Down the wishing well

The wishing won't stop.

It started when I left the post office. After my third day in a row there, selecting the perfect stamp (bonsai), asking about weight and delivery dates, adding a second stamp (yet another bonsai), and finally parting with Mark's pretty paper masterpieces, I pushed open the door, walked out onto the New York City sidewalk, and reached for my phone. All I wanted to do was call her and say, "Ma, can you believe it?" Only in her would I have been able to confide how vulnerable I felt: I'd just told 120 people that Mark and I were in love. I joked with Mark later, saying who knew the girl who blogs her innermost thoughts would ever feel exposed by a wedding invitation?

It happened again today, when I saw a picture on Facebook of a girl I knew in high school being walked down the aisle, flanked by her father and mother. I cursed my Jewish heritage for including both parents in the patriarchal tradition. If I were Catholic, my mother's absence wouldn't matter in that moment. But I know it does. With just my dad there (despite his wonderfulness!), the weight is uneven. Grief gives you an eternal limp.

If you've gone down the wishing well, you know what I know: It's not good to wish for things that can't come true.

So, I thought that instead of wishing to talk to my mother, I would write to her here over the next eight weeks leading up to the wedding. Here goes...

Dear Mom,

It's your little girl. I'm getting married!

His name is Mark and he's just lovely. Warm and funny and strong. Sometimes I worry you'd call him an "Eddie Haskell," because he's quite the charmer, particularly with the older ladies. But I think that would have only been your first impression. You would have grown to see what I see, and told me I'm very lucky, and to treasure him.

I'm trying on my wedding dress for the first time on Saturday, my 30th birthday. I'm calling it the best me-to-me present a gal could get: a preview of how she'll look on one of the happiest days of her life. You will be with me, as you always are, since I honor you every day by wearing your engagement stone. (I hope you approve of the beautiful facelift Mark gave to it!)

I try hard to honor you in my everyday actions. Smile. Talk to strangers. Be there for your friends. Impact the lives of others. Be kind to those less fortunate. Notice people who are often overlooked. Laugh too loud. Laugh at yourself. Laugh when life is good. Laugh even when it's not.

Sometimes the concept of "getting married" feels scary. Something that's happening to someone else. Something I can't possibly be old enough to do. Sometimes I'm surprised by who it is that fits me. Sometimes I'm scared of being this lucky -- of my happiness being found out and taken away. Best to act nonchalant so they'll skip over me. Maybe they knew how much we loved each other, Mom.

Next month it'll be the 10 year anniversary of when you passed away. I can't believe it's been that long. If I heard someone else say that, I'd say, "Get over it, man!" I wish I could. But your loss is still that -- a loss -- especially as I near such a delicate day.

This morning, I accidentally slammed my underwear drawer shut, and the photo of you, me, and Daddy came crashing down, bringing with it some loose change and my brand new bottle of perfume (an early birthday gift from Laura -- yes, 17 years later, she's still my best friend). I felt I heard you say: "Stop wishing, Missy. Enough!"

I'll try.

Love,
Missy

Is there such a thing as "almost grief"?

Hi friends,

I just Googled "Patrick Swayze" to check in on him. He's been on my mind ever since I found out he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the same deadly disease that Sally had. I never had much of a tie to Patrick as an actor, but now that he's a fellow PC fighter, I feel a strong kinship with him. I know Sally would, too. I was especially intrigued by his interview with Barbara Walters (see a video clip from the interview here).

In Google, the most recent article that appears is an interview with Whoopie Goldberg, one of his Ghost co-stars. "He's going to go, but we don't know when," is the title. What a telling title for terminal disease. It's the dark cloud hanging over your head. It's the unpredictable time you may have left. It's the waiting.

Some grief specialists and psychologists have a name for it: anticipatory grief. It's a debatable term. Some think that loved ones can feel a type of grief before someone passes away. Others feel that grief begins only when a loved one's life ends.

