It was cold in Boston today. Temps in the 20s and a biting wind.
So I wore a hat and scarf that I bought for my mother for Christmas in 2006.
That was the last Christmas she was alive, and that was the only present she got to see or use. All the other presents stayed in the back seat of her car for more than a year. But she was able to see an enjoy that one present--the hat and scarf set. That makes them very special to me.
I always bundled mom up in a warm hat and scarf when the ambulance came to get her for dialysis in the colder months. For the few minutes that she was out on the street while they were taking her in and out of the apartment, or in and out of the hospital, I wanted her to be as warm as possible. She wore that hat and scarf only a few times before she died. She probably wore it the night she went to the hospital for the last time.
For years after her death I could not even look at that hat and scarf without tearing up with memories. Memories of years of eldercare. Years of Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays of getting her bundled up for dialysis, and unwrapping her from all the layers when she got home. Hard memories of mom's final weeks and days before she died in the cold of winter.
But today I wore her hat and scarf, and it was okay.
I still think of things that belonged to her as hers, even though she is gone. I do not think of them as mine. Her car was "her car" even after her death legally transferred it to me. The small amount of money she left me was "her money". Some of "her dresses" are in my closet and some of "her sweatshirts" are in my dresser.
I have not worn any of her dresses or sweaters or sweatshirts. They are too small for me. But I still cannot part with them. Can't throw them away or give them away. I don't use her old pocketbooks, but I can't part with them either.
I have a coat of hers that is my size, but I have only worn it once, many years ago. It felt too weird. I can't yet wear her coat.
I have a few little markers like this that give me hope. I was able to wear the hat and scarf. Good. It's good that even in that sentence I called them "the" hat and scarf instead of "her" hat and scarf.
Do any of you have markers like that—things you once could not look at, mention, or use, that now you can look at, mention and use?
Or are there some things that you know will be markers of healing when you finally get there? Someday I will be able to wear the coat. Or give it away. That will be a positive sign.
The grief journey has all kinds of markers along the side of the road. Some are signs of healing and some are signs of retrogression. After making it through Christmas and New Year's pretty well, I am feeling cautiously optimistic about wearing the hat and scarf today.
On the other hand, I do not want to get too optimistic. I have been wrong before. There were times I thought I was on the upswing to stay, only to be followed by whimpering and weeping only a short time later. The eighth anniversary of her death is coming up next month and I have no idea how the day will affect me. I have been thinking about the anniversary approaching for two whole weeks now. I bought a yahrseit candle at the grocery store when I was shopping the day before Christmas Eve.
But today, I wore mom's hat and scarf.
It was cold.
Welcome, fellow travelers on the grief journey
and a special welcome to anyone new to The Grieving Room.
We meet every Monday evening.
Whether your loss is recent, or many years ago;
whether you've lost a person, or a pet;
or even if the person you're "mourning" is still alive,
("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time),
you can come to this diary and say whatever you need to say.
We can't solve each other's problems,
but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
Unlike a private journal
here, you know: your words are read by people who
have been through their own hell.
There's no need to pretty it up or tone it down..
It just is.