I went to my grandmother's condo on Sunday, for the ritual corned beef and cabbage Irish celebration that my fully Norwegian family holds every year. I drove there alone—which was highly symbolic, as I've felt so alone at all my family gatherings since Mom left—and prepared for the waterworks. I'm ill with tears, and March 19, 2004 was the morning that I got the surprise call that my grandfather died. Reading through that dusty post gives me chills. Life is so cyclic. Dad knew his father would pass quickly, even when the doctors said there was still time. I wrote, and forgive me for being redundant with this after posting the link, "The bonds we form with our parents can be so tight that the echoes of logic ricochet off of our ears, never penetrating."

Much the same, after Mom's last scan, when we were advised of her tumors stabilizing, a big thumbs up in her treatment...I mentioned "Weeks....we were expecting them to give us mere weeks. The suffering has been evident." I remember my shock at the opposite being true. I remember my disbelief that she was getting better. I remember never fully accepting this verdict...and my momma was dead in less than a month's time. Yeah, it is definitely chilling to feel your world has an orchestration that you cannot interrupt whether by will or by science. It is what it is.



These ideas cloak my thoughts, and the survivor's guilt has now become rampant. Why wasn't I tagged instead of Mom? Look what she DID with her life, look who she TOUCHED...she lived life, and I feel like most days I'm just trying to survive mine. What am I meant to do? Who am I meant to touch? I close my eyes and see her face, and I wake with tears. I get so many pats on the back for the time I dedicated to Mom during her illness...but I feel wrong accepting them. I would have gladly sacrificed the rest of my life to caring for her if I had been called for. It was an honor, it was spiritual, and it was love. I live for love.

But now I struggle for my purpose.

It was with this mentality that I drove stag to my first family gathering. It turned my stomach, the thought of it, quite a lot, and I was fashionably late. My father and uncle were on lawn chairs in the driveway, soaking in the beautiful March sunshine. I exited my vehicle shakily, smiling convincingly. Dad had an inkling, though. I made my way to the front door and he called, "Do you want somebody to go in with you?" I shook my head...I need to get used to being alone. It isn't going away any time soon.

I entered my grandmother's home and found an abbreviated gathering of family, some of them having had prior engagements. They were in the process of clearing the table—I told you I was late—but looked generally pleased to see me. It's the first time they've REALLY seen me since the funeral...and I was less of Laura that day, and more of a sniffling idiot. They ceased all of their well-ordered task and took seats at the table, serving me two heaping plates of summery salads. I was more than a little tickled to see that my meat-loving family has accepted my love of things meatless.

My aunts, my cousin, and my grandmother kept things light. We laughed, and it wasn't forced. It was natural. The glee of a sunny early Spring day...loved ones, memories, and continuance. My father and uncle returned indoors...the recollections of the day were offered in fondness, and I did not know pain.

Everybody filtered home, and I stayed back to speak with my aunt Rose and grandmother. Grandma hugged me hard, a rib feels a little bruised on my left side, and mumbled, "I feel so bad for you, you lost your mother so young." My grandma lost her mother during my lifetime, and she still remembers the pain. I found a little bit of my mother cascading forth as I eased their worries. That was Mom; it didn't matter what she was feeling or where she was headed, she left us all showered in reassurance and joy. It was her gift to all who knew her. She was a master at fronting her fear with acceptance.

I found myself doing this at her visitation as well...when there are others to comfort, I am in my zone. It's when the world is at peace that I cry. I'm exhausted. I took up cooking sometime in 2002, you know. I got somewhat-okay at it, and advised to all who wanted to learn that the key was in being unafraid to fail. Well, that's the key to living, too. I've got to stop trying to be unafraid to fail in my purpose, whatever it will be. Easier said than done, naturally...but this has always been my problem, this reconciling my spirit to my philosophy.

I have a beautiful life, and I feel its glory and its pain so keenly...I hope to always nourish the energy it inspires. My biggest lesson from last Sunday, and forgive my rambling thought-process...it's taking the scenic way to the point (but now you understand why I get so many damn headaches!), life goes on...laughter goes on...love goes on. I'll go on.