On Loss: An Open Letter to My Mother

May 7, 2021May 23, 2024 by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Originally posted by this author to https://eusocrimsonthread.wixsite.com/crimson

Mom,

I thought I knew loss. I thought my divorces had made me tough. I really thought losing you would have prepared me for anything. I thought having to call 911 when we found you would have made me immune to anything. I thought having to raise my little brother and sister and caring for my elderly father when you left would have prepared me for anything. I was wrong. I thought enough time had passed. It’s been years now. Then 2020 happened, a year where I really needed a mother to turn to. My husband was amazing through everything, and frankly, still in the thick of it, is my rock. But there are times, no matter the wonderful people in your life, you just want your Mom. I thought I was on the easy side of mourning you. I was wrong.
March 30, 2020. That’s when everything changed. That the last day before I had to wear a N95 every hour of the day of every one of my shifts. The biggest problem was my asthma and heart condition where my heart rate skyrocketed with the smallest of challenges. In nearly 15 years of nursing, I never knew this was an issue. In years past, if we had a patient that required we wear a N95, tuberculosis for example, we put the mask on, went in and cared for them, came out and threw it away. Not now. Now, 21 days. That is how long my mask had last. 21 days. They wanted to send me to the ICU, but they could not accommodate the breathing breaks I needed from the mask. I desperately wanted to go and help. I wanted to do my part. I felt like a draft dodger. I longed to sit with you and lament the situation, but you were not there.

Instead, I was sent to assist with symptom tracking. They needed nurses to check on COVID patients that had contracted the disease. I called them daily and checked on their symptoms. Many traversed the rocky waters of COVID well enough. Others, however, did not. Many of those calls haunt me. It is likely I may have been the last person to hear some of their voices. That sits heavy in a heart. You would have known what to say to comfort me. I’ve lost patients before. I’ve witnessed tragic situations. This was different. There were mobile morgues.

It was so hard to keep Dad home and safe. He is 81 now. His main social interaction, after you left, was going out to eat. He ended up lonely at home, staring at all the things that reminded him of you. We tried everything to keep him home. We would deliver meals and groceries. We got him an iPhone so he could FaceTime family. It helped a bit. Then his brother got COVID. My uncle. He died a few days after being admitted. I hated that you were not here. He needed you. I was angry, and I could not tell you any of this. You were not here while I was agonizing over how to get groceries for him when everyone was hoarding supplies. You were not here while I was spending hours in the car going from store to store trying to find distilled water for his sleep apnea machine and could not find any because all the stores were out. You were not here when my husband’s family lost their own family members to COVID. You would have comforted him. You would have loved him so much, and I hate that you never met him.
I wanted to tell you all of this. I was mourning you all over again. All of these challenges stockpiled into one year, and all I wanted was to talk to you and I couldn’t. I thought I was on the easy side of mourning you. Turns out, you never really stop mourning someone. There are just times you miss them more than others.
We have moved in with Dad to take better care of him. He is less lonely now. We are all vaccinated now, so the world is just a little less scary. My husband and I are going to school full time because, apparently, pandemic is not hard enough and we are gluttons for punishment. Dad will not say it, but I know he likes our dogs. You would have loved them. You would have loved my husband for how he loves my dad and takes care of him. You would have loved my husband for how he loves me. I think you would like the person I turned into. I think we would be better friends now than when I was in my twenties. I wish you could have known me now. I think you would be proud. I think you would be happy.
I miss you more than ever. I wish I had done more for you. I wish I had more closure, and I do not wish this hurt on anyone. Of all the unimaginable hardships that we faced in 2020, and continue to face, mourning you all over again was the hardest. I needed an adult, and when I looked for one, you were not there.

On memories of the House That Built Me…

May 1, 2020May 23, 2024 by cindereulla ♥ 2 Comments

home

A few days ago, I found an old bottle of my dead mother’s perfume. It was one of those vintage types, with the stopper in the top. The kind that you would just dab on your neck or behind your ear.

I opened it, and brought it up to my nose.

I breathed in.

For the first time in nearly 8 years, I was smelling my mother. She was there. Her scent enveloped me, and it was more than I could bare. My heart stopped, and I choked on the raw emotion of it. The bizarre juxtaposition of her unanticipated presence, and jarring reminder of her very real absence.

“I know they say you can’t go home again, I just had to come back one last time. Ma’am I know you don’t know me from Adam, but these handprints on the front steps are mine.”

That night I dreamt.

I dreamt of my childhood home.

