loss

We Are Enemies

Posted on May 21, 2012 Written by Tonya

I have never hit anyone in my life.

A good friend pushed me in college because I was dancing with a boy she supposedly liked and I pushed back and another time, I slapped a guy for being crude, but that has been the extent of my physical altercations.

I don’t even know how to make a proper fist.

But believe me when I say that I would go full on Fight Club on Infertility if we ever met in a dark alley.

It wouldn’t even need to be dark.

Or an alley.

She could be walking out of a 7-Eleven in the broad daylight and I would kick her ass beyond recognition.

Any battle ground will do.

I just want to meet her one day and have my way.

I want to beat that bitch to a bloody pulp and show absolutely zero mercy.

She wouldn’t either.

I know this for a fact.

Infertility and I are enemies of the worst kind.

I would relish hearing bones crack and draw pleasure from wiping away my own blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. I would spit it right in her face.

It would be a heart pounding workout like I have never experienced, throwing blow after blow, advancing and retreating with more power and strength each time.

This would be no cat fight, no pussy hair pulling or nail scratching, what would be the point? I want to do real damage, full frontal contact with loud, hard shots square to the jaw and the ribs. I want to feel our legs and arms tangled.

Duck, kick, twist, punch, repeat.

Sweat and spit flying.

Deep guttural screams.

The loudest thing in my head, besides the ringing in my ears would be the cheers of encouragement from the dozens of women I personally know and countless others, I don’t, who wish they had gotten to her first.

Even though I could go at it for days, eventually we would both reach a point when we had had enough, but just when she’d think I was surrendering, I would muster the strength from a place deep down inside my soul and go after her one last time and bring her to her knees once and for all.

When it was over, I would sit down on the hard gravel, wince from the pain and though tears I didn’t think I had left would ask, “why?”.

______________________________________________

I read this post as part of the inaugural Sacramento Listen To Your Mother show in May 2013. You can view it here.

Dead Dads Club

Posted on May 15, 2012 Written by Tonya

I first met Mary in March, 2011 at Bloggy Boot Camp in San Diego and was instantly smitten.

Mary is lively and vibrant and gave a wonderful talk on vlogging. And then I started following her awesome vlogs on The Mama Mary Show because after all, she’s the pro and oh so funny!

If you haven’t seen her Why I Love Kristen Wigg and Should Star in Bridesmaid 2 vlog, go now. I’ll wait. But please come back, because Mary is here today sharing a bittersweet letter to her father, who has been gone for 11 years. I, like some of you can identify with this loss all too well and that’s why Mary and I will always be kindred spirits and members of the Dead Dads Club. That and the fact that I can’t listen to Lady Gaga’s Edge of Glory without thinking of her.

Dear Dad,

A lot has happened in the past eleven years since you’ve been gone. In one breath it feels like just yesterday that we were sitting in your den, watching TV and discussing plans for my wedding, but yet, it also feels like an eternity since you were a living, breathing part of my daily life.

I’ve been a lot of places and experienced some pretty remarkable things over the years, that I wish I could have shared with you, but by far my biggest accomplishment has been having my two daughters, Lily and Lexi. I see you in them, which is really comforting, yet it also breaks my heart to think you will never get to know them or they you. I talk to them about you often because I want them to know what a great man their grandfather was.

My other major accomplishment has been publishing my book, Dead Dads Club; Stories of Love, Loss, and Healing By Daughters Who Have Lost Their Dads, and launching the DeadDadsClub Web site in your honor. Part of me thinks you would be pissed as hell that I am making such a big deal out of you, but I really had to find a way to turn my grief into something positive. For that I think, I hope, you would be proud.

The one thing I know you’d be disappointed with is that I’ve only been in one play since you died, Dad. I did my last show the year after you died and it felt hopelessly empty and uncomfortable being on stage without you in the audience. Of course Mom and Steve were there and have remained incredibly supportive of me, but for some reason, I haven’t been able to bring myself to go back to performing since you’ve been gone. I know how much that would pain you to know because you would never have wanted me to give up on my dreams.

