t have the phone: Their mother.

That got me thinking about all the physical evidence of my mother’s life that surrounds me, as if I’m pretending she’s still there. Some of it has been conscious, and some hasn’t.

I cannot delete my mother’s phone number from my phone. That’s just not an option. Deleting it almost feels like disrespect. A few weeks after my mom died, I actually upgraded my phone, and all the numbers were transferred into the new phone, so I do have my mom’s number saved on the new phone, but when I was setting the speed dial numbers, I consciously had to remind myself not to set her number.

Which means everyone on my speed dial list moved up a number.

Which means I kept calling the wrong people.

Which means I was constantly reminded that I had lost my mom.

My phone isn’t the only physical reminder of my mom’s absence that I’m unable to delete or alter. My parents share(d) an email address, and it has always been labeled “Mom” since she was really the one I would email, not my dad. (Oh, how I miss writing Mom with a capital M.)

Since my mom, the in-house Internet expert, is gone, my dad calls me when he needs something done (i.e. get him a hotel room in NYC) so when I email him, my mom’s email address comes up. But before it comes up, there is a weird thought process going on:

Do I start typing “Mom” to get the email address?

Do I start typing the first letters of the actual email address so I don’t have to type “Mom?” I still see my mom’s name when I type it that way.

Do I change the label of the contact from “Mom” to “Dad?” Cause that’s just disrespectful.

Should I just demand my dad get a new email address? (Kidding… not so much?)

And then there are other small examples. Like I had a new cleaning lady when my mom was sick, but she was still fully functional, that is, she wasn’t paralyzed yet, so I would let the cleaning lady in, and my mom would lock up when she left. So I have a little post-it on my fridge that has my phone number and my mom’s phone number.

I have a different cleaning lady now, who I trust with my key, but I just can’t bring myself to remove that post-it from my fridge.

Just like I can’t delete my mom’s number from my phone.

Just like I can’t change the contact label on her email address.

I just can’t delete her from my life that way, cause even if it’s just virtual “existance,” I guess virtual is better than nothing.

Crap, now I’m crying again.

 

Why I am jealous of Senator Ted Kennedy’s family

Sounds a bit weird, doesn’t it? After all, the poor man just died of brain cancer. But, yes, I am jealous.

I would, of course, rather no one have to lose a family member to cancer, but as hard a time as his family is having right now, luckily they don’t know that it could be much worse.

I have a pretty good idea of what his family is going through right now, having experienced it almost 6 months ago myself, however they will have a much easier time coping and moving on than we did.

Not knowing what condition Senator Kennedy was in during his final days, I do know that 6 days ago he wrote a letter to Massachusettes leaders asking that they expedite the process of replacing his seat in Congress, and not wait the mandatory 5 months after the seat is vacated (AKA after the Senator dies).

Several logical conclusions can be reached from this letter:

1) The Senator was mentally healthy enough less than a week before he died to acknowledge that the State of Mass deserves to have 2 representatives and that the current 5 month process doesn’t make sense

2) He was not expecting to die so soon (though he did not attend his sister’s funeral several days before), meaning he was self-aware (or was expecting to die soon, thus the letter)

3) He was lucid

In the week before  my mom died, I saw her blink several times. That was it. She wasn’t even lucid enough to swallow oatmeal.

In the six months since my mother died, the hardest part for me hasn’t been her absence as much as my inability to remember my mom as she was before her illness. There is much you, my readers (as well as closest friends), don’t know about my mother’s condition during the last 8 months of her life, information I will not share, but suffice it to say that even now, 6 months later, when I picture my mother in my mind, I cannot seem to find an image of her in which she is smiling.

And a non-smiling mom is NOT my mom.

During my darker times, in which I cry uncontrollably for days until I randomly stop, when I am asked what it is I need to feel better, my only answer is “to remember my mom as she was.” I am positive, without being or seeing a shrink, that my problem is moving away from the disease.

It’s not even her absence from major events in my life, or the fact that I have been missing her a lot lately. That doesn’t make me cry for extended periods of time (though I haven’t had a major life event yet, other than being with The Boy, so ask me when I get married or have a kid).

