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.