It was one of those surreal dreams that are unnerving in their vividness.

I stood on the concrete porch. My dad had laid it. My name remained carved into it where I had drawn it with a twig. Right next to it were my tiny hand prints.

I looked up at the front door. It still had the stained glass window, at the top, that my mother and father had created. The landscape that she had painted on the adjacent wall was there, though faded by the Sun and time. My mind had accounted for time. I suppose that must have mattered to my subconscious, for some reason.

I could see the pommagranet tree that my father had planted, so many years ago. My mother’s favourite cat, Sasha, was buried under it. She was part Siamese, and had the silliest meow. We had to put Sasha to sleep after she developed breast cancer. It was the kind thing to do, but my mother wept for days. It was my first lesson in not being able to console someone.

“Up those stairs in that little back bedroom, is where I did my homework and I learned to play guitar. I bet you didn’t know under that live oak, my favorite dog is buried in the yard.”

Inside were the built-in bookshelves that my mother had designed, and my father had built. They stood there, imposing as ever. Floor to ceiling, and solid wood. My father was a skilled carpenter. I appreciate that much more now than I did then.

“I thought if I could touch this place or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here it’s like I’m someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself. If I could just come in I swear I’ll leave. Won’t take nothing but a memory, from the house that built me. You leave home and you move on and you do the best you can, I got lost in this old world and forgot who I am.”

I woke up confused about where I was. I struggled to get my bearings. I felt cold, and alone for a moment.

Mom’s gone.

The house is gone.

For a long time, I thought I was too.

But then I looked over, and saw my husband asleep. He is proof of my new life, and the new home I am building.

I smiled.

(Lyrics belong to “The House that Built Me: by Miranda Lambert”)

On missing something you never had…

December 2, 2015May 23, 2024 by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

cute-baby-shoes-dress-carpet-photography-hd-wallpaper-694x417 I planned you. Oh, how I planned you. I dreamt about you everyday, for years. Your little face plastered the walls of my mind. You would have your father’s smile and my eyes, and eyelashes for days.

In my mind, I would hold you tight to me, and you would bury your face in the crook of my neck. I would kiss the top of your head. I imagined every facet of your personality and life. Your laugh filled my dreams.

Every month, I would dream and hope and pray. Every month I would wait. Wait for what I longed for. Some sign that I might meet you someday soon. My little love.

Then every month my body would say, “No, dear. Not just yet.” I would grieve. Oh, how I would grieve. My heart would break in a way I didn’t yet know it could. I thought I had known heartache until then, until I longed for you.

But then I learned a new grief. It’s happened three times now. My body ached and the pain mirrored the grief in my heart, and I knew you had almost made it. I had, for just a moment, had that glimmer of hope. Then you were gone. My little love, and it felt as if my heart had left with you.

My precious darling. Everyday my thoughts wander to you and I pray that I will see you soon. Some sweet day, my sweet love.

On days…

November 19, 2015May 23, 2024 by cindereulla ♥ 2 Comments

grief

There are some days that are just so damn hard. Days that I miss my mother. Days that I am so angry about our relationship and how damaged and broken I will always be because of it. Days I’m so angry at my first husband for his choices. Days I am so angry at my second husband for being so careless with my heart. Days I grieve over my missed pregnancies. Days I hate myself for being thirty and having two ex husbands. Days I hate myself for getting married to get away from my mother. Days I’m so angry she died the way she did and left me to raise my little brother and sister and care for my elderly father. Days I am so resentful. Days I’m terrified that even though I and got good grades and didn’t do drugs and didn’t get pregnant young I won’t have a happy ending and I’ll always be alone. Days I’m angry that I’ve let myself become what I am. Days I feel so damn alone. Days I just don’t want to live, days I want to crawl into bed and never crawl out. But then there are days that are better but you never know which one it’s gonna be. So you lay in bed in the morning and try to gather the strength just to get up because what if it’s not one of the good days. What if it’s one of the shitty days? And that’s it. That’s my life.

On saving the last dance…

March 7, 2014November 19, 2015 by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

6920158-Dancing-Feet-0 Sixteen years old, in the middle of my high school gym. The lights are low. A mirrored disco ball reflects the multicolored lights of a low-cost DJ. The lights caress every surface of this homecoming dance. We are the only two people on the glossy, wooden basketball court. My red, satin dress ripples around me. My tiara is pinned securely into my hair. All eyes are on us.