I feel mixed about this. The 2 1/2 years that Sally was sick were life-changing for me. I know in my gut that something extraordinary happened in that time, whether we call it anticipatory grief, "almost grief" (that's the term I like), or some other name.

Do you think grief can happen before someone dies, or do you think the real grief only begins afterward? I'm curious to hear your thoughts.

Trying to figure out how grief works -- honestly

I haven't been completely honest with you this week, and I feel guilty about that.

I wrote the blog about my mom's birthday on the night before her birthday. At the time, I felt optimistic that this birthday would be easier than past ones. After all, this would be the 6th year my family has been through this. And I strongly believe that time heals.

But sometimes that's all just bull. The day comes, and it's as sad as it ever was. Dad and Jordan both get stubborn and argue with each other. I play referee and ask them to be flexible, to get along, to stop fighting. We can't agree on anything: the time to meet, whether our dog Sadie should come or not, what restaurant to eat at afterward. We drive around aimlessly and end up at a diner none of us want to be at. But really, none of us want to be anywhere on this day. As my dad says, "It's not a good day."

I don't want to tell you these things because I want to believe -- and I want you to believe -- that it gets easier with time. Part of that is true. But I also think we need to accept that some days just suck. And often times those days are birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. They're just hard. Even 6 years later, I have trouble admitting that because I just wish I felt better about it.

Grief has a time delay sometimes, too. I got in a big fight with Mark on Tuesday and bawled my eyes out. How much of that was leftover stress from Mom's birthday? It's really hard to tell where one emotion ends and one emotion begins.

I'm sorry if this isn't the sunshine picture I usually paint. But I believe in being honest with you. I hope you'll be honest with me, too.

Big shout out to my girl Ashley who started a blog about surviving from a rare form of liver cancer. She's so brave in so many ways! Go give her some comment love.

My Syracuse Trip: How to forgive the scene of a crime

If you're unhappy, Syracuse University could easily make you suicidal. Sunshine is nonexistent from October through March, making it the epitome of a gray and dreary winter. It's no shocker that this is a prime location for S.A.D., aka Seasonal Affective Disorder, a type of depression that occurs largely from lack of sunlight. To top it off, Syracuse, NY gets more snow than any other large U.S. city, averaging 115 inches each winter.

But I'm going to tell you what I realized over the weekend, on my first trip back to the place I spent 4 years of college: It's not Syracuse's fault.

For the past 9 years, since my freshman year in 2000, I have been angry with the Central New York city. Syracuse took me 5 hours away from my sick mother. Syracuse was where I returned just 2 weeks after she died. Syracuse was where I experienced the hell of my grief: the overeating, the weight gain, the pneumonia, the inability to cry because of how afraid I was to face my own sadness. Syracuse was the place I said "good riddance" to after graduation and told my roommates that I had no desire to return.

And yet, this past weekend I did return -- and I smiled so much my face actually hurt at one point! Seeing my friend Marissa with her roommates reminded me of my girlfriends, and how much fun and laughter we shared together. Meeting with my old professors made me reflect on how much I learned from studying under some of the most intelligent journalists I know. And playing Flip Cup and Asshole at my favorite bar, Chuck's, made me realize how much FUN I had in college.

Grief in the land of beer pong is both grief and beer pong. Maybe being able to let loose during those years is what balanced my grief and made me eventually able to accept my mom's death... because I knew I could still have fun, and that because of that, I'd be able to live.

Grief in the Land of Beer Pong: Reflecting back on my college days

I graduated from Syracuse University in 2004. Now, 5 years later, I'm going back to visit for the first time since graduation. I leave in 2 days!

College was a mixed experience for me. I made the most amazing friends (still some of my closest), got an incredible education which shaped my career in magazine journalism, and really grew and found myself -- whether through playing drums in my band or falling in (and horribly out) of love.

But college was different for me than it was for most people. My mom was diagnosed with cancer a few months before I received my letter of acceptance from SU. Leaving my family to attend school 5 hours away left me worried and guilt-ridden and lonely at times. Nights were often spent chatting on the phone with my mom instead of goofing off with my new friends. And during the summer between my sophomore and junior years -- smack in the middle of my college experience -- my mom passed away. My last two years at Syracuse were spent grieving in the land of beer pong.

