This year, as Mother's Day approached, the hovering weight above my chest fell. Part of me feels like this is a regression, a depression that has reemerged after I worked so hard to build myself back up after Mom died. This year, I looked in the mirror one morning and it struck me: my mother is dead. I can never be a mother. This day will never mean anything at all to me; a bitterness and a deep hurt has surrounded me since. You can only pretend to be okay with everything for so long.

My memories blur and then grow agonizingly clear. I made myself "forget" two years ago. It seemed easier then, when the hurt was so recent, so real, and I wasn't sure if I could survive without her. I suppose it is time to actually deal with this emptiness. This all comes at a moment when my brother has fallen to depression, sending a late night text message wondering if I still had the slide show we played during her visitation, and my father has signed up for a fresh round with grief counseling.

This year, instead of being a party pooper, I elected to stay home from all Mother's Day festivities. My brother did the same...we are in the same boat of past and future reasons to celebrate—he tells me he never wants to be in any relationship at all because it hurts too much when people die. At the risk of sounding immature and whiny, this isn't fair.

Normally I have my wits about me, my rhetoric down. "There's a bigger plan; we're too small to see." I'll recite something she once relayed to me..."The word 'deserve' should not have been invented. Who are we to decide?" But right now, it all all just seems so unfair.

Thursday afternoon, I decided that I needed to run away, even if only for a day. Nick helped me plan a quick trip to Chicago, and we spent yesterday exploring the city and catching Wicked at the Ford theatre.
Today, reality returns. I think Nick was quite surprised when, on the trip home, he asked if I wanted to stop and visit her grave today. I clamped my lips and shook my head; gigantic alligator tears leaked from beneath my sunglasses.

Last year, I decided that I have come to save up all of my mourning for Mother's Day and her birthday, the two days that have always been about her. This year, I am not quite sure that just two days will be enough. I have been able to talk about her fondly, in humor and warmth…trying to relay just how awesome of a person she was. Lately, I have been unable to say anything. I am overcome with images. I see her pregnant, rubbing her belly and talking to me like she told me she did. I remember us cuddled in bed together, talking and giggling. I feel her hugging me.

And then I feel it all go away.

I have confessed my Jane Austen addiction before. I sit wrapped in a bouclé throw and under a purring Sophie watching the A&E series. As time passes, I wonder that I know every line of this five-hour film. What keeps me coming back to a story that I know so well? Is it personal joy, or is it the joy that remember in sharing it with someone? A worthy question, and one that I am unable to answer.

I have just now reached the conclusion of the first DVD, the moment when audible breaths catch, and Mr. Darcy confesses his love for Elizabeth. "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." No wonder I spent a decent portion of my adolescence in love with Collin Firth, huh? But instead of losing myself in the conflict and the rawness tonight, I lose myself in memories. Mom bought the six-part VHS copy when it came out in the 90's. That tidbit probably tells you little knowing that the two-part DVD is $20…but that VHS set was nearly $150.

We would take a week every year, watching one tape a night until we were through. Days four and five were the best, when the original conflicts lessen and Mr. Darcy puts Caroline Bingley in her place. FINALLY. Hate that woman!—in every medium I've seen/read her presented! Yet, I find my emotional involvement with tonight's viewing detached.

Boredom does not seem to be a factor. Is it melancholy? Stronger emotions trumping silly fantasies? Is it a jaded outlook that makes this story unbelievable? Is it a calm contentedness in my own life that makes romanticizing this story unnecessary? I think it's likely fatigue, knowing we are faced with choices regularly—hard choices—and they may or may not lead to happy ends. I do not care to think of them.

This all seems very inane, doesn't it? Welcome to the Blogosphere. It's just that I find it curious that I no longer lose myself in stories. My energy, heart, and time is better invested in my own life anyway…but I feel as though I have lost part of my identity.

Yesterday, I had to take an Implicit Association Test for my Ethics class. All my life, my mother was my idol, the person that I always hoped that I could be. From her, I have learned to champion for the underdog, to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. I will not abide a bully. This being stated, it should come as no surprise that prejudice makes me see red.