The good news is that I’m starting to get the itch to perform again. I’ve been on some auditions recently and I’m even going to be performing in a dance recital this next weekend with the girls. Part of me wonders/worries that it is silly of me to perform in a recital made up predominantly of kids and teens, but I’m looking at it as a challenge and also a baby step to getting back into the swing of things. Again, I think, hope, you would be proud.

And in other news, I just turned 40 years old. How the heck did that happen? I am now the age that you and mom were when you had me, which seemed ancient when I was a kid. Recently I found a photo of you, taken when you were around 40, and it really made me wish that my 40-year-old-self could hang out with your 40-year-old self. We would get along famously, I just know it. We would drink wine, argue about politics, and discuss books, though we couldn’t quite talk about the book I’m currently reading.

As I’ve gotten older and become a parent I have begun to appreciate you in an entirely new light. There was a time when I was growing up that I resented you for drinking so much and for working such long hours. For yelling at Mom and for treating your daughters like we were clients. But now that I am a parent, I see that you were doing the best you could do. You were doing what you knew and what you thought was right.

One of the most poignant memories I think of frequently took place one afternoon, just a week or so before you died, almost exactly eleven years ago. We were in your den and I was administering your saline IV drip. We were facing each other, practically face-to-face. I didn’t know how much more time I had with you so I decided to take that intimate moment to tell you everything I wanted to say. I told you that I loved you. I thanked you for being such a great dad.

“You’ve supported me in everything I’ve wanted to do, allowed me to travel and to find out who I am.”

You replied with, “Well it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“I am going to miss you, Dad.”

“I’m going to miss you too, babe.”

I fought back my tears because you always hated to see me cry, but as soon as your IV drip was in place, I excused myself from the room and wept like a baby. I knew that was going to be one of the last moments I would have with you, and it was.

I think back to that time and wonder if I said enough. Was I fervent enough in my love or grateful enough in my thanks? Did you truly know how much I loved you?

I guess that’s why I’m writing this now. I want to make sure, all of these years later, that you know how much I love and miss you.

I’m going to assume that yes, you know. I’m also assuming that you’re having a helluva good time, wherever you are, with your old buddies like Newman, Jack and Harry. I hope you’re hanging out with your daughter/my sister, Marci, who left us to join you way too soon. And I hope you’re looking down with the same pride you used to beam with from the theater seats.

I’m smiling back, blowing kisses and missing you to pieces.

Love, as always,

Mary

This Is Motherhood

Posted on May 12, 2012 Written by Tonya

Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if my mother would think I was doing a good job raising my son.

Not a day goes by that I don’t want to pick up the phone and call my mother to ask her, when I was Lucas’ age, did I do this or that? or seek parenting advice of one type or another.

Not a day goes by that I don’t want to send her a photo of a grandson she never had the chance to meet.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and wish she were here.

Not a day goes by when I don’t feel incredibly grateful for my childhood, the lessons that were instilled in me and the love she showed me.

Sitting next to Lucas yesterday in his classroom for Mother’s Day breakfast, he was as thrilled to have me there as I was to be there. He was beaming; his were eyes brighter and bluer than usual and a permagrin affixed to his face.

I am so proud to be his mom. My heart was overjoyed and I welled up as he presented me with a wooden treasure box he had painted and card that had been decorated with his tiny hand-print.

In that moment, two things occurred to me; this is motherhood, an all encompassing rush of love that you feel throughout every pore and cell of your body and a deep hope that I made my mother feel this way too.

This Mother’s Day, as with every day, I miss my mom.

I miss her wisdom and humor and chocolate chip cookies. I miss her smile and not being able to take a photo without losing her eyes (case and point below). I miss her ability to know when to back off and when to reach out a hand. I miss her laughter than inevitably turned into a coughing attack. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to hear that again.

She was a good mother.

The last Mother's Day I spent with my mom - 2007.

Wishing mothers everywhere a very happy Mother’s Day!

For Diana

Posted on May 4, 2012 Written by Tonya

I stood in the shower this morning and cried.

