And So This Is Christmas....

I have fallen into a very dark place. Up to this point, as I have been healing, both from my own physical problems and from my grief, I have marked each month by remembering what I'd been doing with my mother the year before. But since Halloween, those memories have been of hospital visits, bad news, false hope and witnessing unthinkable suffering. Now, as the Christmas season is here, I am plunged into the anger, the disbelief and the gut-wrenching sorrow of the weeks before my mother died.

While all I want to do is to get on the floor and sob until I have nothing left, I am cleaning, shopping, planning meals, wrapping gifts and being present to my family. Christmas is going to come whether I want it to or not. My daughter is only eight. I don't want to ruin her Christmas. I really don't. She feels my mother's loss. I don't want to make her feel worse about that. So I am going to go through the motions and try to be a happy elf.

I'm not only mourning my mother, though. This year is the first year that I will not have all of my children with me. My middle son, who has made awful choices for his life, is no longer in mine. He will not be spending Christmas with me. He called me a few days before Thanksgiving. I prayed before I read his text message that it was going to say that he really wanted to come home for Thanksgiving, that he missed his family, that he was going to try to straighten out his life. It was a tirade about what he believed was his well-deserved inheritance from my mother. Later, I hoped that he would be home for Christmas. He and I and his siblings have never been apart for Christmas: hot cider, toffee cookies, family games, dinner, and laughing all day, these are our Christmas Day traditions. I had his brother find out what he was planning. It was not to come home. I may never recover from how hurt I am.

I believe in God and the intercession of Saints. I just don't believe in their concern for me.

A Perfect Storm

My life this summer was the disaster wrought by the cataclysm of a perfect storm. I don't know if I am starting to recover, but I hope that I am. It has certainly been a long four months since I posted here.

I have had to face many difficulties during these four months. I thought it was enough that I was dealing with my mother's death, and grieving her loss, and trying to make sense of life without her. But there was more loss to contend with. My "baby" boy, my buddy, who had turned eighteen, did not live up to the promise of his early years. He did not, as I had so often whispered so confidently into his ear as we cuddled at bedtime, reading a story or watching the last TV program before lights out, choose a path that would do "so much good for this world." Instead, he chose to follow some shallow people, trade his future for the immediate, if fleeting, gratification of drugs, and forsake all of the lessons of his upbringing. He failed out of school, costing me a small fortune in application costs, registration fees, and deposits for the one college he did get into, and he severely damaged our home by allowing people in, even advertising an "open crib" on Facebook for the days I was in the hospital having surgery. I had to put him out. He is in New Jersey with his father. He is making salads in a restaurant. I mourn the loss of my gifted, talented, thoughtful, moral, religious, and funny boy. I miss my son.

My surgery. I can't seem to recover from my surgery. I have literally had a headache since July 21st. I have seen a neurologist, a dentist, an eye doctor, and an ENT. I still have a headache. God help me. I am a zombie. How can I even begin to move on with my life when I am in such pain? Maybe every five days or so I have one or two good days. But on those days, I walk around on eggshells afraid the headache will come back, which it always does. I don't drink coffee, I don't take medications which can cause rebound headaches. No one can figure out what it is. So I am dealing with this too.

I can't make ends meet. And now my children's father says he won't be sending what he'd been sending because he'd been let go from one of his jobs. I don't know what I am going to do. I am terrified. I can't afford my apartment, but I can't afford to move. I could never come up with first and last month's rents plus fees and the costs of moving. So I am trapped, but what is the outcome? I really can't afford the rent here. I can't sleep at night thinking of it.

So these are all the stresses and heartbreaks that have plagued me this summer. Days when I could not get out of bed for the pain, or weakness. And then days when the depression was so bad that I didn't think I even wanted to live anymore. Luckily for me, I found a wonderful therapist who is helping me. She is confident I can get stronger even if I am not, at this point. I am just willing to try anything to feel better. Which is a huge improvement from three months ago.

And all of this would be so much easier to deal with if my mother were here. She'd help me through this as she has helped me through so many situations in the past. Or she'd know what to say. Or she'd just make me laugh.