I took the Race IAT. After a series of questions, there is a sorting portion. The site instructs you to press the "E" key to sort to the group on the left and the "I" key to sort to the right. At first, one group was African American and one was European American, and the participant was to sort rapid fire pictures of people's faces into each group. Next, there was a good group and a bad group, and the participant was to sort rapid fire words into each group. Next, African American was combined with good and European American with bad, and the participant was to sort rapid fire pictures and words into the right groups—the the group pairings were reversed. The point was to go as fast as you possibly could. The test rated me as neutral. I found it disturbing that I part of just 17% of test participants that have received that rating.

My facilitator asked if we found our results accurate. My only reply could be, "I hope so." Can prejudice be measured? While feeling no personal preference for one race over another, I bit my tongue while I lived in the South. I was taught to keep quiet when a grandparent said something racist. Does this add to my prejudice, or my tolerance? I can only hope that as the generations pass, that 17% continues to grow—though less progress has been made in the past 40 years than in the 10 years before that. A subordinate group member will be the next Democratic Presidential Candidate. This is a thrilling time, and I can only hope that we succeed in our mission to love one another.

ARLINGTON - Liela J. Kittleson, age 48, passed away on Thursday, Jan. 26, 2006, at her home in Arlington, surrounded by her family.

Knowing for a couple of years that this day would be coming, I have written my own obituary.

I was born on Aug. 14, 1957, to my wonderful parents, Rodney and Grace (Nehls) Paske. They gave me a life of love and security and I loved them dearly. I was blessed with four sisters each of whom I treasure.

On May 24, 1980, I was united in marriage to Roger Kittleson. Roger is a man of integrity and he loved me more than I deserved most times. I love you, dear.

Now, the only accolade or award I believe to be worth mentioning is that I was entrusted by God to raise two beautiful children, Laura and Charlie. They have been the joy of my life and a day has not gone by that I have not thanked God for them.

I was also blessed with many, many loving and supportive friends, too numerous to mention by name, but you have been my strength and encouragement these past months.

Thank you also to all of my friends at UW Cancer Center, and in particular Dr. Weber and Dr. Holen. You gave me hope and time. We gave it a great try, and I thank you.

...

I had a wonderful life, thank you, all. So, until we meet again, Goodbye.

Mentally, metaphysically, I embrace my philosophical understanding of life. I wrap my arms around the peace and calm that rules my mind and tempers my tolerance. It is a maturity that allows me to complete my current science course and academically discuss Darwinism without feeling as though my spirituality is being threatened. It has allowed me to accept my weaknesses and ask for help. I found this empowering.

It hasn't been easy accepting my depression. I am a happy person, an optimist that makes Brenda gag with my sunshiny giddiness. It is a trait that I inherited from Mom; she was difficult to read, too. It went so long undiagnosed because I always attributed the woe to other things.

Yes, I feel sad, but I just moved away from home and maybe I'm a little homesick.
Yes, I feel sad, but my mother was just diagnosed with end-stage Cancer.
Yes, I feel sad, but Mom was just told that she has three months left to live.
Yes, I feel sad, but I just picked up my life and moved 1,200 miles.
Yes, I feel sad, but my husband just left.
Yes, I feel sad, but my mother just died.
Yes, I feel sad, but I am in constant pain; I am sick...my health is hazy.

Then, one day not so long ago:
Yes, I feel sad...but why?

I am not one of those ignorant people who disbelieves in mental disorders. My genetic makeup is of two sources seeped in anxiety and depression. I grew up surrounded by people on Prozac and Lithium. But, I worry how to assimilate in a world of people who know not such illness. It took a bit of convincing to get Nick to accept that it was not his fault that I wasn't happy. It wasn't anybody's fault. With the encouragement from a friend at work, I made an appointment to speak with my doctor.

In the last few weeks, I have noticed a difference. My smiles are rooted deeper than my face. My mind is sharper, and I no longer feel worthless. Speaking with the doctor crumbled my bravado. Telling someone the depth of the evil inside of me felt shaming. "I am the one that spreads cheer, not the one who needs it!" I thought to myself. I have since accepted that this process was not a compromise of my strength, but an extension of it.

