Walking In Rain

I like walking in the rain for two reasons. No one can tell when you’re crying when you walk in the rain.

My mom died 14 years ago. I don’t know why but the past couple of weeks, the grief has been close to the surface. There are obvious triggers like birthdays but sometimes, it’s just the general disappointments life brings, coupled with the realization that I cannot pick up the phone and talk those over with her, that makes the sadness bubble up.

On April 17, 2004, I told one of the biggest lies of my life and to my mom of all people. I held her hand while she was taking her last breaths and told her it was okay for her to go. Every fiber of my being was silently screaming against the words coming out of my mouth, raging against the unfairness and injustices of life. And she knew I was lying.  When her breaths would slow, and my dad would yell her name, she would struggle to breathe again because she knew how much losing her was going to hurt us and change our lives, forever. But nonetheless, outwardly calm, I held her hand and in a quiet, soothing voice, without tears, I told her to let go, that we would be okay. That was a lie.

My mom and dad made the choice that she would stay home with my sister and me and the loss of a second income certainly meant sacrifice. New clothes were a rarity and were usually gifts for birthdays or Christmas. When I was younger, a lot of my clothing came from my cousins, and as I grew older, from the Agape Mission Store that our church had, and my mom volunteered at. I knew that it bothered her that we didn’t have new clothes, but it never did us because we were always certain that no one would show up to where we were wearing the exact same outfit as us. I held her hand and thanked her for teaching me, through my cousin’s hand-me-downs and mission store prom dresses, that a person’s value is measured by more than what’s on their back. That was the truth.

We never went on vacation. There wasn’t money for that, but I remember the one trip we did take and stopped by several of Kentucky landmarks. We were gone for two days. She packed all the food we would eat, we got up early, and had a long day of touring. We stopped along the road at the little picnic areas that used to dot the highways to eat. We stayed at a little motel that had a swimming pool. Karen and I swam until way after dark. As best I remember, we were up early the next morning, drove to various places, ate along the road again and got home late. I held her hand and I told her that this trip was one of the best “vacations” I have ever been on because it wasn’t about the destination but rather, it was about being together. That was the truth.

At one point, my dad’s company went on strike and he had to walk picket duty. We ended up on food stamps for a few months. My parents would drive outside of our small county to the “city” grocery stores to buy what we needed because they were embarrassed. The funny thing was, these trips to the big grocery stores were like an adventure to me and my sister. One week, after much begging on our part, she relented and bought a fresh pineapple (which we loved) and a coconut (which we didn’t). I held her hand and told her that being on food stamps was a fun adventure for us and how something as simple as a pineapple and coconut made it even more so and I thanked her for not passing along adult worries to us. That was the truth.

I wasn’t an easy daughter to raise. I was headstrong, stubborn, moody. I didn’t use the best judgement and did some stupid things—thankfully, none of them caused lasting or permanent damage. I challenged authority and walked the edge of what my parents would tolerate, often crossing that line. And as I aged, I was embarrassed for some of the things I did and apologized to my mom and dad for my behavior. I was so surprised when they couldn’t remember the things I was talking about. I figured they thought of them every single time they looked at me. They didn’t. When it was over, it was forgotten. I held her hand and thanked her for loving and caring for me and how blessed I was to have her as my mom and that through her example, I would be a better mom to my daughter. That was the truth.

And nine years later, on December 30, 2013, I told the same lie and truths to my dad.

Today was rough. As the tears mixed with the rain, during the worst of it, I looked down and found a dime. I’ve been told that it means a loved one that has passed is looking out for you. And that slowed the tears but when about a mile further I found the second dime, the tears stopped. I figured that was mom and dad’s way of telling me, enough was enough. And for today, it was. Like the rain, the tears dried up and the warmth of the sun filled the voids where grief had been but moments before.

Oh, and the second reason I like walking in the rain, it’s the easy way to wash off bird shit because yes, that happened today too.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today, April 28, is my mom’s birthday.  She would have been 77 years old. I often wonder what she would have been like as she aged. She was active and interested in new things, especially technology.  She had her first computer long before I did and I’m sure she would have been texting or using a smart phone before me too.

My mom, Donna Sue “Susy” Yelton Deaton (I use her whole name, including nickname, as genealogy was one of her passions), was an amazing woman—she wasn’t perfect but she was perfect for our crazy family. She loved us without measure and was a great encourager to have in your corner.

She’s been gone since April 17, 2004. More days than not, I can talk about, tell stories and remember her with smiles and laughter instead of tears. Some days though, without warning, the grief will wash over me in waves and take my breath away.

I don’t know if we ever come to the end of grieving the death of a parent. There is always something missing. It’s like putting together a puzzle that has 1,000 pieces and when you’re almost done, you realize that you’re about 10 pieces short. You can see the whole puzzle but you notice there’s something missing as well. Thankfully, from my personal experience, one thing I’ve found is that the days eventually get better. They will always, from now and until I’m gone, be different but they slowly become better.

So, what about today, her birthday? I will acknowledge her special day and the fact that she is not here with us to celebrate it. Ignoring these days tends to deepen the feelings of loss and isolation that often accompany grief.

Today, amidst smiles and a few tears, I say,

“Happy Birthday Mom. I love and miss you. Until we meet again, you will always remain in my heart.”

Your “favorite oldest” daughter,

Nancy Lynn

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