What I’ve Learned

Four years have passed since my mom was taken from me.  Four years since I watched her collapse on the floor in the kitchen of our family home.  Four years since I held her hand as the blood stilled in her veins.  Four years since I learned I’d never speak to her or hear her laugh again.

Four years isn’t a long time, but sometimes it feels like forever.  In just four short years, I feel like I’ve aged a hundred.  Who knew that so much learning could come from four years?

I’ve learned that, despite my feelings to the contrary, my heart does in fact continue to beat when my mom’s doesn’t.  I can continue on, one step at a time, making my own decisions and being accountable for my own life and the lives of my family.

Despite that, I’ve learned that I will never stop wishing she was here to talk to, to bounce ideas off of, to rant to about annoying people or events.

I learned that, for most people, “always there for you” has a shelf life of about two and a half years.  And it should.  People make that promise because it’s just something you say, not realizing what it really means.  We all have our own lives filled with our own stuff, and it just isn’t possible to assume the endless grief of someone else when you have your own battles to fight.

I learned how to pick my own health, car, and home insurance.  Well, I can’t say that I’ve really learned this one yet, as I somehow always still seem to pick some piece of the puzzle that I regret.  But I’ve done it on my own, and that’s something.

I learned that I can survive a business trip on my own.  For the first time, I traveled without my mom and without any planned contacts on the way.  I made my own reservations without consulting anyone for help, I mapped my way to a local hand-pulled noodle place and back to my hotel, and deftly thwarted a creepy guy following me down the street who was probably up to no good. I returned to my room every day exhausted, but elated that I had actually done it on my own.

I’ve learned that I don’t need “things” to remember people by.  Of course, a few items here or there that conjure up some memory that brings a smile to your face are wonderful to cherish.  But by and large, my mind and heart are much more settled when I can focus on the things that are most important to me.  The rest is all just clutter.

I’ve learned that no matter how many times I emphatically explain to my son how wonderful his maternal grandparents were, he is still only four years old, and doesn’t hear much past “they’re not here anymore.”  But I also believe that one day when he’s older, he’ll understand.

I’ve learned that people come into and out of your life like clouds blown about by ever-changing winds.  It can get uncomfortable - hot and sweaty and annoying - when they drift away.  You may even get burnt when you lose that buffer between you and the white hot heat of life.  But its only by embracing change that we can accept its inevitability.  And it’s only when the dark clouds – those bad ones you never really wanted to see in the first place – get blown away that you are finally able to see the sun.

I’ve learned that I can, in fact, walk over the place where my mom landed, rest my elbows on the exact spot where she leaned before she fell, every single day and not break down into tears, collapsing into a useless ball of mush each time I have to do it.  After a time, I’ve become sort of immune to it, and only succumb to the pain on days like today.

Mostly, I’ve learned that I am capable of much more than I thought possible.  I am raising a wonderful, kind, and curious little boy (alongside his awesome dad, of course).  I have a great job at a world-renowned company, which two successful rounds of rigorous interviewing have proven I have earned and fully deserve.  We have kept a roof over our heads and food on our plates through some pretty tough times.

I have managed to keep my boat upright through turbulent storms and rough waters, and in spite of several holes I’ve found in the hull along the way. 

And I owe all of that, in no small part, to the amazing person Diane Rowell was and to all of the times she taught me, even when I didn’t want to listen.  And though I still feel the hole she left in my life every day, I carry on with the mission to make something beautiful out of it anyway, like she would have wanted me to.  In that dark spot where nothing will grow, I will just place a statue to remember her by.

“So when tomorrow starts without me,
Don’t think we’re far apart.
For every time you think of me
I’m right there in your heart.”