I sincerely believe that once I think of my mom and retrieve a memory of her pre-disease – in any situation, even yelling at me to clean my room when I was a teenager – that my healing will have truly begun. Once I can look at a picture of her where she is healthy and laughing and not see a stranger, or need to concentrate to convince myself that it’s really her, then I’ll be fine.

I’m not quite sure how articulate that last thought – I can look at a picture of my mother and just stare at it, and in my head I tell myself, “That’s my mom, that’s how I need to remember her, she was honestly like that for the first 30 years that I knew her,” but then myself will tell my head, “I’m sorry, head, that woman is a stranger. This is what she looks like” – and then a mental picture of my mom after her paralysis began pops into my head. It doesn’t even have to be from the hospital, just from the time that she lost her independence, AKA the third time I lost my mom.

So, yes, I feel so bad for the family of Senator Ted Kennedy. I can, unfortunately, say I know exactly what they’re going through, which is not something I am proud of, but at the same time I admit, I am incredibly jealous.

The image they have of their loved one is one of a lucid man who, in his final days, was still trying to get his affairs in order. I sincerely hope this fact will help them in their time of grief, though I doubt that it is a thought running through their heads at the moment.

 

Welcoming myself back into cyberspace

So I haven’t written in a couple weeks, and there is a good reason for it. Two, in fact. The first, as I mentioned just before I left, is that I went on vacation with The Boy to Spain for a week (and a day in Paris). It was wonderful. I cannot possibly put into words how much I needed this vacation, and the timing was impeccible.

As you can tell by my last post, I was having a rough time for the last few weeks before I left. I could not stop crying for more than 2 hours, which meant I couldn’t really go out and couldn’t go to my dance classes. Luckily for me, The Boy is very patient and understanding, which is wonderful, and thankfully, so are my friends (who, over the past 2 years, have already gotten used to me disappearing every now and then).

Despite the small fear that something may go wrong on the trip (seeing as many people don’t get along on vacations), all went perfectly well. We did tons of walking, eating, touristing, picture taking, concerting (Madonna and La Oreja De Van Gogh), museuming, and not so much resting, but that’s OK.

Before we left, I was seriously considering getting a prescription for anti-depressents, to the point where I was fearful of going on vacation because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop crying.

Luckily for me, the timing was perfect and the vacation was so much fun. The Boy is a great tour guide (he’s from Paris so he knows the history, and enjoys telling the background of practically everything so much that it just makes you want to hear more), the concerts were so much fun, and we both seemed to move at the same pace.

I returned refreshed and ready to deal with life again, though I wasn’t sure that the calm that had finally come over me would remain. What if it was just the after effect of our vacation? But we’ve been back for just over two weeks now, and I am still doing well, other than being sick this weekend (not swine flu, thanks for asking )

The other reason I had resisted writing is that while writing is extremely therapeutic for me (it is, after all, the reason I began this blog), it is also very difficult. It usually takes a lot out of me emotionally, and I almost always cry when I’m writing. Therefore, since I haven’t been crying, I am almost fearful of writing because I don’t want to start again.

I’m posting a few pictures from our trip. I’m not posting any close ups of me and The Boy out of respect for his privacy; Those of you who are my friends on Facebook can see all of the pictures there.

I promise to get back to writing again. I still have the need to get things off my chest, and I have much left to say. Thanks for being such loyal and supportive readers.

Some pics from our trip:

Placa Catalunya

Batlle House (Gaudi)

La Sagrada Familia

At the Madonna concert

Champs-Elysées (Paris)

 

Time for a vacation!

I will most likely post about the trip when I get back, but I didn’t want anyone worrying when I was gone.

Tonight/tomorrow morning The Boy and I are flying to Barcelona for a week. We’re going to be in Blanes (Costa Brava) tomorrow because a Spanish band I love (La Oreja de Van Gogh) are performing there, and The Boy is so awesome that he insisted we go (he knew I really wanted to see them and they won’t be performing any other day that we’re there).

On Tuesday we’re going to the Madonna concert (strike a pose!) and on Wednesday we’re actually flying to Paris for a day and staying with The Boy’s friends (The Boy is originally from Paris).