The Dedicated Fan

I started this blog as a sort of therapy. I figured I would use it to work out my feelings as I deal with this new life without my mother, and that it would be a record of my setbacks and progress.

I am seeing a counselor. She is helping me to work out some issues I have with myself and my teenaged son. So far, she assures me that it is understandable that I am still missing my mother.

Which brings me to my eldest son. He thinks I am dwelling on the loss of my mother and that I should be "getting over it." In a fit of pique he told me that I am being my mother's "dedicated fan."

I am not sure exactly what a dedicated fan is. But I know that it isn't a good thing.

I really don't feel as though I am dwelling on my mother's death. I can't. I am a single mom with two teenaged boys and a young daughter. I work full time. I have to be able to function, to be here for my children, to provide stability and be the breadwinner, to help my father deal with his pain. But I am hurting.

The shock that she actually died is still with me. I miss her. Desperately. And EVERYTHING reminds me of her. I'm trying. I really am. I keep putting one foot in front of the other even when it feels like I am just going through the motions. That's got to count for something. Right?

How Can it Be?

How can it be that my mother is gone and yet her DVR is still recording show after show from her line-up? It is a cruel irony and is something that makes me especially sad. I told my father he should just have the service cancelled on her TV. I guess he can't bring himself to do it. Maybe, in some small way, he is comforted by the very thing which makes me feel frustratingly sad. We are learning how to deal with our grief as we go along. Just another day without her.

I Did It.

My last post was desperate and truly reflected my anxieties and stress. For a moment there, as irrational as it sounds, I did not think I was going to find the wherewithal to get my daughter to her First Holy Communion. But I did. I don't know how to explain it, but my faith comes through for me when I need it most. When I woke up, I had my tea, some cereal, and I woke up my daughter to get her ready. I didn't even think about it, and I certainly went about things with a kind of amnesia about my desperation the night before.

Oh yes, I had wished that my mother would be there. And I couldn't envision being able to get through the day without her. But the day dawned and we got to the Church and I realized that she WAS there. It sounds trite and cliche, after all we are meant to believe that our loved ones are with us after death. But love, and faith and all that I had learned from my mother surrounded me that day. I felt almost strong - as if she were holding me up.

I will always miss my mother: the way she clarified things for me, the way she made me laugh, the adventures we shared. But she is with me. I know it. She is a part of me and my children and all the love we share. I don't know how I know it, but I do. I think she was proud of us all that day. And I was proud: of being her daughter and of trying to be the mother she taught me to be.

I Can't Do It

I absolutely cannot do this. I cannot get my daughter ready and myself fixed up and get to the Church tomorrow for her First Holy Communion. Oh, I was so hopeful and even proud, but I realize now, sitting here with a migraine and nausea, that I cannot do it.

My daughter is the love of my life. She has exceeded all of my hopes and dreams. And she is with me because of my mother. It was my mother who held on to my dream to adopt a baby girl. It was my mother who never let me lose sight of that dream. There were many many setbacks and I lost hope that I would ever hold my baby in my arms. That was ridiculous to my mother. It was not just a dream to her: it was a reality. And to her, my daughter was waiting for me. She never ever let me think otherwise.

My mother was supposed to be here with us when Lily made her communion. A lapsed, but believing Catholic, I really only baptized her for my mother. And my mother was her godmother just like her mother had been mine. Forget about the fact that we did not shop for the dress and veil and shoes together. I realized tonight that none of that really matters and perhaps that is why I was able to do it alone. My mother was supposed to be with us. She was supposed to see her granddaughter make her First Holy Communion. And I cannot do it without her.

I can't do this. What am I going to do? I can't do this.

Additionally, there are bags and two suitcases on my foyer floor. There is garbage and clothes and bedding in my living room. My two teenaged sons have trashed my home, nursing their individual hurts and problems. I know they are stressed and unhappy, and I don't want to make it worse, but I am stressed and unhappy too. I need my apartment to remain tidy after I clean - at least until the next day. I am having my Dad over tomorrow after the communion. I cannot possibly get everything ready and clean up after two grown boys. My mother would know how to handle it. She would tell me what to do, or at least offer some sympathy for my stress and fatigue. The awful part is that I can't hear her voice. I can't imagine what she might say to me. I am too profoundly tired to see through all that needs to be done and know how to do it. I feel underappreciated, taken for granted, and alone.