My mother taught me open-mindedness. She regularly reminded, "Everyone has a story!" This is my story. I may be on medication for the rest of my life, but I do not feel inferior. I do feel light, I do feel really and truly happy. I have kept my diagnosis quiet until recently because I feared how other people would react—but I feel so good. I trust my true friends would not deny me such freedom.

So, this is me. I have depression, but it does not define who I am. I am also flat-footed, knock-kneed, and arthritic—you're not going to hold that against me, are you?

I took her to the vet yesterday, both of my aunts coming with for moral support. Up until the afternoon, I had remained optimistic. As Nick put plainly, no matter what happened, Friskey likely wasn't to return to live with Dad. I was thinking that she had become a high maintenance cat in her advanced age, and I would gladly go the extra mile with her providing that she could still have a good life. I watched her waddle around, I listened to her gasp while she ate the can of Fancy Feast I brought with me for a treat, and I heard her scream when I lifted her to leave for the appointment. I guess sometimes you just know your pet, and I knew when I lifted her how the appointment was going to go. I started crying right then. This animal was in pain.

At the clinic, she cried, hissed and growled while the vet examined her. My sweet natured cat was actually hissing. She left the situation open to me, the vet did. She offered that we could do blood work, take x-rays...her statement ended on a higher note than it started, questioning what path I wanted to take since one seemed so obvious yet so painful. I tried to keep my lower lip from trembling as I replied, "I think at this point, the humane thing to do..." and she nodded in agreement and fetched the paperwork. I had as much time as I wanted to say goodbye before they started everything.

I have no doubts that I did what was best for her, and thankfully I had my aunts to reassure me of that in the tender moments just after when I felt like a murderer. I remember so clearly the day I brought her home. Now, I will remember so clearly the day that I didn't.

It is not like I see her all that often. It is not like she is a daily part of my life.

But, I cannot stop the flow of tears. She has brought such a quality to our lives, and she nursed my mother with affection up until the end.

Dad called me on Friday, to tell me that Friskey isn't doing so hot. She misses her litter box, and cries incessantly...sometimes it seems like her front paws do not quite work. He said he didn't feel like the decision was his to make because she is my cat, my ninth birthday present. At the time, I advised that maybe he should take her to the vet, perhaps there existed a treatable ailment...and if not, well we would know what had to be done.

I went to see her yesterday. I crawled back to the corner where she rested and talked to her. She wobbled the foot it took her to get from beneath the wingback chair to my petting hand. Closing her eyes, she leaned back and let me love her, forcing a faint purr out of an old throat. She does not clean herself anymore, and she does not move far before she lies down and dozes off again. Only then did I grow emotional, understand the full choice ahead of me. This animal so dear to my heart, so full of love still, and I had to make the call whether or not she should be put down. So much like my mother, her body is breaking down while her spirit thrives.

I got home and watched Sophie run around, almost like a rubber ball, bouncing from couch to chair, against the wall, to couch...and I sobbed. Such a contrast to the listless animal I had just caressed. I don't know if Nick really gets the tears...I know that I don't. I am an adult, and have taken a lot harder hits in the last few years than an elderly cat...truth is, I do not have a vivid memory of my life when Friskey wasn't there. She was always a constant, a lap cat who loved her family, allowed a little girl to wrap her in blankets and push her around in strollers, and smothered us in purrs when someone was crying. I found myself losing my bravado as I asked to Dad or Nick, or whoever could answer, "Will it hurt?"

Sarah was already at work. She had a morning shift that semester, and could usually be found at the Galley cutting raw chicken into bite-sized bits. You think you hate dealing with raw chicken. Try dicing pounds and pounds and pounds of it. Every day. Sarah wasn't always in the best of moods when she came back to our dorm room, but I understood.

Nevertheless, I quickly grew accustomed to my quiet mornings—the days before coffee, you know (yes, such a time did exist)—and had a drowsy routine. My earliest class on schedule was after noon, and I was fetching in my innate laziness. Every morning was the same. I'd climb down from the cedar loft that my father crafted with his own hands and yawn on a stretch upon reaching the bottom.

Then I would grab the cordless phone and call Mom at work. She was expecting my call that day, and when I heard her sunshiny voice, I settled myself on a plush bit of blankets eager for our conversation to begin. "Did you just wake up?" She demanded a little tersely. A bit mopey, I admitted that I had, and she rushed to say, "Turn on your TV."

