Thank you, Esther. I think you and I are the same in needing to be absolutely authentic and wanting to hold space for others. I’ve spent a lot of time with my girl, and it’s been very nice. Sending you love. ❤️
I remember that time so vividly when your dad died. My anxiety and depression was worse than I thought possible..and I was scared I was never going to be me again. (and yes I did get back to me..just a bit different) I remember following what was happening with your dad and then your grief and having so much compassion and empathy for you and your family. That year sucked donkeys balls and I can’t believe it’s been 16 years. Thank you for sharing everything, Lisa. It has helped me many times. I love reading your posts. ❤️
Oh, Lori. Thank you for remembering, and thank you for sharing. I can feel the fear you describe of never getting back to yourself, and then getting back, just different. That year did suck donkeys balls (thank you for the laugh). When I wonder how long it's been, I look at how old Jordan is--16, 17 in August. They go hand in hand. Thank you for being in this with me--I know you truly get it, and that, for me, is a gift. Sending you such love.
In the hospital, I gave her permission to let go, only because not to do so would be cruel. But I desperately, desperately wanted her to stay.
This makes complete sense. I did this with my Mom in the ICU the day she died. She had been okay the night before, but that dreaded call at 3:30 the next morning from the on-call nurse changed things. It was so strange watching the monitor as she was extubated and seeing the heartbeat line get slower and slower. I knew what was happening, of course, but couldn't really believe we were seeing her last moments. Dad had brought a bottle of her favorite perfume and dabbed a drop behind each ear, which caused the monitor to spike when he did so. We told her all the people who were waiting for her and that it was okay to go. As the monitor slowed down even more a ray of sunlight made its way through the window and, hand to the universe and all the deities, went up the bed from her feet to her head as we heard the machine flat line. Grief is definitely weird and you're never fully out of the woods with it. I am glad this May 15th was a little bit easier for you and the kids.
In the hospital, I gave her permission to let go, only because not to do so would be cruel. But I desperately, desperately wanted her to stay.
This makes complete sense. I did this with my Mom in the ICU the day she died. She had been okay the night before, but that dreaded call at 3:30 the next morning from the on-call nurse changed things. It was so strange watching the monitor as she was extubated and seeing the heartbeat line get slower and slower. I knew what was happening, of course, but couldn't really believe we were seeing her last moments. Dad had brought a bottle of her favorite perfume and dabbed a drop behind each ear, which caused the monitor to spike when he did so. We told her all the people who were waiting for her and that it was okay to go. As the monitor slowed down even more a ray of sunlight made its way through the window and, hand to the universe and all the deities, went up the bed from her feet to her head as we heard the machine flat line. Grief is definitely weird and you're never fully out of the woods with it. I am glad this May 15th was a little bit easier for you and the kids.
Thank you so much for sharing this beautiful, painful story with me, Julie. I gasped when the monitor spiked after your dad dabbed the perfume. What a beautiful, personal thing to bring to the hospital. I wish we’d told my mom about all the people waiting for her. My energy healer friend was checking in on her, and didn’t know how close we were to the end, but she texted me to say the room was filled with people waiting for my mom. I love that you named them for your mom. I love the ray of light traveling her body. No, you’re never out of the woods, and frustratingly, don’t ever know where in the woods you are with it. Sending you huge hugs and so much love.
I grieved this deeply when I lost my father. Sending peace and love, Lisa. 🤍🤍
Peace and love to you, Rea. ❤️
Beautiful Lisa. I love reading your words. There is such authenticity, every time. And you help create a space for others to be real too.
This of course has much to do with the experiences that have shaped you. Some things are too big not to affect how we now move through the world.
I hope you are granting yourself lots of peace and mental rest now after some difficult days ❤️❤️❤️
Thank you, Esther. I think you and I are the same in needing to be absolutely authentic and wanting to hold space for others. I’ve spent a lot of time with my girl, and it’s been very nice. Sending you love. ❤️
Ah, time with a daughter is very special ❤️
❤️🙏❤️
I remember that time so vividly when your dad died. My anxiety and depression was worse than I thought possible..and I was scared I was never going to be me again. (and yes I did get back to me..just a bit different) I remember following what was happening with your dad and then your grief and having so much compassion and empathy for you and your family. That year sucked donkeys balls and I can’t believe it’s been 16 years. Thank you for sharing everything, Lisa. It has helped me many times. I love reading your posts. ❤️
Oh, Lori. Thank you for remembering, and thank you for sharing. I can feel the fear you describe of never getting back to yourself, and then getting back, just different. That year did suck donkeys balls (thank you for the laugh). When I wonder how long it's been, I look at how old Jordan is--16, 17 in August. They go hand in hand. Thank you for being in this with me--I know you truly get it, and that, for me, is a gift. Sending you such love.
In the hospital, I gave her permission to let go, only because not to do so would be cruel. But I desperately, desperately wanted her to stay.
This makes complete sense. I did this with my Mom in the ICU the day she died. She had been okay the night before, but that dreaded call at 3:30 the next morning from the on-call nurse changed things. It was so strange watching the monitor as she was extubated and seeing the heartbeat line get slower and slower. I knew what was happening, of course, but couldn't really believe we were seeing her last moments. Dad had brought a bottle of her favorite perfume and dabbed a drop behind each ear, which caused the monitor to spike when he did so. We told her all the people who were waiting for her and that it was okay to go. As the monitor slowed down even more a ray of sunlight made its way through the window and, hand to the universe and all the deities, went up the bed from her feet to her head as we heard the machine flat line. Grief is definitely weird and you're never fully out of the woods with it. I am glad this May 15th was a little bit easier for you and the kids.
In the hospital, I gave her permission to let go, only because not to do so would be cruel. But I desperately, desperately wanted her to stay.
This makes complete sense. I did this with my Mom in the ICU the day she died. She had been okay the night before, but that dreaded call at 3:30 the next morning from the on-call nurse changed things. It was so strange watching the monitor as she was extubated and seeing the heartbeat line get slower and slower. I knew what was happening, of course, but couldn't really believe we were seeing her last moments. Dad had brought a bottle of her favorite perfume and dabbed a drop behind each ear, which caused the monitor to spike when he did so. We told her all the people who were waiting for her and that it was okay to go. As the monitor slowed down even more a ray of sunlight made its way through the window and, hand to the universe and all the deities, went up the bed from her feet to her head as we heard the machine flat line. Grief is definitely weird and you're never fully out of the woods with it. I am glad this May 15th was a little bit easier for you and the kids.
Sorry, didn't mean for this to be a short story!!
Thank you so much for sharing this beautiful, painful story with me, Julie. I gasped when the monitor spiked after your dad dabbed the perfume. What a beautiful, personal thing to bring to the hospital. I wish we’d told my mom about all the people waiting for her. My energy healer friend was checking in on her, and didn’t know how close we were to the end, but she texted me to say the room was filled with people waiting for my mom. I love that you named them for your mom. I love the ray of light traveling her body. No, you’re never out of the woods, and frustratingly, don’t ever know where in the woods you are with it. Sending you huge hugs and so much love.