I CAN'T DO THIS WITHOUT HER. I NEED MY MOTHER, MY FRIEND, MY SUPPORT. I CANNOT DO THIS. I JUST CAN'T.

First Holy Communion

On Saturday, my daughter will be making her First Holy Communion. It is a big day which has entailed much planning and preparing. My mother was supposed to do all of the shopping and preparing with me. She could not. And so, bereaved as I was, I picked out a dress, shoes, and accessories without the one person I needed as my guide and support. As bereft as I was, I went to Mass every Sunday so that my daughter could attend religious instruction classes in preparation for the sacrament. Many times I sat crying in the pew because the music and the prayers just made me too sad. But I did it.

I'm not writing this because I expect some kind of special credit. I am writing this because I am shocked. I am shocked that I have done all of this work these past four months while I have been mourning my best friend. I can't believe that I didn't just cancel everything and tell my daughter, "Well, we'll just have to do it next year, I'm too sad to do it now." I am proud that I didn't. It would have been selfish, no matter how hard it has been on me.

I've been experiencing a lot of disbelief lately. Just as I can't believe that I have actually done all I need to do so that my daughter can make her communion, lately I can't believe that my mother is dead. Even though it has been four months, I am breathless when I realize that she is gone. My mother? The person who was always there for me? The one who I laughed until I cried with every night on the phone? The one I would meet for coffee, go shopping with? She is gone? Forever? How did this happen?

Sometimes it is all about me. My pain, my grief, my disbelief. But then I am reminded that those I love are reeling too. My daughter was talking excitedly about her big day on Saturday. Then she got quiet and said, "I really wish Chon-Chon was going to be there." I tried to console her as she has done for me so many times as I've cried for my mother: "She will be there. We won't see her, but she will be there as surely as we will." And I found my breath and I breathed a sigh of relief that somehow I found the strength and wherewithal to keep on keeping on so that my daughter could have her big day and that I could help her deal with the fact that her grandmother is not with us bodily, but certainly in spirit. It's all we have.

The Promise

In the last days of my mother's life, when I understood that she was not going to get better, it was agonizing to see her suffer. It seemed that she was holding on for some reason. I tried to allay her fears. I told her not to worry about me. I told her that I loved her and that I knew she loved me and that I would be okay. I didn't believe it myself, but I felt that it was very important that she not feel that she had to hang on and suffer more because of how I was going to deal with her death. The next day her breathing was worse, she would not close her eyes, and I felt that maybe there was something else she needed to know. I told her that I would take care of everyone. I told her that everyone would be okay, and that I would be there for everyone. And then, because the thought seemed an inspiration, I assured her that I would also take care of my next-younger sister with whom I have had a contentious and barely civil relationship. If that was what my mother wanted, then by God I was going to give it to her.

I think my mother would have been proud at how well my sisters and I got along in the days after her death. We were all definitely supportive of each other and we did not let petty differences come between us. We were even loving toward each other. I had hoped that this would usher in a new relationship between us all, but especially with the sister with whom I had had years of trouble.

I can't say that my sister kept up the communication after returning home. But there were occasional text messages and I gave her some space. I would not insist on phone conversations or emails and burden this new friendship. I would take what I could get. Then the texts became few and far between. One night, while I was in the depths of despair, I exposed my hopes to my sister in an email. This is what I wrote:

"I thought things would be different between us. I tried to respect your occasional texts and accept them as the best I could get. But I am very hurt and just want you to know that I had hoped for more. I wouldn't even be writing this except I am having a terrible time tonight, wishing for the impossible - I want to talk to Mommie. I want to understand. I want to not feel the pressure of anxiety. I'm passing along this picture. It is a killer, but also very beautiful. Love, Jan

It has been a month since I sent that. I have not received a response in any form. I was honest and I asked for more of my sister. She has given me nothing in return, not even a respectful acknowledgment of my feelings, even if they are not shared.