Despite (or in spite) of everything, I'm going back to SU to do something I always dreamed of: talking to the students. I'll chat with them about my job as a web editor for Prevention magazine, but my focus will be job hunting and The Resume Hero, a resume and cover letter side business my boyfriend Mark and I created.

Don't worry about me, though. My super-awesome ex-Prevention.com intern, another Marissa B. (can you believe it?), will escort me around and even put me up on her couch. I'm lucky to have such an upbeat, sassy gal by my side during a trip that's bound to be nostalgic and emotional even beyond my expectations.

I'll report back either from campus or as soon as I get back on Saturday. Wish me luck!

xoxo,
Marisa

It's not easy being seen

OK. So I know I'm a "blogger" and I'm supposed to feel comfortable in the public eye. But I'm going to let you in on a secret: Some days it's tough to put myself out there. Today was one of those days.

I guest-blogged on Glamour.com today (see it here). All day I felt so proud. 17 thoughtful comments! Triple my typical Sally's Circle traffic! And so many people congratulating and complimenting little old me.

But at 7PM, as I turned off the light in my office and entered the chilly city streets, ice cold tears fell onto my cheeks. I can't fully explain why. But I'll try...

Sometimes I wish I were an expert on something other than grief. I dream of being an expert on juggling or knitting or flying kites. Imagine if I could write to you all day about kites. OK, I guess that would be a frivolous way to spend my hours.

But now that writing about grief is becoming part of my "job," when do I get to leave this "work" at the "office"? What about the days when I don't want to grieve? What about the days when I don't want to relive my loss? When does writing about grief become a way of prolonging my grief and dragging me back into a painful area of my past when part of me is ready to move on?

Remind me that it's therapeutic. Remind me that it's important. Remind me that I'm meant to write a book about this experience.

Most of all, remind me that it means something to you.

Keepsakes and memories

Hi, friends.

Over the weekend, in an attempt to start the new year with a tidy apartment, I finally went through 4 brown bags of my mother's books.

Sally was quite the reader. When I was a kid, her favorite spot was curled up in bed, two pillows propped behind her, reading a book. Around 9PM I'd bring up her favorite beverage: Lemon Soothers tea with honey and a wedge of fresh lemon. Settling the mug on a pink Kleenex coaster, she'd smile at me and then turn back to Tuesdays with Morrie or the newest smutty novel from Danielle Steel. Occasionally I'd bring a book upstairs and hijack Dad's side of the bed, eager to snuggle beside her.

But these 4 bags didn't include Morrie or Danielle. These were my mom's books from her 20s. How do I know? On the front flap of each book she wrote her maiden name and NYC west village apartment. The collection was a strange mix: trashy '70s romance, classic poetry, Jewish fiction, and female anatomy 101.

My question to you: What do I do with my mother's books? Will holding onto her books help me hold onto my mother? Or is it just paper bound together, collecting dust on a shelf, better suited for Salvation Army than for offering me any salvation? Do we need keepsakes to remember the dead?

How do the holidays make you feel?

Good evening. I hope you're keeping warm on this rainy night.

Now that it's mid-December, the official holiday countdown has begun. Commercials nag me to buy gifts, neighbors put up crazy lights (one house plays "Jingle Bells" at a dog whistle pitch!), and coworkers ask how you'll spend your time off.

Chanukah, Christmas, and the New Year evoke strong feelings in most people. And for anyone who's grieving, holidays can be just plain hard. Let me be the first to say: I hear ya!

Over the weekend, I'll post again and share my thoughts and plans for this season. But right now, I'd love to hear what you're doing, where you're going, and how you're feeling.

P.S. If you don't feel comfortable posting a comment publicly, you can post under "anonymous" or you can e-mail me at marisa.bardach@gmail.com.


Photo courtesy of krisdecurtis, flickr.com