Nineteen and in the arms of a handsome young man with warm brown eyes and dark chestnut hair that is always perfectly messy. We circle the dance floor. I rest my head on his chest and I feel his chin settle into my hair. It is my dear friend’s wedding, but it might as well be ours. We are so in love and oblivious to anything else. His hand is on the small of my back and mine is wrapped around his neck, toying with his hair. Everything is perfect. For us, time has stopped.

Twenty-two. Our first dance as man and wife. My long white, satin gown clings to my slender frame. My veil cascades down my back and trails my movement. I gaze up at this man I plan to spend the rest of my life with and his blue eyes are locked with mine. They promise me forever.

Twenty-four. He spins me around the dusty floor of the crowded honky tonk. Indecipherable country music blares overhead and we laugh together. The tequila warms our blood and I am dizzy. This is, unknowingly, our last dance as husband and wife.

Twenty-six and I’m at my new sister-in-law’s wedding. My husband’s brown eyes light up as we dance for hours and hours. My feet are aching and my heart is longing for home, but goodness we dance well together. We anticipate each other’s every move. Spin. Turn. Dip. Turn. Spin. Over and over, one after the other. Those around us may be casting lots over how long our whirlwind marriage may last, but we do this well and everyone around us knows it.

Twenty-eight. His gorgeous green eyes gaze into mine. His broad shoulders tower over my small frame, exaggerated by the epaulettes of his pilot’s uniform. His scent is intoxicating as we slow dance together, a prelude to an adventure.

Twenty nine. He’s back in town. It’s been sometime since I saw him last. We decide to meet for a drink or two. We sit and chat, laugh. For a moment it’s almost like old times. Crazy by Patsy Cline comes on the jukebox and he holds his hand out to me. “One last dance, for old time’s sake?” I hesitate for a moment before taking his hand and allowing him to lead me to the tiny dance floor in the darkened pub. He pulls me close and it feels just like it used to. We always danced so well together. This was one of the only things that was ever easy for us. It feels so good, but as quickly as it started, the song ends. Just like us.

Each of these moments ended. In the end we all slowed down, took a final spin, and let go. I’m still saving the last dance for the one that won’t.

On time…

September 29, 2013October 17, 2019 by cindereulla ♥ 1 Comment

Time is cruel. Time steals away moments quietly and without notice. It sneaks in silently and slowly snuffs out the life of a moment and as you watch the fading light drift away from existence, you realize that it will never be the same again. Your heart breaks. It crumbles and you panic and try to collect the pieces so you can put it back together, but you know you will never be able to seamlessly repair it. It will never look the same. It will never function the same. It will never love the same way, ever again. You realize, as the embers fade and cease to glow, that reality as you know it is now forever changed. Your heart is so damaged, its unrecognizable. Foreign.
But time can also be kind. It can work tirelessly and discretely as it lays the foundation and the framework for what will someday be a brand new adventure. It can heal wounds in a way that no other remedy can. The scars remain but they give the roots of hope something to anchor onto and grow. It can feed it and create a dream that would have never grown in any other foundation.
Time can break you, it can burn you, but it can also heal you.

On one last time…

June 6, 2013February 13, 2014 by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

“When the night has come and the land is dark and the moon is the only light we’ll see.”

This night, this last night. They both were trying their best to memorize every moment. They had had a last night before, but like most last nights, it was wasted. Like most last anything, they didn’t know just what it was, and like most lasts they let it slip through their hands. Unnoticed. Unappreciated. It was not until long after the moment had past, that either of them realized just what had gone. It was not until after that their mind’s eye had tried to reclaim it. Tonight though, the fates had been kind. The fates had decided to give them one more last and they knew it. They knew exactly what this was and they were going to treasure every moment. Tonight they would dance and love and laugh and hold and kiss with the moon as their spotlight and the summer night as their stage.

“No I won’t be afraid, no I won’t be afraid. Just as long as you stand, stand by me.”

They also knew what was to come. All of the lonely nights, all of the days not lived. All of the dreams not had, and all of the never mores and never wouldbe’s. They knew because they already had endured all the lasts and because of that there was an unspoken agreement that there was just now. No tomorrow. No what if. Just now. Because if they gave into the what if’s, the maybes this would be gone. They would be ripped from this gift.

“If the sky that we look upon should tumble and fall and the mountains should crumble to the sea…”

Nothing mattered, but this. This moment. This gift. Nothing mattered but this last time they would ever feel their skin against one another’s. The world could end around them and nothing, not one thing could tear their eyes from one another’s or their hands away.

“ I won’t cry, I won’t cry, no I won’t shed a tear. Just as long as you stand, stand by me.”

