Ghosts of Christmas Past

Dear Mom,

There is a brand new baby in our family. Landon is here – which I am confident you know.

With Landon here and the realities of hearing about caring for a newborn, the sleepless nights, the feedings, I am reminded of what so many people say about babies so frequently, and that is:

It goes by so fast. The days are long, but the years are short.

People often also say, what they wouldn't do to go back to those baby days, even with the sleepless nights.

I think we all as humans have trouble when we are in the thick of the, “days are long, but the years are short” stages of life. It is so hard to lean into the hard. It can be so hard to see that there will indeed be an end to these hard days and nights. Sometimes you just want it to be over, because it is just so hard.

Now I of course don’t know this from personal experience of having a baby yet – but – I do know that the end with you was so similar to the emotional, physical, and mental demands of a newborn.

In the end with you, other people who I know who had lost their Moms, they ALL told me to just stay in the moment, that it won’t last forever, and that I will never regret spending as much time with you as possible. Because once you’re gone…you’re gone forever.

It is kind of like the newborn stage.

Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

We yearn for chubby cheeks and tiny toes, and can only access these moments in our memories and photos.

--

In recent weeks, I have transitioned to a phase of just really wanting to see you. Like, really badly wanting and needing to see you.

What I wouldn't give to go back and give you just one more hug. One more kiss. To tell you that I love you one more time.

In the final few weeks of your life, it was hard. Really, really hard. Not just for me, but for you and for all of us. There were times when I admit, I was ready for it to be over.

Of course “it” being the caretaking of a dying person and not of your life. But, they were of course one and the same.

Because you were sick for so long, and I had so much time to mourn, so many people said I would probably feel relief when you died.

I didn't. I never have.

It has been six months today since I sat by your side and held your hand for one last time.

Six months since I studied your face, held your cold hand to my cheek.

Six months since I told you that I didn't know what I was going to do without you.

How can it possible have been half a year since you died?

It feels like an eternity has elapsed since you died and yet no time at all.

My life has shifted in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

Going through life without your Mom is hard.

I think back to myself in your final few months. I sometimes lost my patience. There were times I sat on my phone. Sometimes it was just too hard for me to face.

I think back to those days and wish I had just snuggled you in bed, or held your hand more.

I wanted to do these things, but it often upset you so much because you knew it was because you were dying. And of course when you cried, you couldn’t breathe.

"Love is a word much too soft
and used far too often
to ever describe the fierce,
infinite and blazing agony that
I feel in my heart for you."

-Beau Taplin

I have a constant ache in the center of my chest that wants to just hug you and tell you how much I miss you and love you.

I am constantly aware of your absence.

It truly feels like I’ve lost a limb.

Or more like a part of my lungs or heart.

This life without you is hard. So hard.

--

It is Christmas Eve. I have dreaded this season.

In order to attempt to wring some joy out of this season, I made a “Holiday Bucketlist.” It has been helpful to remind me to seek the joy, that it is easier to do than I think.

One of those items was to watch Christmas movies, including Little Women, The Family Stone, and Stepmom (which I consider a Christmas movie).

Some may think I am a masochist, watching movies about people dying that will undoubtedly make me cry.

But, my counselor said something that really resonated with me. She said I probably do it because I need a framework in which I can actively process my grief, with situations and stories that I can relate to. And I have to say, they have been deeply cathartic experiences for me.

But don’t get me wrong, those movies have made me cry heavy and heaving sobs – I’ve watched Little Women and The Family Stone and absolutely balled my eyes out.

I haven’t gotten to Stepmom yet – just too hard.

 There is a scene in the Family Stone, when the oldest daughter, very pregnant, tiptoes into her Mom’s room and finds her napping. She crawls into bed with her and wraps her arm around her. In that moment, they both know –

She is dying and they are taking in as much of each other as they can.

I so wish I did more of that.

But I also know that hindsight is 20/20. Everyone can look back at things with rose colored glasses. Very few mothers in the throws of sleepless nights and dealing with a postpartum body will be all rainbows and butterflies.

I am trying to come to terms with the times that I sometimes checked out with you in your final months. It is a long and hard process for me. I still haven’t written about your last night – just too painful to touch yet.

--

Landon is here, you have a second grandbaby. He has provided such a needed balm to us all during this holiday season. He is also a stark reminder to us all that life is going on –

Without you.

