The hockey game in Buffalo between the Sabres and the Penguins. First they sing the Canadian National Anthem (pretty as always) and then in lieu of the anthem of The States, they sing “God Bless America” and dedicate it to the troops. The audience is invited to sing along. Hit the refrain and it sounded like every one of the 73,000 fans joined in. At the top of their lungs, at a hockey game, in a sport that cheers violence.  Odd, yet moving.

The workshop I and my recent released from cancer treatment friend attended was absolutely awesome. There was a sacred circle, we were smudged upon entry, and we call the 7 directions which I gather is of the NA tradition. There was grounding, centering, and listening for personal intent as to why we were there and then sharing what we heard to empower the drum making with it. My friend is liberal Christian (really liberal), but this was all new for her. She enjoyed all of it.

Her strength was off – she had just finished her radiation earlier in the week. She’d had the surgery for the lump in her breast in the early fall, her arm still gives her trouble. Then she had the full course of chemotherapy, then 15 weeks of radiation. through it all she was strong and open-hearted, which is her nature. This was a small gift I could give her compared to the enormity of what she has been through, but everyone needs a major landmark like the end of treatment to be celebrated. Drums are for celebration! She got extra help from the teacher. I called her a teacher’s pet for it, but she said she learned how to get that extra help from the kids she teaches, which are special ed kids. lol.

I had no idea it took every muscle in one’s body to stretch that hide. We used elk pelts and had to cut it into the piece used to lace the drum. Forty feet! Then 2 more 5 foot pieces. I was sore for 2 days and I imagined she was exhausted. I sadly had a crap pair of scissors for the pelt and had a blister formed and broken before I got to 18 feet. Sheesh!

But it was good. The drum sits on top of the fridge, drying, and there will be an awakening ceremony in mid-June where we all go back and charge our drums! we were sternly warned not to beat the things before then so we don’t ruin them by stretching before they are thoroughly dried. When it is all dry I will post a pic! My friend is tres excited about going back for the ceremony. 🙂

It seems little doing something like this for her, but it is big for a woman who as a single mom worked multiple jobs for more years than I can count because the dad is not only deadbeat, but mentally ill these past 10-15 years. She made certain her kids had clothes, food, a roof, and extracurricular activities. In many ways she did much more than me as a mom. So it felt good to give to a chronic giver. And we both got drums!!! Wheee!!!!

Basically, things do progress as we all know. Some things still hit hard, like thinking in the present tense in regards to my mum like when the weather finally turned and my first thought was how happy my mum is that the weather is warmer. Then to remember. Then to sigh. But I didn’t sob, so there. Progress. I am not so raw. I do still miss her terribly. And I miss being a daughter, damnit! I want to be able to call my mommy when bad things happen. Yes, I know how that sounds, but it is true. Now I am the mommy and the buck stops here. I liked when I could pass that buck, share it and feel the flow between my mum, me, and my daughter. That missing piece sucks my breath away sometimes and other times just sucks.

My mum and I worked very very hard to make a good relationship as adults, and we did a lot of fast work after my dad died. Part was because my mum held a lot of herself in check when she was with my dad. It started the “way it was”, became the “way it was expected” and finally it became “the way it was easiest”. It is not a poor reflection on their relationship as much as a poor reflection on the relationship expectations of their time. My mum did show more of her true self than a lot of her friends did and my father loved her mightily regardless. It shows in all the pictures of the two of them together. It is heard in her friends’ voices when they look at the pictures and say, slightly awed, “Your dad *always* looked at her that way.” People say that about the way Dave looks at me. Having that type of connection makes me smile wide!

But I do know my mum was not perfect and I will not idolize her more in death than I did in life. I remember the less than perfect moments. Hell, I helped to create some of them. I remember how she tried to get me to raise my kids her way in spite of me being grown. I remember arguing, bitterly, and crying later. I remember when for a time it seemed she loved my husband more than me. She didn’t. She just figured he needed to hear the praise more. I straightened her out on that score and she responded not by withdrawing his praise, but by adding mine. <— It is things like that we did after my dad died. We worked on making our relationship the way we wanted it to be. Sometimes it was hard work. Other times it was easy.