On mercy…

February 25, 2013February 13, 2014 by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

On mercy…

My phone vibrates. A text message. I don’t recognize the number. The message says that they have been thinking of me and I am forced to admit that I have no idea who has sent this. I lost my contacts recently, so every person that texts me feels, momentarily, very insignificant. The sender decides that a trip down memory lane is in order and proceeds to try to jog my memory. It only takes one hint. They tell me that they make the best late night waffles and I know exactly who it is. My heart constricts. It’s been so long since I heard from him. We were so close once. We were such good friends.

The strange thing is that I had been thinking of him today, for the first time in a very long time. We text back and forth for some time before he gives up and calls me. He always hated text messaging. I remember this now. It is a strange conversation. Neither of us knows where to begin or what to bring up. We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. It occurs to me how, with someone that mattered, a certain level of discomfort can coexist with a calm familiarity. You’re scared, but it is safe to be. Its a strange feeling, but I don’t hate it. We end up on the subject we have been avoiding. It takes far less energy than I anticipated. The last thing he tells me is that, while he has no expectations, this is him reopening the door for our friendship. I smile, though he can’t see this, perhaps he can hear it in my voice. I hope so. I tell him I’ll see him around, and that is the end of our conversation.

I spent the better part of the next hour perplexed less by this turn of events, and more by my lack of reaction to it. A year ago this would have been terribly unsettling. I would have agonized over every detail of the exchange and every moment of our friendship and every memory I ever had of him. Now I am simply, content. The thought makes me smile. This whole exchange brings a thought to the forefront of my mind that hasn’t taken up residence there in sometime.

I’m not drowning.

I also realize that nothing in my life is significantly different. Nothing is greatly improved and nothing, fortunately, is terribly worse. Only one thing has changed. Me. I’ve finally begun to truly heal. I can look at my blessings and appreciate them. I can see my challenges and not drown in them. This is the biggest change, I think. I am still healing. On some level, I am still grieving, but for the first time, in a very long time, I am not drowning.

I have spent the better part of six years drowning. When my first marriage ended, I grieved the loss of the idea of what was supposed to be. When my second marriage ended I grieved the loss of that many more years. When my mother died, I grieved more that I can begin to form into words. There were so many moments when it felt like the grief, itself, would siphon the very air from my lungs. It felt as though if I stopped paying attention for one, brief moment, that I would be overcome by the weight of it all and cease to be able to exist.

None of that happened though. I was, through some miracle, able to take the next breath. I was able to function one more day. That day turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and so on until one day I was faced with a ghost from the past and was able to walk away unscathed.

That was the day I realized that, against all odds, there is, surprisingly, a tomorrow.

That was the day I realized that, against all odds, I survived.

That was also the day that I realized that, against all odds, God had mercy on me.

I am alive. I am healing. I am, someday, going to be whole. I don’t know when, but I do know that it is coming. I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I will live a full life.

On there being no place like home…

April 4, 2012November 19, 2015 by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

I had spent so much time picking out this dress. The iridescent fabric shimmered in the lights of the room. Every curl was in place in a mop of ringlets on the top of my head. I felt so pretty. Everything was perfect, but as I looked around the room at the ornate centerpieces and rich fabrics I knew I didn’t belong there. I had been polished up to perfection, camouflaged in diamonds and gold. At first glance, anyone here would have thought that I was a part of this and this a part of me. I kept quiet and to myself. The others took me for reserved and shy. I was, in reality, concealing the southern accent that would give me away as the outsider that I was.

I looked across the room. A tall, handsome man caught my eye. He was fair with tidy black hair and blue eyes that showed no shadow of a hard life lived behind them. He seemed careless. He held his lean frame with confidence and grace. Our eyes met. I smiled briefly and cautiously. He responded with a winning smile that revealed the hint of a dimple. He turned back to the faceless group of women that circled in front of him. I looked down at my champagne and took a sip. I laughed at myself. He represents everything I am not. He laughs and it carries across the room. It’s like velvet and honey.

I begin to consider other things about him, as women sipping champagne are inclined to do. I shake my head vigorously, trying to swat the thought away like a bothersome bee buzzing around my head. He is just another shiny thing in this made-up wonderland. This place that is so very far from home. So far from the smell of freshly cut alfalfa and roasting green chili. So far from the smell of the rain in the hot desert, and the thirsty ground drinking it up.