So have I broken my promise to my mother? Do my feelings count? No matter what happened in the past, all is different now. Our mother is dead. We should be there for each other. We should be considerate of each other's feelings. But we can't do that if we are not in touch, and honest, and giving. I feel foolish for opening myself up to her, I feel rejected and humiliated. But in my heart, I know that my mother is proud that I tried. At least I hope she is.

The Eulogy

As the eldest daughter it became my job to write my mother's eulogy. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do - and not just because of the pain of losing her.

My mother and I had been so very close, but we had had our fights, our differences, and our problems. We made peace with mistakes we had made and once I was an adult, and had children of my own, I was able to see that she had done the best she could for me. We were both much different people than we had been thirty years earlier.

My goal, when writing the eulogy, was to show everyone the loving and essential person my mother had been to me. I wanted them to see her goodness, her wisdom, and a glimpse of how very much she had meant to me and my children. My frustration was that I had to limit what I said. Because I could not speak for longer than three minutes, I could not share all that was good about my mother. Then, thinking more, the thought occurred to me that what I wrote was one-sided. That it was biased because it only showed positive things about her. I only struggled with that for a short time.

My mother died a horrible death. She was good, she was a wonderful mother. Why shouldn't that be the focus of her funeral mass? Why shouldn't we celebrate her successes?

So here is what I came up with. This is my mother, if only in a snapshot.

Our mother was a real firecracker. She was funny and she was irreverent and she was truly outrageous. My children, growing up, called her our “secret weapon,” because she would take on anyone in defense of her family. We will remember and cherish her for these things. But we would like for you to remember her for some of the other things she stood for. The hardest part was to try to condense, in a few words, the woman she really was.

Our mother was a woman of great faith. She believed in God, the kindness of Jesus, the compassion of the Blessed Mother and the intercession of the Saints. But she had questions and difficulties. We often talked with each other about our faith, our questions, and the solace that prayer provided. For this I am so grateful because in the days that follow, when I start to feel that I don’t understand or I can’t live without her, I will lean on that faith, I will remember that although she suffered, although she had much adversity, she longed for the comfort of the Holy Eucharist and she needed the blessing of the holy sacrament of Reconciliation. This is but one gift that she has given us, and I believe that not losing faith over her suffering and death will connect us to her in a real and meaningful way.

Our mother was our best friend just as her mother had been her best friend. She survived our grandmother’s death and she became a rock for her own daughters. She often spoke of a man who attended my grandmother’s funeral. He came out of respect for our mother and she felt the kindness deeply. He said to her, as we left the church, “Take care of your three girls.” She must have taken this to heart because in the years that followed, she stood by us, advised us, and never faltered in her support of us during our own difficulties. And she did this without her own mother who was her best friend and support. “Call your grandmother” was her mantra during good times and bad and I don’t think any of us thought she could survive my grandmother’s death. But she did and she became our greatest supporter, our greatest ally and I think that she taught us by example how to survive without her.

Our mother was kind. She volunteered at St. Nicholas Home and she did more than just answer the phone, or let visitors in. She befriended the residents. When she wasn’t well enough to continue her work, she would visit her friends, often supporting them through their difficulties. I remember one man in particular, dying of AIDS, saying that her sense of humor was a welcome respite from his worries and pain. She would meet him for coffee and talk politics, and offer support, and be a friend. And when her friends eventually died, she mourned them and prayed for them. A mere acquaintance of hers, someone she knew from the neighborhood, had had a stroke and became a prisoner of her own body. Our mother would go visit her, even though it made her sad. If someone she knew needed to go to the hospital, or have a test done, she would go with them for support.

Our mother had a strong sense of fair play. If we wanted to go out and play and we grabbed a cookie or a lollipop, she told us to bring one for each child. When a boy in my class didn’t have crayons, she bought them for him. One day several of us had gone to a Met game and were talking about it. Another boy, who hadn’t gone, spoke up to tell us that he had gone to Boston that same night and saw the Red Sox play. When I told her that I didn’t believe him and that I was mad that he had lied, she told me to show the kids that I did believe him, because he only said it because his family was too frugal to let him go to the game and he was sad to have been left out.