I knew that being at Jennifer’s birth would be difficult emotionally – probably for both of us.

There were times in her labor that were just SO hard. And she did so well. But there were moments that I know she needed and wanted you.

I have seen lots of women bring babies into this world, and every single one of them at some point has wanted or asked for their mom.

I tried to mother her as best as I could. As you would have done. So, I swept her hair off of her forehead and I gave her sips of water and told her she could do it. I thought about you so much that day. There were times that I felt so sure you were there.

Right before Landon was born, the doctor asked Jennifer where big brother was. Shyawn responded that he was with his Mom. She then asked Jennifer if our parents were local.

Jennifer froze and couldn’t say anything. One tear dripped down her face.

I said, through a tight throat, that our Mom had just died recently.

The room fell silent.

My most favorite photo of you <3

 I grabbed Jennifer’s hand and held it.

I could feel the tears coming hard and fast, but I knew in that moment it wasn’t about me and I needed to pull my shit together.

I told myself to dig deep and swallowed hard.

I put my camera up to my eye to give myself something more technical to focus on.

I shot my camera with one hand and held her hand in the other.

It is what you would have done.

Shortly after Landon was born, I called Dad to tell him he was here.

In the hallway by the elevators, I finally broke down.

I told him through chocked tears that you should be here and that I just missed you so much. He told me that maybe you are there, we never know.

We shortly thereafter got off the phone, said we loved each other, and I called Cris.

The situation repeated itself.

I eventually hung up with Cris and tried to pull my shit together as I walked back down the hall.

I failed miserably and Shyawn, and then Jennifer, both knew I had been crying.

Jennifer looked at me and I just said, “I am sad about Mom.”

She nodded in understanding, and looked down at that perfect little baby.

I stood there and stroked his arm as the tears fell down and Shyawn rubbed my back.

It was a silent moment for us all to recognize the elephant in the room –

There is someone who should be here, who isn’t.

I later told Landon that his Grandma would have called him “beh-beh” just like she did with his brother. And so I called him that, in your voice, and tried to channel you as best as possible.

--

Dad came to the hospital the next day, and I was there at the same time.

He held and cuddled the new little baby for a long time. Much longer than when Hudson was born.

Over the next few days, I started to really think about mothering, and what it looks like when you don’t have one anymore, but still need one.

How I still need you and don’t have you. How I still need mothering.

I think we all are leaning in and taking on different roles that you played. I think we will all learn to mother each other in our own ways.

Dad has and will continue to mother us.

He helped clean up Hudson’s toys in preparation for Christmas. Something a Mom might help her newly postpartum daughter with. But you’re not around to do that, so he has stepped in.

After Hudson was born, you brought Jennifer lots of food for quite a long time. Such a motherly thing to do. While I was baking for Christmas, I decided to make Jennifer a potato casserole she likes and her favorite, cherry pie. It seemed like something you would do and comfort food that a postpartum person would like. A motherly gesture.

I had been baking all day. I hadn’t been upset or emotional all day, which surprised me. Sometimes my lack of grief surprises me just as much as my profound grief. I was fine all day, that is until I started rolling the dough out for the cherry pie. I used your rolling pin again, it just feels so good to have something that you touched in my hands.

I tried to crimp the edges of the pie and did not do well. I kept thinking about how you did it, and how you would have made fun of me, telling me it was “oooglay” and laugh. I laughed and cried throughout it. I thought about the letter pancakes you used to make us when we were kids. I thought you would want the pie to be pretty, so out of extra crust I made a "J" and cut out hearts around it.

When I made her casserole and measured out the 2 cups of cheese the recipe called for, I heard your voice so distinctly in my mind, “It needs more cheeser. Mmmm cheeeseeeey.”

I laughed and added a generous fistful.

You are in everything I do.

--

I sent a text to Dad, Jennifer, and Michael the day before Landon was born, and said that I was having a really hard time and just missed you so much and that Christmas was making it so much harder.

Dad replied that this Christmas was going to be a hard one for all of us, and that he loved me.

People tell me that this one – The First Christmas – will be the hardest. That it will always be hard, particularly at this time of year, but this one will be the hardest, the most painful.

I’ve been crying a lot in the last few weeks, and Cris often wants to know if he can do anything to help. The other day I told him I just need to feel the feels.