I miss home so much right now. It’s been such a long road here and the journey has brought me farther away than I am comfortable with. This is such a foreign place. Everything is so strange to me. I feel that at any moment I am going to give myself away. Everything is perfect and beautiful here, but I would give anything to be anywhere else. My mind drifts to the memory of me laying in the sun by the pool surrounded by pecan trees. Holding hands with a handsome, tan man. He looks at me and tells me I’m beautiful and he really means it. His blond hair is like spun gold in the sun. We had no worries, no expectations. We just were.

I look down at my hands. They are covered in diamonds. I have my father’s hands. A workers hands. They seem oddly out of place under the sparkling gems. My feet ache and I can hardly enjoy the festivities because they hurt so much. The beautiful shoes I am wearing are worth nearly what the dress is. It occurs to me that cost does not equal comfort. I’d give anything for my chucks right now.

I sigh and look back up. The handsome man with the raven hair is gone. I take in the scene in front of me. It screams at me about who I am not, but then it begins to whisper to me about who I am. It reminds me of where I come from. I thought I wanted this beautiful life so much. Now it’s mine in all its sparkling, cold, sterile glory. I want back what I had. I want what is gone. It was warm and happy and comfortable with soft places to land. This world has no soft places to land.

I hate that I had to come this far to learn to love where I’ve been. When I was little I never really understood why Dorothy would want to leave Oz. It was magical and beautiful and oh how it sparkled. I understand now. I wish it hadn’t taken so long.

“…if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard; because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with”. ~Dorothy Gale

On magic and love…

February 8, 2012November 19, 2015 by cindereulla ♥ 1 Comment

I remember the moment I realized that I no longer knew how to pretend. I was around six or seven, I suppose. Not quite in the double digits. Of that I am sure. My friends and I were playing Peter Pan. I was supposed to be Wendy. This was one of my very favorite games. Brave and dashing Peter. Evil, but alluring Captain Hook (yes, even then there was a certain mystique to the bad boys, but we shall discuss that later). Lost Boys who need a mother, and Wendy who is more than happy to take up the role. Peter, the boy she loves who she is doomed to never really have. In hindsight, this all set the tone for my existence (again, a discussion for another day).

Not one week earlier this game made complete sense. I loved to lose myself in this world. It was like second nature. I could step in and out of that fantasy land seamlessly. The magic was real. Tangible. It felt so very right.

This day, however, everything changed. This is the moment I began to grow up. I felt it when it happened. The same thing that made perfect sense one week ago now felt completely and utterly absurd. Embarrassing almost. I can remember that even in my child’s mind I was heartbroken over this. Even then I understood, on some level, that this was the end of an era. The last fleeting moments of pretend, of magic and I didn’t know how to undo it. To this very day, I remember exactly how it felt. Like being in a wonderful dream and being doused with a bucket of cold water. It hurt.

I have since spent an inordinate amount of time, unsuccessfully, attempting to recapture those magical moments. Trying to get back to that magical place. The place where dreams come true, there is a prince for every princess, and you could step off of a windowsill and fly simply on the power of a happy thought. Most of these attempts end in the abrupt and painful crash back to reality where people let you down, heartbreak can be crippling, and there is no White Knight.

It has been my experience that the closest anyone ever gets to reaching that place again, is when they are lucky enough to fall in love. It’s like, for that moment, the door that stands between dark, grey reality and glittering, shining magic is unlocked and stands ajar, allowing a brief glimpse into that promising place. For a moment we feel invincible, as though nothing could possibly pull you down. We feel we can once again fly on the power of this wonderfully happy thought. Anything and everything is possible, if we could just get to that door and squeeze through to the other side.

We reach for the knob. Strain.

I think a handful of us are just privileged enough to stumble forward and make it. We have all heard of those few epic loves. Perhaps it was your great-grand parents or an aunt and uncle whom you adored. They struggled and fought and made it to the door.

I think the rest of us tend to fall just short of making it there. The love fractures somehow and we trip and the door slams shut in our faces. Or perhaps it was never love to begin with, just reaching for the wrong door. It looked so very much like the one you remembered from when you were little.

Not many of us make it to the door. After trying so hard one too many times, we grow weary of it slamming shut. The crash, as it latches, is an assault on our senses. Some of us stop trying to reach it all together. It hurts too much.

I hope someday I reach that door. I hope that I find that prince that will help me find it again and together we will both make it back to that wonderful place. It gets harder and harder to remember what it looks like though. Harder to remember the feel of the wind in my hair as I fly over the Never Land. Harder to convince myself I ever saw the door at all.