But in the grand scheme, even death is a temporary break because we will all undoubtedly be together again.
When I was young, I used to say if I had twins, I would want another baby because one day they would both go to college at the same time and leave me all alone. This is funny because I did have twins, and no, I never had another baby, and one time they did both leave me for college. One day we moved Baby B, and the next day Baby A. I sobbed the whole way home from the second drop off. And then pretty much every day for a week after that. Neither of my kids went very far away, but to me all that mattered was that they were not in my house. Maybe it was that foreshadow of the impending doom from when I was young or maybe, on some soul level I knew that was just the tip of the iceberg.
Today has been a day of sorting and purging. Going through a purse I haven’t used in almost a year, I found one of the random things I write to myself. I do this all the time. In notebooks on the margins during boring meetings, on receipts, envelopes, whatever is around me. Just little jots to remember that I had a feeling or revelation about something. I have a faulty recall system so writing helps me earth things and remember where I was in the stream of consciousness.
Today’s random thing is a note to my Mom, who passed away three months after my twins left me for college.
Dated September 4, 2019:
“One year ago, my biggest worry was trying not to go in Grace’s room because the smell of her would overwhelm me and I would cry. Again. It was hard for me to have both my kids leave me at the same time.
Three months later, on December 4, 2018, my biggest worry was feeling guilt about wanting you to stop breathing, to end your pain instead of wanting you to stay.
Nine months later, I find new guilt in needing to take your pictures down because it still hurts too much to see your face. To know I won’t be able to call you and tell you things. To hear you drink your coffee too loudly. To get a text from you with lots of exclamation points, extra spaces and the heart eyed emoji guy.
I’m learning though. That I can still tell you stuff. That you aren’t here for me to touch or see, but you are here. You laugh at stuff; I hear it in my head. You send me stuff, right when I need it.
I am sure you are pissed about the weeds at the cottage. Mañana, mañana…
Mostly, I don’t recognize my life. I am still figuring out how to do it most days.
I am going to let you and Dad spend the winter at the beach because I am not sure I am ready to let you both go… not all at the same time. Not yet. The nightmare has to be over soon, right?
I think I prefer this fugue state to final acceptance.”
At the end there I was referring to the urn. When Mom died, we put her ashes in with my Dad’s. And I brought them to our cottage because it was their most favorite place on earth. It felt weird to keep bringing them places, so my counselor at the time suggested I leave them there for the winter to see if I could part with them long term. Like if we were to bury or scatter them. Update, they are still wintering at the beach.
It’s also funny because I didn’t associate both my kids leaving me for college with both parents being gone as well until literally today when I just typed this out.
Side note, I started mediumship training about a month after this note I wrote to my Mom. Without even planning, I just knew I needed to follow the breadcrumbs the universe was scattering for me.
I have no major brainstorms or messages today. What I do know is that loss is hard, whether it is a temporary break, or something as massive as death. But in the grand scheme, even death is a temporary break because we will all undoubtedly be together again. In the meantime, keep following your breadcrumbs, take things one day at a time and be ever so compassionate with yourself. Healing takes as long as it takes. And your loved ones are never truly far away.