"Wh—?" But the line was dead. My body radiated with a contagious urgency and I remember so crisply looking at the phone clenched in my hand. I reached for the remote with my other and watched in horror as the second plane crashed into the south tower. The curtains were still closed, and streaks of bright morning light were peaking at me from beneath the borders. I didn't want to open the curtains. I didn't feel much like considering the world beyond our little room just then.

Sarah came home at one point, rattling me as I heard her at the door. Everything seemed so fragile then, and nothing seemed safe. She was pale. Her eyes seemed vacant. Mechanically she sat next to me and we watched the unfolding story in silence. After awhile, she began rocking and murmured, "My mom is traveling today." We spent the day in front of that TV, afraid to wander very far.

I remember nearly every detail of that day from start to finish. Funny, really, when I remember none of the day just before or just after. Here we stand, six years later. Nick finds a documentary on Flight 93, and he is watching it when I get home from work. Helpless but to watch, hot tears bathe my face and drip from my chin. A loving parent refers to the passengers on that flight as the first army against this war on terror.

Sarah's mom was okay. Classes resumed. Images of Ground Zero lessened across the airways. Discussions stopped. We all did our best to forget. We liked life much better in our naivety, the days when evil couldn't touch us. But try as hard as we might, it is impossible to forget.

A week ago, I had a birthday...and even though I spent it in paradise and with an individual that I deeply care for, I found myself heavy-hearted with the weight of my time here. All of the news programs that night were re-playing images of Princess Diana...and you know how sometimes a picture or a sound bite can take you back in time? Well, the Queen of Hearts died on my sixteenth birthday.

I remember myself quite well at that age. I wasn't your typical teenager, choosing to stay at home with a good book over going out and partying...choosing to bum around with my mother instead of friends. I never really went through that "I hate life" teenage angst, and I wasn't dedicated to finding a way out of my small town. I was centered on my family. I had grandiose plans of success and wealth.

Things have become fuzzier as life has taken some unexpected turns. Maybe I was too sure of everything, or everything had been too easy up until a certain point, but I've been tested. For someone who always wanted a career before a husband, I married young. For someone who always felt that marriage was a life contract, I divorced quickly. For someone who always took a certain amount of pride in their intelligence, I left college before getting a degree. For someone someone who only ever saw black and white, I've learned to differentiate between the hues of gray.

I was so singularly focussed on my goals that I was glass, unable to bend and likely to break. I broke alright. It took a good breaking to get my head on straight...but that is not how I remembered it that night...I only remembered the shattering. I felt the failures weigh upon me.

I ran myself a hot bath and turned on the jets while I soaked, putting on my dusty philosopher's hat and talking myself down. What is failure? I told Mom once, while trying work through the enormity of her dying, of my marriage ending, "I wouldn't want God's job...why should I tell him how to do it?" One of the hardest and most rewarding things I've accomplished is to stop questioning. I no longer wonder why.



The Serenity Prayer. Now, being that I'm all gray-sighted and everything now, I know that many of you do not have the same faith as myself. I have never been a strong disciple, one of the biggest reasons I did not continue on to Seminary. I do not set out to change your minds or to question your own beliefs. I am very strong in my faith, and all I can say is that I hope you are very strong in yours, whatever it may be. We all need something to believe in.

I embraced this plea more than any other. Over my desire to press rewind and go back to an easier time, I asked for the ability to accept my new reality. By grace, it was granted.

By grace, I am more okay with who I am than I have ever been. I acknowledge my strengths, and I can show my weaknesses. I am unafraid to test myself. I know that I have value. I have been untainted by heartbreak. I have grown independent in my mother's passing, but I no longer feel so alone. I realize now that the sanctity of a feeling trumps any rational thought and allow myself the "frailty" of wearing my heart on my sleeve. I am not a robot.

I no longer do things because I think somebody is watching. I no longer perform for others. I live for me. I live to love and to further myself, and I live to be unashamed. I fought the urge to go into hiding, I still fight. I still believe that my life is the fairy tale I grew up believing, but now I remember that every now and then we have a fire-breathing dragon to deal with. I forgive. I let go. I am happy with my life, even though I do not have a case of trophies to show for it.