I need to lean into the hurt that I have and not turn away from it. I know that this phase of my life, this intensely painful, gut wrenching ache I have, that it won’t always be this way. I know that. I think I know that.

Like the newborn phase, I know that the days are long, but the years are short.

I will head into Christmas and know it will be hard. I will cry, just like I did at Thanksgiving. I will cry often and many times without warning.

Your absence is in everything.

But so is your love.

I recently read the following quote that gave words to what I experience daily:

“Grief is part of who I am now. It lives in the very bones of me…but so does love.”

Memories of Christmas past with you are a part of our traditions, our stories, and our rituals. And they always will be.

So I will lean into the hurt, try to honor you as best as I can, and will snuggle a brand new baby when it hurts just a little too much.

And I will call him behbeh and tell him that he has a Grandma who would have, and does, love him so much.

--

On the winter solstice, a friend on Facebook posted this quote:

“The shortest day and the longest night.

Now the light will return, bit by bit.

Winter is just beginning and although it may feel endless, spring will come.”

It feels endless, but with time, all things change. The light will return.

Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you.

Dear Mom, Happy Thanksgiving

Dear Mom,

It’s been 5 months without you, today. It is also Thanksgiving. My first major holiday without you.

I don’t remember what I had imagined it would be like, the holidays, without you. Whatever it was that I had imagined, the reality is far harder. You should be here.

-----

It was November 1^st. I laid on the couch for much of the day, unable to motivate myself to seemingly do anything.

I just felt…blah. Depressed, sad, down. I wasn’t really sure. I thought, maybe it’s the shitty weather?

I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t make myself turn on the TV, scroll through Instagram, or anything to occupy my time. I just laid there.

I suddenly realized that something I had been dreading for months – no – years if you count from when you were diagnosed with ALS, had arrived:

The first holiday season without you.

In my mind, “The Holidays” begin November 1, the day after Halloween.

With this sudden realization, I broke down.

As you know, I fucking love the holidays, especially Christmas. You however, hated Christmas.

I laid on the couch and thought about how I felt. Was I excited for the holidays? A little. Was part of me looking forward to them? Yes. Was I also absolutely dreading them at the thought of them without you?

With every fiber in my being.

I decided I wanted to decorate for fall and Thanksgiving. I wanted to do something that felt productive, meditative, and helped occupy my mind. I quickly deconstructed the house of Halloween, and ventured into the yard for some foraged fall decorations.

As I gathered leaves, twigs, and other brown, orange, and dead and fall looking shit from my yard, I had to laugh.

You would have hated this.

I could hear you and just imagine:

“You’re going to bring dead leaves into the house and decorate?!”

Why yes, Mom, I am.

And I am going to make a leaf garland and a leaf wreath.

I could practically hear you roll your eyes. I smiled.

I stood in my kitchen at my island and methodically and meditatively assembled a leaf wreath, inspired by Pinterest. As I glued the leaves around the wreath, I thought, “God damn, I fucking miss you. You should be here. I don't want to do the holidays without you.”

I unmistakably heard your voice sarcastically say, “That wreath is stupid. But I am here.” And I laughed out loud.

Everything reminds me of you. If you loved something, I think of you. If you hated something, I think of you. If you thought something was funny, I think of you.

You are still so present in everything I do. You are never far from my mind, even when I am doing something you would have hated.

"Don't take picture of me EATING!"

-----

I spent yesterday baking, as I have always done, usually with you, for the past god knows how long. Probably my entire life.

I of course have taken baking to a whole different level of obsession from what you taught me.

You taught me how to make pie crust. You made the best pie.

"Mmm...Pieeeee!"

 This life without you, it’s so hard.

I spent nearly 10 hours baking. While I rolled dough, meticulously put pecan pie filling into tiny mini pies, and carefully trimmed the crispy edges of the mini apple pies off, I cried.

I cried a million tears in my kitchen yesterday as I floured and mixed.

I thought about you how taught us how to make perfect pie crust, how to pinch the edges to make them pretty. I thought about this as I rolled the dough out over and over with your old rolling pin. It felt good to have something in my hands that you used for decades.

As I tossed the scraps aside I thought of all the baby pies you let us create with those scraps as kids. Traditions I will carry on with my own kids.

 

I hadn’t anticipated baking without you being so damn hard. I haven’t baked with you in three years, the last two years it was just too hard for you, but knowing you actually couldn’t be here because you are gone, it was just…different.

