I Still Miss Him

There are days that the breeze is so clean and fresh that it seems that the scent of roses overtakes the fumes of the city, and I get the faintest hint of peppermint.

It is on these occasions that the pain in my heart is so consuming I’m not sure I can make it through my day. I want to scream and cry, just to let the world I live in know how much I miss Papa. I am selfish because I had him for the first 35 years of my life. When I am filled with such despair, I could care less.
Memories of my grandpa come at me hard and fast at times, and at others, time slows down to give me a chance to hang on to those memories to embed them into my brain. Summer evenings after supper on the porch swing. Ice cream at Thrifty Drug. A beer tap right in his garage. Old Spice. Peppermint.

My grandpa died on January 16, 2006, in his home, surrounded by those who loved him. We all watched for years as this vibrant man lost his ability to drive, go to church, come for Sunday supper. The patriarch was fading, and no one knew what we would do without him. How would we go on?

As dementia stole even our identities from him, there were some times of clarity that were as crystal as a wine glass. Our last weekend with him was bittersweet; we knew that he was going to die, but it seemed in those last moments with him he was able to recognize us. A week before, he couldn’t remember my name, and now he could tell me who I was and recite my parent’s phone number. He spoke of a man with dark hair in the corner of the room, where we could see nothing. I like to think that that was his angel there to escort him home. He lived his life every day for the day he died, believing that there was something better on the other side.

After Papa’s funeral I was laying in bed thinking about him, and I started to cry uncontrollably. My husband did what he could do to try to console me, but to no avail. I was angry. I was sad. I was lost. I prayed to God that Papa had found an end to his Journey and was now in his care, that he wasn’t scared to die, and was watching over the family he loved so deeply. As I laid there pleading with God, I suddenly felt a wash of calm fall over me. Somehow I knew that Papa was fine.

In the darkness, it seemed out of nowhere, I saw him. He was healthy again, and was the grandpa I knew in my childhood. He passed in front of me, and he held up is hand as if to say, “I’m fine. I made it. No more worrying.” As fast as he was there, he was gone again.

For many weeks following, I didn’t tell anyone of my experience because I would question myself: Was it only a dream? The calm that came over me the seconds before I saw my grandpa for the last time instilled a belief in me that I know it was him. He was still the patriarch watching over his family, making sure all was well, just as he always had.

That was the last memory that I have of my grandpa, and I will cherish it through eternity. Every now and again, I get that perfect breeze with it’s scent of roses and peppermint, and I know that Papa is still there, ever watchful, waiting for the day that we will see him again. I love you, Papa. I will never stop missing you.

Maurie Hurley, 1922-2006

A Lighter Side to Being a Mom

I belong to a site called Mommy Matter.

This is really the first site like this I have ever belonged to and I’m not quite sure as to how Susie knew me enough to invite me, but I am so glad that she did. It was serendipitous, I tell you!

I have met the greatest group of women there. I know most of them by name or avatar. Some I am lucky enough to have been able to speak with them on the phone. I can tell them anything, and I know that they will be there with a virtual hug to let me know that things are going to be okay.

One thing I have learned, is that no matter what the situation is I am facing, one of the wonderful woman has already faced it and is ready to lend a hand with some solid advice, and give me the strength to make it to the next day.

Mommy Matter lets me forget about my unpaid bills, unfinished laundry, and unmade beds. Yeah. I’m addicted. Sue me!

Love you gals. Looking forward to even more laughs with all of you!

Katie

The Heartache of Being a Mom

I started motherhood as a scared, naïve 17-year-old child. I was still in high school, and most of the people I equated as my friends seemed to turn a cold shoulder on me. Many things went through my head. How was I going to tell my parents? Was I going to be able to finish school? Was being a mom the only thing I had to look forward to? Would any guy ever want that kind of baggage?

I soon found out that along with the greatest amount of joy I have ever been privileged to encounter, came with it a responsibility I looked forward to. My daughter came into this world like a blinding light that has yet to go out. She was my reason for getting up in the morning-my reason to stay strong and continue heading forward.

The years went by as fast as lightning. I sometimes wonder where the days went. It seems like minutes ago that she said her first word and took her first steps. I can remember like it was yesterday, me crying outside her kindergarten class, looking in the window making sure she was okay and not wanting her to stay. She did stay, and she was fine. She did better than me that day. That first day of school led to first dates, first parties, first dances, and more rivers of tears for me!

In the blink of an eye, she had gotten her first job, and was now a part of the working world. As she got out of the car for her first day, she was no longer this beautiful young woman that I had raised, but instantly transported back to that first day of kindergarten letting go of my hand and running to her next step of life. I saw her as a little girl in ringlet curls. Again, I cried. Where did all the time go?

I have to take comfort, and trust in myself that I have given my daughter the tools she needs to survive this world. And that if I am doing my job as a parent the best way I know how, she will survive and be okay. Rationally, I know this. However, my heart is screaming inside me to never let her go.

I have come to the realization that life is just too damn short. Life is meant to be lived. Mistakes are waiting to be made, and lessons are waiting to be learned from those mistakes. I intend to drink up everything life has to offer and not take a single thing for granted ever again. My children are depending on me for that.