Sunday, October 16, 2011

A Slice of the Journey...

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The challenge is pink.

The idea is to share your story.

The story about someone you loved.

For those of you who’ve weathered the past few years here at Adventures & Misadventures of Daily Living, you’ve heard the story…you lived it with me, back when it was a shattering of what was once reality.

To those of you, don’t expect you to relive it all over again.

Whether or not you choose to go any further, thanks for coming here in the first place. Thanks for those of you who were there years ago, and for those who are here still.

Thanks for keeping coming back…for whatever reason.

Post 1: Come What May
Post 2: Laughter
Post 3: Let it Be
Post 4: Diving In
Post 5: 100 Years
Post 6: Hide & Seek
Post 7: Lessons from an Empty Room
Post 8: The Long Fall
Post 9: I Just Wanted to be Sure
Post 10: Tributary
Post 11: Messages to Heaven
Post 12: Echoes
Post 13: November 26, 2009
Post 14: Out of the Ashes, Beauty Will Rise
Post 15: It's Been a Year
Post 16: Two Years, and I Write


Kimberly said...

Beautiful photo! I will try to make my way through your posts this week and get caught up so I can understand where you are. We've been affected by breast cancer also, but ours has a happy ending. My mom is a 25+ year survivor.

Laura said...

Beautiful. :)

themeese2 said...

Jason, I read through every post, and now you've got me weeping, thinking of my own mother who left us suddenly and all too soon in 2008. Hers was not a path of long, slow illness, but a sudden, baffling staph infection that came out of nowhere, went septic, and took her away from us before anyone knew how serious her condition was, including herself. Just a few hours before she died, she was on the phone to the Relief Society Pres. to tell her she wouldn't be able to make the cake for an upcoming event, and the Primary Pres. to tell her should wouldn't be teaching her class the next Sunday. As far as she knew, she'd be having surgery and then coming home to recover. She went home, but to a different home than she anticipated, a half-finished novel still upside down on the seat of her armchair, and an outfit she had ordered from a catalog still on its way to the house. I was at a blood donation center in Orem having my arm swabbed, in good spirits, my cell phone ringing away in my purse. One of the staff volunteered to bring it over to me, and when I saw that "Home" had called four times, I went ahead and dialed back to find out what was so important. My father, in his typical tactless fashion, further abraded by a long day with the worst of endings, simply announced, "Kimberly, I have bad news. Your mother is dead."

It doesn't matter how the news comes, but I think that in every loss, there is that first overwhelming moment when your whole world suddenly shrinks down into a tight little wad of pain, denial, shock and grief, because from that moment on, nothing, nothing, nothing will ever be the same again, and the overload to the brain circuits is almost unbearable. In fact, it hit me so hard that I actually accused my father of playing some sort of sick joke. "What do you mean, "Mom's dead?!! I just talked to her LAST THURSDAY!" Needless to say, I didn't give blood that day. Instead, the blood center staff drove me home, as I was in no shape to drive. I don't think I could have been in a better place to get that call.

I can't relate to watching someone slowly slip away, but I can relate to the inner turmoil that death leaves in its wake, the hole in your life in the shape of that person that nothing and no one can ever fill or replace, even as life continues on. I can relate to hearing her voice in my mind, words coming out of my mouth that she once said, longing to pick up the phone and call the house in New York to ask Dad if Mom's still awake. I can relate to hearing a song or being somewhere that brings her so sharply into focus that I fully expect to turn and see her there. I once broke down at someone's wedding reception, because Mom used to decorate cakes, and when the couple went to cut the cake, I mentally "saw" her standing behind them, showing them where to cut it so that the whole thing wouldn't come tumbling down.

My heart goes out to you, Jason, as your words have so beautifully painted a picture of what it was like for you and your family to say goodbye to such a wonderful woman. Thank you for sharing those poignant feelings and beautiful photos. I can't stop weeping as I type. The color of my mother's passing wasn't "pink," but thank you for letting me share it here anyway. Kim Nelson

PS. After reading your tribute to your beautiful "second Mom", I think I can say with confidence that if they had had a chance to meet, Diane Nelson would have greatly liked Arlene Zimmerman.

tiarastantrums said...


Team Lando said...

Thank you for sharing.

Kalei's Best Friend said...

I definitely know why I keep coming back.. you have a way w/words, you know how to be honest without effort.. no flowery words- just straight up... and also your Joey-isms always crack me up as well as show a profound soul.

Adrienne in Ohio said...

Jason, someday I will be able to read all your posts about your mom. For now, the topic of struggle with longterm illness is just too fresh for me. I know I will be back though--your writing is poignant and engaging.

I think your photo is a beautiful tribute to her.

Simple Girl said...

.... And so our loss becomes part of our life story. Part of who we are. Thanks for sharing yours.

Dina @ 4 Lettre Words said...

So amazing!

Stephani said...

I got through the 3rd post before I started sobbing and had to stop. I'll read them all, but not right now. My father is 84 and has Alzheimer's. My mother is 82 and has Parkinson's. We just found out that for the first time in 60 years of marriage they are going to have to be separated. Dad has reached the point where he must have memory care. This means mom will have to go into assisted living. Mom has been terribly depressed over the last week as we've delt with the news and are trying to make this transition. I held my Mom tight as she laid her frail body across my lap and asked why did this have to happen to such a great man. I've been losing my dad little by little for the last few years. Someday, he won't know me.

On another note, you've shown me here how I as a step-mother had or have an impact on my step-son's life. He's 24 now, but in the last two years he's needed me more than ever.

Glad I stopped by today.

Tezzie said...

Simply beautiful...

Karen Peterson said...

I've read a few of these posts before, but not all of them and never altogether.

There's so much beauty in this sad story. Beauty and love and I'm so glad you shared it.

Tami said...

Jason, I had no idea! Why haven't I been reading you have ever written?? You are truly amazing and I admire you. Had I known your experience with loss, I may have leaned on you a bit more over the past couple of months! ( maybe you didn't want me to).

Thank you for writing these posts. I read them all and am now feeling melancholy and wistful.

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