In between baking cycles and the tears, I scrolled through old Thanksgiving photos that have now been carefully cataloged thanks to your memorial.

Hot heavy tears rolled down as I scrolled through the photos.

Why aren’t you here?

This life without you is so hard.

I think I cried more yesterday than I have since the day you died.

I just miss you and want to talk to you, and hug you, and give you a kiss on your soft cheeks.

I think what started me off yesterday was an incredibly vivid and realistic dream I had about you.

I have dreamt about you very far and few between since you died, and the dreams are usually of no consequence.

This dream, however, was different.

In it, you were alive. I found out you actually weren’t dead, and I was racing to get to you. I was having trouble getting home, but eventually found you wheeling yourself in a push wheelchair to go buy ice cream. You told me that you had been doing exercises and were getting stronger and better. I asked if you were still going to die. You said you hoped not, but that you would definitely make it until Thanksgiving and to see Jennifer’s new baby and for Christmas. I hugged you and gave you a kiss on your sweet, soft cheek, and we went and bought ice cream.

The dream felt so real and I woke up so fucking desperately sad. I so wanted it to be true. Why can’t this all have been a dream and we were all mistaken that you died?

That of course, isn’t true.

-----

The speed at which life has gone on without you, even for me, has been remarkable. It sometimes knocks the wind out of me when I think about how “normal” life has become.

So much has changed in the 5 months since you left us. And it’s only been FIVE MONTHS. What will life be like in five years? Or 15 years?

We should have had at least 20 more Thanksgivings together. I feel robbed. I am sure you do too.

It is a tricky balance, one I am far, far from mastering, in how to continue on without you, and still keep you a part of my life.

I talk to you, sometimes just in my head, all the time. It feels good to keep you near.

Your absence is deeply felt, regardless of the positive things that have occurred since your death.

What I’ve begun to realize over the last few months, as I read more about grief, talk to people, and listen to a podcast about grief, is that our relationship is still ongoing. And I likely am not the only one hurting and miss you, you are probably also hurting and missing me as well.

I texted Dad, Jennifer, and Michael and said I was having a tough time. Everyone else was having a hard day in different ways. Michael said not to worry – you’ll be with us today, we just won’t be able to see you.

So today will be hard. Everyone will try their best to make the gravy lump-free like you famously did each year, and we will undoubtedly fail and laugh at the memory.

I will carry you with me all day today. I will carry on traditions you started with us, like eating pie for breakfast, drinking eggnog, and watching the parade on TV, as I am right now.

We will laugh as Hudson eats his bodyweight in mini pies, and it will also sting a little knowing how much joy it would have brought you. But, I am confident you are there.

Your very last meal my mouth

This life without you, is so, so hard.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mom.

All in the Same Breath

Dear Mom,

I’ve been both dreading and looking forward to this summer being over. I have always hated the end of summer, but this year, I am looking forward to the transition into a new season that isn’t so deeply demarcated by your death. Summer started with the loss of you, and while it is officially over now, summer will be really over for me Saturday, when we say goodbye to you at your memorial.

I thought I would count down the days to the first day of fall; somehow ceremoniously mark the last day of the hardest summer of my life. Instead, I awoke on September 22, and had no clue that summer had passed me by. I realized it was the first day of fall from all of the ubiquitous scarf/leaves/boots/pumpkin spice latte photos that flooded my Facebook and Instagram. I looked up at Colin and said,

“Yesterday was the last day of summer, and I didn't even realize it. I didn't do anything to ceremoniously mark the occasion…. Well, I have officially survived the hardest summer of my life. Well, I hope to god this will be the hardest summer of my life.”

It seems like there have been a lot of things and events that I thought I would somehow ceremoniously mark or be very accurately aware of, but so many have just sort of…passed me by.

In the immediate aftermath of your death, I remember dreading the first day that I would not cry. I wondered when it would be. In 6 months? In a year? I was sure it would be huge.

But then Cris’ Mom died 12 days after you, and our entire universe went from barely manageable to complete and utter upside down fucked up chaos. At some point into our stay in Massachusetts, I looked up at Cris and said:

“I don't know when was the last time I cried. I can’t remember. I thought it would be this massive occasion.”

So just like that, I slipped into days without crying and then I slipped into my first season without you, without even noticing.