Mom always said, "It is what it is."

And it is wonderful. I am moving forward.

"We are not human beings, but human becomings," I can still hear my eight grade English teacher reciting. The emotion has lodged in my throat the past several days, and today came my catharsis, when I released something, some sort of bitterness I've clung to for so long that I didn't know where it ended and I began. It didn't consume me, but it was there, a very unchristian hoarding that I had convinced myself that I didn't have.

My Dad. He really is a great man. His eyes are the blue of glaciers, and they glisten with tears when you least expect it, sending to to the same wonderful fate. My adult relationship with this man has been strained to say the least. I don't mean to say that it has been poor, only that I was spoiled by how easy it was for me to know my mother and to love the stuffing out of her. My father and I didn't really know one another by the time I graduated high school.

I remember the proud father who often came to be the parent-helper at my preschool over the two years I was there, I remember the man who kept every gaudy key chain that I ever made for him during craft time, and I remember the beefy sandpaper paws of his that held my little-girl-hands so gently. Then, my brother started having severe behavioral problems, and my memories of him grow fewer and farther in between. Mom and I were often left to live with the chemical imbalance that was dropped into our laps, and I believe that this alliance was the root to our incredible closeness. Dad had his own business. He could find places to be when he didn't want to be home. Mom and I had to hold the fort.

I guess I've always kind of held it against him without meaning to do so—I am the biggest proponent of forgive and forget, yet I held on to this hurt. I constructed it into a shield that I used to keep myself from being truly close to my father. It is unfair to blame someone for their frailty. I have been wrong.

I went to visit with him one night this week. I've taken to doing this on a somewhat regular basis...which started because it made him feel good...and has continued because it sort of makes me feel good too. While there, Charlie called, and upon hearing that I was at the house, wished Dad to send his love to me. I said something to the effect of how prideful I am of my brother, how fiercely devoted I am to the person he has become...and how I never imagined such a day would come while self-locked in my bedroom while he beat against the barrier. No good could come from him getting through, I knew this to be true. These days, I leave the figurative door open, and give him a key just in case it should close without my notice. People change.

Coming out of my reverie, I heard a sniffle and turned sharply toward my father who sat kitty-corner from me in the living room. "I'm sorry, Laura," he said and I was caught off guard. "I'm sorry that I wasn't there." That was all he said. I was never certain that he understood my distance. I had never voiced my reasons, had never alluded to them...as already stated, I barely understood my distance.

The statement has been reverberating in my mind for days, and I've had the most wonderful sensation of warmth, reward...peace. It has a name: forgiveness.

We went to Dad's church this morning, Burke Lutheran held their special outdoor service at 10:00, and I promised I would go. The gospel was from Luke 13, about the woman who had suffered with disease eighteen years before Jesus picked her from a crowd and made her well. The sermon instructed us to be patient for our cure. The prayer at the end of the children's sermon summed it best, "Lord, help us wait. Help us trust you."

I brought the message back to Dad, who had been unable to hear the sermon (having volunteered his services to the cookout to take place immediately following). He has been struggling with his empty house. Today he was limping quite badly, having injured his ankle the night before. Had he gone to the doctor? No, there was no one at home to force him there while he convinced himself he could walk it off. Then I understood his emptiness, and I was humbled by how little I have let him into my life.

And my phone rings. Hours later, after Nick and I have returned from a last bit of shopping before our vacation which begins at the end of this week. "Hello?" It is him, letting me know that he has his ankle elevated and iced as he promised he would do as soon as his duties with the cookout were satisfied. I smiled, happy he called to tell me so. "Good. Thank you. You'll get in to see the doctor tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Hey, listen, I wanted to thank you for coming today. It meant a lot to me. I..." he hesitated and I heard his voice grow thick, "...also wanted to let you know that I am really impressed with where you are in life. I am really proud of who you are. I thought maybe you should know that."

I am smiling right now, too busy thinking of him to figure out how to wrap up this rambling mess of a post. I have my daddy back again, the one who patiently baited my hook AND took off the fish time after time, and gave us rides on his back while he crawled around on all four limbs...the one to whom I no longer feel like a disappointment.

Dear Lord, it was worth the wait.