Our mother was fun. She would take us to Bliss Park and go sleigh riding with us. She didn’t stand on the sidelines, but went down on the sled with us. She swam in the ocean with us, she played games with us, and she could make us laugh till we hurt. She loved her grandchildren, and was so proud to be a grandmother of six children. She marveled at each child’s uniqueness and individuality and loved them for it.

Our mother was a wife. She loved our father dearly. She was in awe of his brilliance, his Jesuit education, his style. She was proud to be his wife. She told me, right up until the end, how “wonderful and giving” my father had been to her in the difficult days between hospital stays. She loved him and told me more than once that she did not want him to predecease her. My father has an uncanny way of falling asleep at his desk and she would creep up to him to make sure that he was still breathing. We would laugh until we cried imagining the night he would wake up to find her face in his face, checking to see if he were okay, and how we would literally have to peel him off the ceiling for fright.

My mother raised three girls and we all became teachers. It isn’t any wonder. She was a teacher. She taught us that the “greatest gift we could give someone was a smile.” One day she told me to smile at Mr. Sullivan, an elderly man who lived in our building. His face lit up and she turned to me and nodded. And despite my “permanent frown,” I try to remember what she taught me that day. She taught us that God only gave disabled children to those people with the biggest hearts and greatest love. She taught us that there is always hope. She taught us that life is sacred and worth fighting for. She taught us that we could do anything we set our minds to. She taught us that it was okay to get mad at God, that it, more than anything, showed a strong a belief in Him. She taught us to be a family. She taught us to love our children with all of ourselves. She taught us what strength looked like and in the days before her death she taught us that even in the ugliest and saddest that life could be, there could be grace and dignity. She was a truly good person and I hope that I have honored that.

An End to the Mourning

On Saturday, we went to the cemetery. It was the first time since my mother died in January. Because we had a car for the day to take my son to attend "Admitted Students Day" at the school he will attend next fall, I wanted us to go to the cemetery. Stupidly, in my mind, it would mark the end to the mourning. By going to the cemetery, seeing my mother's grave and facing the truth that she was not coming back, I could let go of the sadness and move on.

There is no moving on. At least, not for now. Standing there did not make it seem more "real." And since her plot did not yet have grass growing, it was just so obvious that the wounds are fresh. I feel so stupid. I thought that I could leave my sadness there. But it is still with me and, today, it is as strong as ever.

I miss my mom. I miss her so much. It does not feel real that I should be expected to just keep going on without her. I need her. I need her to make me laugh. I need her advice which was always spot-on. I need her to bolster me. I feel so lonely without her.

I stopped off at my father's the other day. He needed a lightbulb changed, and I could barely finish the job. I kept looking into the bedroom, at my mother's lounge chair. I wanted to ask, "Where is Mommie, anyway?" She should be there. We all need her. She died at 71. She should have had so much more time. We should have had so much more time together.

Will this ever, ever get easier?

I Ruined the Gravy

It was always my mother's job to make the gravy. Her gravy was wonderful - turkey gravy, leg of lamb gravy, or pork gravy - it was always delicious. She never used Wondra, always flour. She would stand at the stove, adding the potato water to the pan drippings, adding flour little-by-little so as not to get lumps. Her utensil was a metal spatula which she used both to scrape drippings from the pan and to flatten any lumps that managed to form.

This Easter, as a tribute, I decided to make leg of lamb. I felt that it would comfort my father and be pleasing to my children. I made sure to keep to the spirit of how my mother would prepare the meal, so in addition to green beans and mashed potatoes and gravy, I added different side dishes to make everyone happy: homemade ratatouille for my son's girlfriend who is dieting, and cucumber salad for my sons.

