Category: Life

On Loss: An Open Letter to My Mother

On Loss: An Open Letter to My Mother

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…

On memories of the House That Built Me…

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…

On missing something you never had…

by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

cute-baby-shoes-dress-carpet-photography-hd-wallpaper-694x417I 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…

On days…

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…

On saving the last dance…

by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

6920158-Dancing-Feet-0Sixteen 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 mercy…

On mercy…

by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

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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…

On there being no place like home…

by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

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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 wanting a time machine…

On wanting a time machine…

by cindereulla ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

 

There are so many people you encounter in life. Good people. Wise people. Funny people. Morose people. People who are amazing compilations of so many things. Sometimes they are contradictory. Sometimes they are vapid shells of a person that exist solely for immediate comforts. I think some of the most fascinating people are the ones that say they live life with no regrets. Now, I believe that, as humans we have the ability to look back on a regrettable moment and see the merit in it. I believe we can rationalize just about anything. However, it is also my belief that if you really look at a person when they say they have no regrets, if you really look closely, you will see something else.  Their eyes will betray them. It’s just for a fraction of a second. It flashes in the corner of their eyes. Look closely. You’ll see it. The last dying breath of a wish. It passes oh so quickly. Gone before the person even has the chance to process it’s true meaning. They have already begun summon up the endless list of reasons why something was acceptable, or meaningful, or helpful.  Or, and this is my very favorite, defining. We love to call difficult, regrettable moments defining. It means it all happened for a reason. It means there was purpose. This is a survival technique. I realize this. It’s part of how we carry on.

But, suppose for one second that we allowed that spark of a wish to take life. What would happen? We’ve spun a whole genre of entertainment around it. Back to the Future, Peggy Sue got Married, Doctor Who. It is nothing more than a safe way to ask ourselves that very question. Suppose, we could go back and change it all. What are the ramifications of it? Every story has reasons why we can’t. Rifts in the space/ time continuum, changes in existence, set points in time. All answers to the heartbreaking desire to not live with regret. We know it is impossible.

I know, without a doubt in my mind that given the opportunity, I would jump on the chance to go back. I wouldn’t even give it a second thought. December 15, 2000. That is the moment I would go back to. So many things I would do differently. So many things I would relive and savor every last second, because this time around I would really know it was the last. I would enjoy the feel of pulling on a pair of size zero jeans with no difficulty. I would go to my great-grandparent’s house and be woken up far too early by the smell of bacon frying. I would listen to every single word she had to say as we sat on that wooden porch swing as we looked through the rain at the apple orchard. I would ask her the things that mattered, like how do you know when someone really loves you. I wouldn’t count the hours until I could get back home to my boyfriend. I would tell her I love her.  I would talk to my mother and relish in the sound of her voice being strong and assertive. I would take one last walk through my old band room and gym. I would go to one last Friday Night Lights. I would have adventures by myself. I would hold out for someone who adored me. I would say proper goodbyes to people I never got the chance to because I thought there was a tomorrow.

I don’t believe that anyone really lives life without regret. I think that would imply that they never fully felt the pain of a specific moment to begin with. It would imply that they are not human. I can’t truly speak for anyone else. I know this. I guess the truth is that I don’t want  to believe it. I think regret keeps us trying. I think it makes us want to change the future, because in the end we know we can’t change the past. As much as we long to, we can’t. But we can change the future, and isn’t that amazing?

 

On being ambushed by grief… an open letter to someone I loved…

On being ambushed by grief… an open letter to someone I loved…

by cindereulla ♥ 2 Comments

I was completely unprepared for how very hard it hit me. I was minding my own business. Living. That’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s what I’m best at. Doing what I’m supposed to do. I sat on my bed and held your shirt. The blue and white plaid Daniel Cremieux one that you were so fond of. You would wear it untucked with the sleeves folded up. You would saunter casually with your hands in your pockets. So confident. I held it in my hands, inhaling your scent. It still smells like you. Hei by Alfred Sung and Tide. I am overwhelmed by it. I close my eyes and I can see your face, your eyes, your smile. I can feel your cheek on mine. Rough. You laugh and pull me in. My chest constricts. I feel the grief and regret smother me. It ambushes me. Caught me off guard. I was so unprepared.

I know you are on the other side of the world. Its nighttime there.  So very far away. You are not thinking of me, not grieving, not counting the lost days. Or have you found something of mine and been transported to another time? Another place? Somewhere hopeful and bright? Can you feel the sun on our bodies as we lay in the grass, our hands intertwined, my leg draped over yours? Can you see me leaning over you gazing into your perfect brown eyes and can you feel my lips press to yours promising you everything and forever with that kiss? Does it break your heart the way it does mine? Do you mourn the death of the idea of what we were supposed to be? Or, am I just a brief glimpse of scenery, a stopover on the road you’ve travelled?

It seems cruel that simply breathing in the scent trapped in the fibers of your forgotten article of clothing could do this to me still. After all these years. Your memory lives for me in this piece of fabric that once clung to your tall, slender frame. I am rendered helpless, frozen, trapped in the memory.

So, I set it down, stand up and place it on the top shelf of my closet, to be ambushed another day when I’ve forgotten I’ve put it there. I can’t quite bring myself to discard it. That makes is too real. Too final. Having it means you were real and we happened. It means for that for one brief, golden moment we were hopelessly in love and happy and hopeful. Everything changed, but for that glorious moment I was a part of love and it was wonderful.

If I was courageous, if I was brave, I would send this letter. I would tell you that the only reason I left you was I knew that you loved me too much to leave of your own accord. I would tell you that having to break your heart was one of the hardest things I had done at that point in my life. There were so many things you wanted to do, so many adventures you wanted to have, but I couldn’t leave everything and go with you. I knew you would have stayed. You said so through the tears that proved I was ripping your heart to shreds. I would tell you I hated myself in that moment. I would tell you that the idea of you staying just to be with me, and you waking up one day and looking at me with regret was more than I could withstand. I would tell you that I instantly regretted it because I knew what it meant. It meant that someday you would hate me after the hurt wore off.  I would tell you that I loved you too much to keep you like a caged bird. It was the only way I knew you would leave. It was the only way I knew how to make you live the life you dreamed of. I would tell you how sorry I am. I loved you so much. I would tell you that.

If I were courageous I would also tell you how happy I am that you are happy. I would tell you that when I see your posted pictures of you in exotic places, after the heartache wears off, I am happy to see you smiling. I would tell you to have an adventure for me.

But I am not courageous and I will never send this letter. I will never tell you any of this. You will never know how you touched my life and my heart. You will never know there is a girl on the other side of the world who misses you terribly and would love nothing more than to turn the corner at a book shop and see you there with your hands in your pockets and your wild hair hanging in your eyes. To have you turn to me, take a minute for recognition to set in and then smile and hug me. For you to look at me with a smile.

This won’t happen. Maybe someday I will be able to get rid of that stupid button up shirt and not think of what we had or what was yet to be. Maybe someday I will not be ambushed by grief when I see it. Until that day it will stay on that shelf, a souvenir of one of the happiest times in my life. One of the last times I remember being truly happy.