----

When I planned my trip to Florida to go to Disney World and on a Disney cruise, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to go. I really had no idea if you would be alive or dead or what my life would look like. It turns out, I was able to go, because you died almost three months before I departed for Florida.

We are going to spread your ashes as a family sometime in the next year, we haven’t decided when yet. However, I knew I wanted to bring some of you with me to Florida, to spread some of your ashes on your favorite rides at Disney World and at a beach in the Bahamas.

I unceremoniously scooped some of your ashes into sandwich bags and carefully placed the bags in my carry-on suitcase the day before I left. Just knowing a little bit of you was with me as I made the trip to Florida made me feel better.

I knew that this trip would be hard.

It would be my first vacation without you, my first time to a Disney park without you, and the last time I was in Florida, we were together. I was grateful we could, in a way, make this trip together too. I think I needed some extra time, just you and I.

I went to Animal Kingdom as soon as I arrived in Orlando. Colin was at Universal for the night, so that evening was just me in the park. I went to Animal Kingdom first because of the new Pandora/Avatar land that opened.

Seeing it was so incredibly magical. Amazing. Nothing short of game changing. As I was snapping photos of this new land and oohing and ahhing around every corner, I was constantly and simultaneously hit with an acute awareness that you would never see this. That I would never see you again. That I would never be in another Disney park with you again.

I realized that all in the same breath, I could both be wowed by this new and impressive and totally immersive land, and also simultaneously be broken at the thought that you won’t ever get to experience it.

I am beginning to realize that so much of the rest of my life will be me experiencing the extremes of life’s emotions all at once, all in the same breath.

Vacations will be happy and exciting and fun, and also sad and incomplete, wishing you were there.

The birth of my babies will be life-changing and wonderful and full of love and also so incredibly devastating because you won’t be there.

This new state of being, experiencing conflicting emotions at once, is difficult. I never knew I could laugh and cry so much at the same time.

After wandering around Pandora, I headed to Expedition Everest, one of your absolute favorite Disney rides, in any park. I hadn’t even considered that it might be difficult for me to ride. As I walked up to the seat I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

You should be here, I thought.

It was late at night, so it was dark. I hadn’t actually ever ridden this ride in the dark, and either had you. I was very much looking forward to it, and yet was also feeling so, so very sad.

As we chugged along the track I remembered your first time on the ride, and how mad and excited you were that I didn't tell you that the ride went backwards. You loved it.

As the ride vehicle made the transition to go backwards, I could picture you sitting next to me, that exact moment, and I laughed. I laughed so hard.

As we were flying backwards I thought, this is so fun in the dark, she would have loved it so much, and then I cried.

I alternated between states of laughter and crying, and wasn't quite convinced which emotion was winning.

As we got off the ride, I decided to immediately get back on. I was sick and so nauseous and close to puking, but I felt your presence so closely on it and I wanted more of it.

I hopped back on and this time, the seat next to me was unoccupied. I took it as a sign from the universe that you were with me. I looked over at the empty seat, smiled so big, and then erupted into tears, and then we jolted forward.

As we made the ascent up the hill, I laughed and laughed so hard, and looked over again at the empty seat, and out over the entire park which I could now see, and then cried so hard.

I screamed out into the ride that I missed you and wanted you there. And then I heard your unmistakable voice in my head:

I am here.

I will never know if when I hear your voice if it’s you or my own imagination needing you. Either way, it is comforting.

I turned to the empty seat and I silently nodded. I wiped the tears, and laughed the rest of the ride.

I can only imagine what the cast members thought of the crazy crying laughing mess that I was on the ride.

----

Six days in the parks had passed on the day we departed for our cruise, and I still hadn’t spread any of your ashes in the parks. I realized I would have to spread them when we returned to the parks after the cruise. I decided to be a little gentle with myself and honor the fact that this was hard for me to do.

Each day that I went to bring your ashes with me into the park, I just couldn't bear to do it. It seemed like it was just going to be too hard to do. Letting go of these little pieces of you was so much more difficult than I imagined.

I wanted to bring you on a cruise. It was one of the travel experiences I wanted you to have before you died, but that we just didn't get to, because of time. As I set the pieces of you on our counter in our stateroom, Colin reminded me that now you will have, after all, gone on a cruise with me.

Colin was so great with honoring you and me and my process on this trip. He rolled with the punches of my crying and requests to do things to honor you. He laughed with me and cried with me and patted my back and sat in silence with me when I needed it.