My sister called as I was getting the lamb out of the oven. Rather than let the call go to voicemail, I answered. I wanted to speak to her if only to bridge the miles between us and share a bit of the holiday together. As I talked, phone wedged between my chin and my shoulder, I started the gravy. I reached for the glass pickle jar in my cabinet which I thought contained flour. I failed to check and so I added an ungodly amount of confectioner's sugar to the highly anticipated gravy. I ruined it. I tried all sorts of remedies as my sister shouted them into the phone: I added bouillon, salt, more potato water, and even some flour. To no avail. I ended the phone call to break the news to my family.

At any other holiday, I might have laughed myself silly. But not this holiday, my first without my mother. My ruining the gravy began to take on much bigger significance. It was self-sabotage, it was my mother trying to tell me that I should never have even tried to make her gravy, or it was her message from beyond the grave that she was still a part of the family, and we shouldn't try to replace her.

My son, during our gravy-less dinner, opined that it was wonderful that we were all together, eating Easter dinner. He was glad we hadn't decided that it was too sad to make the effort. He said, "Life goes on, but not in a way that leaves Chon-Chon behind, but in a way that brings her with us, just differently." That helped me put it all into perspective. It was really good that we made the effort. My mother would expect us to, want us to. She didn't resent my making the gravy and I hadn't sabotaged myself. I just ruined the gravy. That's all. And to our credit, we didn't let it spoil the rest of the very delicious meal I had prepared. Despite our grief, despite everything, life went on. We ate Easter dinner as a family. And my mother was with us, just differently.

Easter Sunday

I get my faith from my mother and my grandmother. My grandmother took my sister and me to Church on Sundays and to Confession at regular intervals. The rules and protocol of the Church were very important to her, but you could sense her strong faith in the way she prayed with her eyes closed and her lips just barely moving as she bowed her head reverently. Later on, after my grandmother died, my mother influenced my beliefs.

My mother did not care very much for the rules and protocol of the Church. She believed in what she had been taught from the Baltimore catechism. She believed in the Communion of Saints, in the Trinity, and the blessedness of the Virgin Mary. She prayed often and for just about everyone. I would ask her to pray for people, and months later, she would ask about this or that person and tell me that she was still praying for him/her. Her faith was strong and she worried about the grey area between presumption and despair. I owe a lot of my adult faith to her.

When my mother lay dying in the hospital, all of the beliefs which had informed the person I was seemed trite and transparent. I had believed that suffering brought you closer to the grace of God, but watching my mother suffer, I questioned whether that was too dear a price to be paid. We are meant to believe that God loves us as His children, but in order to give us His grace, we have to suffer. I had the thought, "Who needs it?" As I watched my mother leave me behind, I really thought that she would be taking my faith with her. That hasn't been the case.

My faith has remained steadfast. I don't understand the connection between God's love and suffering and may never. But I believe that God, seeing my mother suffer the way she did, and seeing that, even through her suffering, she wanted to receive the Holy Eucharist and the forgiveness of Penance, was moved and His compassion gave her peace and solace and a place with Him in heaven. I believe that in the core of my being.

I have suffered greatly these past three months. I miss my mother so desperately that it hurts in every part of my body. But I feel genuine comfort from the fact that my mother was a good person and a brilliant person and despite some pretty heavy burdens through her life, she continued to believe in God. I am comforted knowing that her reward is to look upon the face of God in the presence of the angels, saints and her beloved family.

It is Easter. We are taught that it is the most glorious of our religious holidays. It is the fulfillment of God's promise. We celebrate life on this day which falls in the Spring. We are meant to look forward to our Eternal life with God. Instead of crying, or feeling sorry for myself, or focusing on what I have lost, I am going to focus on what my mother has gained. She is restored. She has life.

My Mother's Daughter

My mother used to laugh with me and we'd say that she had the strength of Samson. Rather than wait for my father to get around to tackling a job, she would wind up doing it herself. One day she had to get the air conditioner out of the window and she did it herself, despite the fact that, unbeknownst to her, the air conditioner was bolted to the window frame. How she did it, without damaging the a/c, the window, or injuring herself remains a mystery.