I don’t know Diana.

I don’t have to.

What I do know is, she is the mother of two year old, Bella, she was pregnant with twins and today is suffering a pain so great and deep that it will follow her the rest of the days of her life.

If you don’t know Diana’s story, she lost her twin boys this week at 19 weeks and 4 days. You can read all about her incredible journey to this day here.

Life is so very precious.

Here I am trying to conceive another child, but even if I’m lucky enough to get the chance, I am cruelly reminded that anything can go wrong at any time and that life can be terribly unfair.

I am reminded that creating life is a fragile endeavor and should never be taken lightly or for granted.

These are the lessons we can all learn from Diana.

I stood in the shower this morning and cried.

I cried for what is, what isn’t and for the monumental task Diana faces to try to heal her broken heart and find some peace again.

I thank God that she has her precious Bella.

I’ll be hugging Lucas a little longer and a lot tighter today.

This post is dedicated to Julian Toby and Preston William.

Looking Back & Forward

Posted on May 1, 2012 Written by Tonya

My guest today is Sue of Cookie’s Chronicles with a letter that is both moving and heart wrenching.

Sue is a lot like you and me, a mother with some regrets and battle scars, vivid memories and many amazing dreams for her son’s and her own future.

Is it silly to write you a letter when you’ve been gone so long? Perhaps, though I can’t hand it to you, you’ll hear my words. Hopefully, the act of writing them down will bring some peace, if not to you then perhaps I will feel some sense of closure.

I wish I could go back as I am today. I was ill-equipped to be your primary caregiver – or anyone’s for that matter – but it was left to me to fill the role. The truth is, I would have fought for the right had anyone challenged it.

I looked after you. Not well, perhaps – I was barely old enough to look after myself – but I did all I knew how to do. I used the tools I had – the ones you gave to me.

I drove you to doctor’s offices and your dialysis appointments. When you tired of me, I moved you into your brother’s house and drove four hours each way every weekend to visit you. When you felt neglected there, I moved you into a home nearby and continued the long commute.

I did what needed doing, but nothing more. I had nothing more to give.

Today, I would sympathize with your struggle. Back then there was too much resentment, too much anger. You had already left me. I needed you, but you needed me more.

Today, I would allow myself to feel the weight of it all. Back then, I kept a wall between us – or we held it up against each other.

I wanted so much to take your pain away, but I had nowhere to put it. Today, I might carry it for you, but what purpose would that serve? The pain of a generation passed on to the next to be a burden through another life – through eternity.

I am sorry that I could not help you – sorry you were so alone in your struggle. I wish someone had reached out to you – to us – or that you had been able to open your heart to others.

I kept expecting you to fight back, not with anger, bitterness and blame, but with hope, with promise, with a will to live. Instead, you descended further into the abyss until one day it claimed you.

Dark visions of the end of time haunt me, yet as the years pass a light grows stronger. I have seen what fear can do to a person – how it can literally pull a soul down into the depths of the darkness. I have also seen what love, hope, and forgiveness can do.

I could not help you then, but I can change the course of our family’s history. I can ensure that your life was not lived in vain.

I will cast off the shadows of our ancestors, and turn away from fear and anger and toward love, hope, faith and tolerance. When death comes, I will have left behind no regrets and nothing of my heart except that which lives on in others.

I will live the life you were meant to, until you lost your way and time ran out.

I have lost my way many times also, and time is running out for me too, but it is not yet lost. There is still time for me.

May you rest in peace knowing that you did the best you could, and that your best was good enough. Know that your spirit lives on in me and in my son. He is so like you in ways, but he is fearless!

Though I walk alone now, I hear your footsteps with mine. The strength that you could not summon in life, feeds my soul today.

I hope that at the end of my life you will be proud of who I have become.

And I will be eternally grateful for your sacrifice – a sacrifice I have only come to understand since becoming a mother myself.

Rest now, mom, knowing that all is forgiven. Lay your burden down now, mom. You needn’t worry that I will pick it up – I won’t – for you have taught me well.