I realized on the cruise that the day we would be in the Bahamas, the day that I planned on spreading your ashes, happened to fall on the anniversary of three months without you. I don’t think it was a coincidence.

Each month feels all the more brutal and also a little easier. I hate both.

I realized while on the cruise, that I have gotten to the point where I just miss you terribly.

It feels like you've been gone long enough, and that you can come back now. It is incomprehensible to me that it has only been three months and that I will have to go three years, three decades, or more, without seeing you.

I am so viscerally aware of your absence.

I haven’t really dreamed about you at all since your death, or if I have, the dreams have been of no consequence. It has angered me a bit, because I had hoped my dreams would be an opportunity for us to communicate. However, that all changed on the ship.

I had multiple dreams where you were still alive, but dying, and that I was begging you to make sure that when you died, that you would never leave me. That you would always stay with me and “haunt” me if you will. Each time I explained to you that I just wouldn't be able to bear my life if I both couldn't see you and couldn't feel you with me. Oh, how I wish we had had that conversation while you were still alive.

On the day we were at Castaway Cay in the Bahamas, Disney’s private island, I was a bit of a wreck. I was having a very, very hard time. My reaction to things unrelated to you were outsized; I was really upset about you, but was getting upset at other things. Sometimes it takes me awhile to realize this.

At one point, while we were walking and my legs were fucking chafing and hurting like a bitch, I was irritated and hot and threw a cup of water into the bushes and threw my stuff on the ground. I wasn’t really upset at the walk or the heat or the chaffing. Although all of those things were pretty miserable.

I was just pissed my Mom is dead.

Each anniversary thus far has been incredibly difficult for me. In some ways, I hate getting further away from you and your death. I get anxious thinking about more distance between us.

I cried a lot that day at the beach. I went into the water by myself and spent a lot of time alone out there.

I cried so many tears and let the waves hit me, one after another. I went under and would scream.

How could I be in a place that was so beautiful when you were dead? How can these two realities exist together?

I simultaneously was in awe of the beautiful beach, and also was so desperately sad and aching for you. I was acutely aware of this juxtaposition.

All in the same breath.

I stayed in the water until my eyes and my skin stung, until I could no longer tell the difference between my tears and the water.

I walked back up to Colin on the beach and I told him I wanted to go to the far end of the beach, to be alone, to spread your ashes. I asked if he would take photos of me doing it.

In part because I am desperately afraid to forget anything that has a connection to you, I am constantly documenting, documenting, documenting, all of these moments. The good, the bad, the hard, the happy.  But also, because I want to look back on these moments and remember the dark days when I continued putting one foot in front of the other, when I didn't think I could.

We walked to the end of the beach and I waded into the water.

I clutched that Ziploc sandwich bag of your ashes to my chest and the tears streamed down in hot and heavy streaks.

I told you I didn't want to let you go. That this is oh so hard for me and that I just fucking miss you so much. I said that I needed to let a little bit of you go, just you and I, before we let you go as a family.

I’ve always needed a little extra time with you.

Hesitantly, I opened the bag and scooped out small handfuls at a time of you.

I examined the ashes, wondering what parts of you I was holding and feeling between my fingertips.

Before I carefully and slowly let you go in the water, I held my cupped hand of ashes to my lips and gave you a kiss. Leaving a dusting of your ashes on my lips.

I told you I wanted you to be a part of a beautiful place you never got to see, for forever.

After I let go of the last bit of ashes in the water, I rinsed the bag out. I didn't want any to be left in the bag.

Then, with the white cloud of you still hovering just at the surface swirling around me, I dove into you, ducked my head under, and screamed.

I surfaced and said I loved you and will always miss you.

I hesitantly walked back to shore to Colin.

He looked at me and very simply said, “You alright?” I nodded back silently.

Then I told him I peed while I walked out to let you go, because I thought you would think it was funny.

He busted up laughing, and then so did I, while the tears fell down.

All in the same breath.

----

The next day was our last day on the ship. We were going to quickly pop back into Disney World before our evening flights. It would be my last opportunity to spread the other small bag of your ashes in the Magic Kingdom. I knew it would be hard, but I also knew it would be what you wanted.

It isn’t legal to spread ashes in a Disney park, so I knew I would have to do it sneakily. I however, figured it was worth the risk.