I’m SO excited. My last vacation was the winter of 2006. This is SO overdue!

I’ll be back to posting when I get back, I promise. And as an update, I stopped crying 2 days ago.

Thanks everyone for all your comments!

 

Tears are the silent language of grief (French philosopher Voltaire)

Not so silent, actually.

Among all the crap that people always tell me, one of the most repetitive is that time will make things better.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to burst your bubble: Time is making things worse.

I’m not sure if it’s because the shock of my mother actually dying has worn off, or because I am finally coming to grips with her death, or because the thick vail of happiness brought upon by the novelty of my new relationship has begun to subside, but I can definitely assure you that things now are worse than they were a month ago.

Instead of crying less, I’m crying more. Instead of easing into a new reality, I feel like I am being repeatedly punched in the face. If 2 months ago my crying was “limited” to once or twice a day when I was alone (in the car/bed/bathroom), now it comes much more frequently and, unfortunately, not always in private.

I just can’t control it anymore. I try so hard not to cry next to my sisters and friends and grandparents and The Boy, that I end up exploding at some inopportune moment, like at last week’s Beer Tweet Up (sorry @ByDahWay, @Itzuvi, @YaelBeeri, @JeffPulver, and quite a few others, and thanks) or yesterday when I was out with friends. I hate crying to and in front of people. Hate it.

And I know that’s what everyone is there for, but they aren’t. Who wants to see someone cry all the time? And it’s not like it makes me feel better when I’m done. I don’t feel relieved, but I have the bonus of feeling bad for crying in public.

Before my mom died I was able to usually hold it in, with the exception of The One Who Calls Me Balls Balls. Not sure why, but the poor girl had to deal with my crying on more than one occassion (if crying in front of someone once is a novelty, imagine it happening repeatedly). So now that it is supposedly over, I don’t want to cry to her anymore. It isn’t fair to her, or anyone else.

I can’t cry to my sisters because, frankly, none of us are OK yet, and all I would get if I cried to one of them is that they would start crying, too. I can’t cry in front of my grandparents, which is sometimes incredibly hard, like earlier today when my grandfather asked me why I wasn’t smiling like I usually am, and then told me that my mother was an angel.

Yeah, not helpful at all.

Crying in front of them is not an option, seeing as they lost their daughter.

My dad is always away on business, and even though he’s been incredibly supportive, I don’t want to cry to The Boy. Who wants to be around that all the time? It’s bad enough that I can get moody (thankfully I don’t PMS). Everyone has their own problems, and they don’t need to have to deal with mine. And don’t tell me that’s what my friends and family and The Boy are there for, because, yes, that could be true to a certain extent – but it can’t be all the time.

So it leaves me fighting my tears on a regular basis and then just not being able to do so anymore. I cried at the tweet up, I cried at dinner with my friends yesterday, I cry before (and after) my ballet classes (which I have not wanted to go to even once since she died, but I make myself go anyway), I cried when I took my 4 year old nephew out for pizza (when he said, “Savta (grandma) Rocha’le is dead, right? I haven’t seen her in a long time” – and then he asked me why I was crying), and I cried when my dad brought letters my mom wrote to her best friend in the States when we were kids (tears came just by seeing her handwriting, not the actual content seeing as I was 8 when they were written), and tears are falling now, which can explain the completely inexplicable stream of consciousness that has made up this post, as opposed to the usual literally masterpiece that it is (kidding).

I find myself wanting to save the dumbest things of hers. Other than her letters, and her blog which I should really save in case it goes offline one day, I want to have her cookies cookbook (even though I bought another one) only because it says her name in it in her handwriting (which is exactly like mine), and I have her perfumes, but I can’t stand to smell them, and I have her jeans shirt with Looney Toons, not that I want to wear it – I had to shove it in the back of my closet because I couldn’t look at it, but I couldn’t bare the thought that someone else would have it – or that it would be thrown away.

And I’m scared to dial her phone number because I don’t know if it has been disconnected and I don’t want to ask my sisters or dad because if it hasn’t been disconnected, I don’t want them to disconnect it since I can’t imagine someone else answering her phone number, but if someone else is on the other line – I don’t want to know, because it won’t be my mom.