Your loving daughter

Heaven

Posted on April 18, 2012 Written by Tonya

It’s going to happen, I thought any day now, he’s going to ask me, “Mommy, where’s your mommy?” and/or, “Where’s your daddy?”.

I thought I would be ready.

I have thought about it a lot, actually. It weighs on me every day and especially when we look at photos.

Lucas knows who my husband’s parents are and that we visit with them often. He also recognizes my parents as his Grandma and Grandpa Adams. He may not be able to grasp the connection or relationship to me and his father, but he knows their significance in our lives. [If you’re new here and don’t know, my parents died 4 1/2 years ago and you can read more here]

So I waited with bated breath.

I thought I would have the perfect response. In fact, I had it rehearsed in my head; exactly what I would say. I visualized being in that moment, fighting back the tears, stating the facts, keeping it simple and taking all my cues from him. Just like the experts instruct.

I thought he wouldn’t ask for a few more years and then the day came.

We weren’t even looking at pictures.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012.

It was right out of the clear blue.

At first, I clammed up. I was stunned. And then I very quickly said, “They’re not here.”

That was okay for him.

For now.

He’s almost three so he accepted my response and went on to the next thing, the next thought. And as I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, I felt as if I had dodged a bullet and thought that is not how I wanted that to go.

I know he will ask again and eventually he will have more questions.

Next time I vow to keep it together and tell him what his dad and I have decided is the best answer for his tender mind and my tender heart: “They’re in heaven.”

Gene

Posted on March 4, 2012 Written by Tonya

A friend passed away on Tuesday.

A friend my family has known for 29 years.

A friend that even though wasn’t thought of on a daily basis, we shared a chapter of our lives together. He and his wife, Nellie lived down the street from my family for two years when we all lived in Karachi, Pakistan and a lifelong kinship was born. That tends to happen when you live overseas.

A friend just three days shy of turning 70 years old is no longer with us.

An amazing photographer, cook, teacher, world traveler and much, much more.

Gene, you will be sorely missed.

My heart goes out to Nellie, whom I can’t wait to hug on Thursday at Gene’s Memorial Service.

If I Had Known…

Posted on March 1, 2012 Written by Tonya

If I had known the last time I saw you was going to be the last time I’d ever see you…

… I would have hugged you a little tighter and a lot longer.

… I would have studied your face memorizing each and every line.

… I would have reached for your hand and squeezed it hard, never wanting to let you go.

… I would bottled up your scent.

… I would have listened more carefully to your story, gleaning from all your wisdom.

… I would have told you how beautiful you looked that day.

… I would have insisted on another photograph.

… I would have expressed my sincerest gratitude for all that I have because of you.

… I would have said “I love you” one more time.

… I would have willed you to stay.

If only I had known.

This photograph was taken on my wedding day, (August 4, 2007) it is the last photo I have with my parents. They died two months later.

On The Move

Posted on February 24, 2012 Written by Tonya

This August we will have known each other for 21 years.

That’s a long time to be friends with someone.

But even the best of friendships wane and things go left unsaid and feelings are hurt, opinions are expressed and lines all crossed. We suffer and vent in silence and before we know it, it’s been six years since you spoke to one another.

Today I am over Courtney’s Feature Friday writing about the loss of a dear friend. Please come visit me there….

He Was My Dad

Posted on January 28, 2012 Written by Tonya

I haven’t heard his voice in almost five years.

I’m ashamed to admit that I almost don’t remember the sound of his voice.

I have pictures and my memories.

I miss his rough strong hands reaching behind him while he was driving to grab mine in the back seat.

I miss the silly way he’d walk sometimes just to get a smile.

I miss his “uniform”; Dockers and plaid shirts.

I miss his thoughtful questions and curiosity about the world.

I miss his genuine interest in my life.

I miss our conversations.

I’m thankful for my memories and grateful for the 35 years I had him.

I’m blessed that he was my dad.

My father would have been 65 today.

I miss him. More than words could ever express.

January 28, 1947 - October 15, 2007 :: RIP, Daddy.

We Are Enemies

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