Recently I became a recipient of a hand-me-down loveseat. It was a little bigger than I thought and so I had to move all of the furniture deeper into the room to accommodate it. The problem was that the focal point of the living room is this massive wooden library unit. Unless I moved that, everything would be off kilter. So I said to my daughter, "Well, I just have to do it." And I did. By myself. I was amazed at my determination and physical strength. I turned to my daughter and said, "I sure am my mother's daughter." To finish the job, I pulled some books off the upper shelf so that I could do a really good job polishing the wood. I frequently dust and polish, but only around the books. I don't ever pull the books off the shelves. As I pulled seven or eight books off the shelf, I gasped. There, under the books, in the back of the upper shelf, was a dime. (For the skeptics I will say that it is highly unlikely that anyone would have put a dime there, it was too high up to have "fallen," and it was under the books, not on top of them.) For me it was an affirmation: I am as strong and as determined as my mother. Thanks, Mommie, I need to believe that.

My Sign

My mother considered this bridge "HOME." Whenever she would go away, for any reason, the appearance of the bridge was a welcome sign that she would soon be back in the comfort of her home. It isn't any wonder - she watched the bridge being built and she raised her three daughters in view of it.

One night, as I was walking to an evening appointment with my daughter, I was tired and, frankly, overwrought. I glanced up to see my mother's bridge all lit up and I sighed and said, "Oh Mommie..." At that moment I missed her more than I could bear.

My daughter looked up at me and said, "Do you know what would make this all so much easier? If we had a sign. If we could just have a sign that Chon-Chon was okay and watching over us." I could not believe her precociousness. To be so wise at such a young age. I immediately agreed with her. Yes. Having that sign would make things so much easier.

I began to think about it, and I said to her that maybe we don't get that sign because God wants us to have faith. My daughter agreed and said, "And Mommy, I also think that God wants you to have faith in yourself. He wants you to have faith that you can deal with my brothers and everything else, on your own, without Chon-Chon."

How could a seven year old know so much? How could her faith be so strong? I think I have my sign, after all. Out of the mouth of an innocent. My sign, indeed.

She was Beautiful

I see her everywhere. My mother.

She was a beautiful woman who enjoyed being beautiful. Very often people would comment and tell her that she had beautiful eyes.

She was modern, she wore make-up, she never left the house without lipstick and mascara. But she was loathe to be a "painted lady." She was tasteful, she was classy. Always.

In her later years people would look at her and say, "You must have been one beautiful woman." This naturally annoyed her. Sure she was older, she had her share of sun damage and wrinkles, but she was still beautiful, wasn't she? She was.

She was beautiful.

A Teacup Filled with Dimes

My mother died less than three months ago. I don't know how I will ever learn to deal with this. My mother was my best friend, my confidante, my protector, my partner in crime. I want to tell her that I have survived these past days, I want her to be proud of me. I want to hear her say, "Oh, honey, I am sooo proud of you. I knew you were strong. I knew you could do it. Almost three months! Good for you!" I will never hear those words again, in any context. What in God's name am I going to do without her?

During my mother's wake, someone mentioned that she believed that when your loved one who has passed on is thinking of you, you will find a dime. I thought it was a quaint story, one that was obvious, but well-intentioned.

The last night of my mother's wake was difficult for everyone. My sons were very upset and too sad to feel embarrassed about crying openly. My younger son, 17, left the apartment to smoke a cigarette and pull himself together. He found a dime. It meant a lot to him. He felt comforted by it.

I began to think it over. Why not? If my mother is watching over us, she knows that this story was passed to us. Why wouldn't she, then, use that very vehicle to reassure us? I needed to believe that my mother would reach out to my son to comfort him.

I have been finding dimes everywhere. Some I find when I really need them, some I find out of the blue. It is curious to me, but I need them. I really need these dimes. I've prayed and begged God for a sign that my mother is okay, that she is at peace. These dimes may be a sign that I am losing it, but I am choosing to believe that they are a sign that I am going to be okay, because my mother is okay. So I am saving these dimes in a teacup that my mother bought for me. Selfishly, I wish my mother were here but if these dimes mean that she is finally at peace, I will treasure them.