I snuck you into the park in my bra. I thought you would have thought that was funny. I didn't want security confiscating or questioning my random sandwich bag of white powder, so I figured a trip to the Magic Kingdom in my bra was the best course of action.

We came through security without any issues, and I retrieved the bag of you out of my bra and we headed for Space Mountain.

I opened the sandwich baggy and placed it in my bag, I scooped small handfuls of you out and gently let you go into the air, like pixie dust.

I scattered you in planters in Tomorrow Land.

In the queue in Space Mountain.

Colin and I laughed. And then I cried.

I was genuinely enjoying this so much, because I knew you would have thought it was fucking hysterical. In part because it was illegal. I was also so fucking sad.

All in the same breath.

We asked for the back of the ride vehicle, so I could let you go while speeding through space without anyone catching a mouth or eyeful.

It turns out that strategy was effective for everyone, except for me.

You decided to take up residence in my eyes and in my mouth on a few of the turns. I am even squinting in the ride photo because some ashes had just flown into my eyes.

I could just see you busting up laughing seeing that photo.

Colin told me when we got off he kept his mouth closed the entire time, just in case.

Colin could hear me laughing and giggling throughout the ride, he told me he knew it was because I was letting you go, through space. I cried through the laughter.

All in the same breath.

With each release of my hand I said, I love you, I miss you, enjoy space! Goodbye, Mom!

When we got off the ride, I realized my pants, hands, and much of the ride car had a light dusting of ash.

Woops.

I told myself it was sterile, so was fine.

Next up, we headed to Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, aka, Thundy as we called it. I scattered you in the Rivers of America and throughout Frontier Land.

Again, we asked for the back on Thundy to avoid contaminating others with your ashes. And plus, the back is the best anyways, duh.

I threw the ashes out like a flower girl throwing petals.

Goodbye Mom! I love you! Enjoy Thundy!

When we got off the ride, I was really covered in ashes. I wiped my hands on my pants.

You would have found it fucking hilarious.

Or disgusting.

Probably both.

Definitely both.

As we walked away from Thundy, I was suddenly struck with such a visceral awareness that I was never going to see you again and that I was never going to get to come to another Disney park with you again.

The tears came down fast and hard.

Colin looked at me and again said, You alright?

I just miss her so much. I won’t ever get to come here with her again.

He replied and said at least we got one more whirl together at the parks.

---

Throughout the trip, I have seen lots of grandmas with their children and grandkids in the parks. I even saw one grandma, she must have been at least 75, getting into the Space Mountain ride vehicle with her grandkids. It hit me like a bullet in the back and caught me by surprise at the fierce intensity of the pain.

I told Colin, that would have been her, still speeding through space at 75.

Fuck, I miss you so much.

We headed to the Haunted Mansion, aka, the Stupid Scary House as you dubbed it. Because you thought the ride was stupid and a waste of time, I thought it would be funny and you would get a kick out of me sprinkling some of your ashes over the tombstones outside the ride. I had just a little bit of you left and flung you like pixie dust. I didn't even try to conceal what I was doing at this point.

Bye, Mom. I miss you. I love you forever.

After this, we took a photo in front of the Stupid Scary House. In the photo, you can see my pants covered in a handprint of your ashes.

When we realized this, we both busted up laughing. Colin said, she would love it.

And you would have.

---

And now here I sit, in seat 6C, on my way home. Per the usual, I am crying and writing on airplane. Somethings never change.

I head home to put the final touches on your memorial service this weekend. It has been an at times heartbreaking labor of love. I have spent hundreds of hours on your memorial. My last gift to you.

This weekend we will gather, celebrate, mourn, and say goodbye.

What I’ve realized is this Saturday will mark an end, but not THEE end. Not of my grief, nor my final goodbye to you. But it will mark the end of the darkest, earliest chapter of my life without you. My hardest summer. It will provide some needed closure and healing.

I realized in the Bahamas and at Disney World, that I will continue saying goodbye to you, in a million ways, every day, for the rest of my life. But I’ve also realized that it won’t always be painful goodbyes, but it will sometimes also be playful and happy hellos when I see reflections of you in my life, like I did all through the last 12 days on vacation.

And sometimes both, all in the same breath.

This life without you will never be easy. But it will also be beautiful, I have faith.

Achingly beautiful.

All in the same breath.