The day before we found out about my mum's brain tumour – I had gone to her house after a *big* fight with Dave. Big fights are so rare these days that there are years between them. It was something stupid, so much so I have *no* idea right now what it was. Probably money or like that. I arrived on her doorstep and when she came to the door (once my dad died she kept the storm door looked since she was alone) she said, surprised, "What are you doing here?" I replied, "I had a fight with Dave and I came here so you could ply me with nicotine and alcohol." She got a big grin and I went in and we drank and smoked and I bitched and she sympathized. It was great. And then I noticed her missing words, and saw the New York Times Crossword puzzle, and since it was only Wednesday it should not be mainly blank. I looked at the clues and knew some answers and was certain then that something was wrong. Talk switched from stupid fight to her health and mind. I was slotted to call her doctor the next morning. I did. I took her to the ER. That was the beginning of the end. It still startles me, how that played out.

I started going to a grief group at the UU church. Once a month. I've been 5 times. I'm not sure how long I'll be going. The first 2 were wonderfully cathartic. The 2nd two I found myself behaving more as a facilitator than a member. I told myself I ether needed to be a member there, or not be there. I should not roll into the role of leader in every group setting. I said to me, "Get over yourself. Be a member." They told us to feel free to find opening or closing words for the group and share. So for the fifth one I did. I didn't find them though, I wrote them. I shared. The 5th meeting was on my birthday. I needed to be a member for that. I was. Here is what I wrote:

"We gather tonight in this circle of support not only to express our grief freely, but to heal. We do not wish to heal away all vestiges of our beloved dead , but to learn to go on in their absence. May we carry their memories with laughter and joy. May we not idolize them in our grief to a level of perfection they did not have in life for their imperfections were part of what made them unique and dearly loved. Remembering them in truth honors them and frees us to express all aspects of our grief. May we carry their memories with us for the rest of our days, not always in front our eyes where they bring tears and not always behind our head where they are forgotten, but beside us and within us where they bring grace. Let their memories be a gentle touch upon our souls and in our hearts and may we reach out to those still living with that same touch and help soothe their spirit with the wisdom we have gained. As we will, it shall be so."

This was very important to me to write and to read. I feel very strongly about not idolizing the dead, not only because it is artificial, but because of the way it makes us feel when we remember the not so good times. And how others try to make us feel when we remember the bad times. The group liked it. They took copies home and that felt good.

One thing that keeps striking me about my mum when she was told she had a brain tumour was how brave she was about it. It continues to amaze me when I think of it. Sure, cut open my skull, dig around in my brain, cut out the nasty stuff, and close me up! Now, when someone tells you that you have a brain tumour and without surgery not only will you die, but maybe quite soon it is not such a hard choice, right? So the bravery of that is relative if you want to live. It is not her saying yes to the surgery that awed me, but the way she did. She had to wait a week for the surgery so the arthritis med that thinned her blood was out of her system. And during that week she accepted the decision with grace, laughter, and calm. Calm? I can't say that I'd be so graceful. And the tumour wasn't in that part of the brain to make her stupid. Hell, they couldn't believe she'd even tuned into the minute changes that led her to the ER. After the surgery and through the hospital stay she remained the same. It was truly an honor to watch her be so, humbling to be surprised by it, and hopeful to think I might face something similar with even a small amount of her grace.

I honor all aspects of my mum in my grief and therefore honor her memory and free myself to move forward.

I’ve been sorting, sifting, boxing and moving various items around my mum’s (someday I’ll learn to call it my) house. It is starting to look like “progress”. My daughter and I are supposed to start painting the little room tomorrow. The “little room” is the smallest bedroom that I picked for my altar and work room. I bought the paint and all the accessories needed to paint it. I didn’t however get the room finished being cleaned out. HAHAHAHA. Well, she can help me finish that. We’re supposedly getting freezing rain until noon so that makes a late start. Well, late for me, early for her. We not actually get even one wall painted tomorrow.
Yeah, once again I ramble