Why Don't Cats Have Obituaries? Well, This One Does!

Bandit Dix of Manassas, Virginia died of natural causes on December 12, 2013. He was 15 years old. Described by local veterinarians as "fractious" and "bitey," Bandit was born sometime in 1998 and was given up for adoption. His first "forever" family gave him up because their baby was allergic to cats. (Fortunately, the baby miraculously recovered from his allergies and the family adopted another cat.)

Bandit was adopted by Kevin William Dix of Manassas, Virginia. He had intended on giving Bandit to his niece. However, Kevin found that he and Bandit had a lot in common. They were both bachelors and they both enjoyed being left alone. Eventually, Marni Matyac joined their little family. Bandit was not impressed with her at first, but grew to tolerate and eventually accept her as one of his "people."

Bandit enjoyed laying next to his dad, scratching the back of chairs, sleeping in the sun, and being brushed. He also enjoyed eating a week's worth of food the first day his people would leave on vacation. Described as "handsome" and "beautiful," Bandit could be extremely loving to his people. He could be equally hateful to people he didn't like, which was pretty much everyone. If you are reading this, Bandit probably didn't like you. He took particular joy in hissing at people he didn't like. This included everyone he met, even Kevin's mother. Not to be outdone, she would hiss back at him. Hissing apparently runs in the family.

Bandit is currently lying in state in the family's garage in Manassas. He will be laid to rest with his Uncle Hank
and step-siblings Buddy and Sally in the Dix family burial site in Fredericksburg, Virginia.

“What greater gift than the love of a cat.” 
― Charles Dickens

Opening My Big Mouth

I always admired my mother for her ability to speak her mind. It was something I had thought may have  skipped a generation. That is, until I became a reading teacher.

As a reading specialist, you often need to have difficult conversations. Sometimes it's with parents, telling them that their child is struggling in reading. Sometimes those conversations are with teachers, discussing their strengths and needs. Sometimes it's with a supervisor, defending a program you have worked carefully to build. Most of the time, these conversations go well. Sometimes, they don't.

It's at these times that I could lean on my mother for support. No matter what others said, she would always be that moral compass, letting me know if I was overreacting or doing the right thing. Unfortunately, she's not here to advise me. But she has become my "inner voice." (Frankly, that can be annoying at times. I often blame this voice for making me buy things I don't need.) At other times, her voice is reassuring, telling me my gut is right. 

I am so thankful for the friends who have stepped in and given me a sounding board over the past few months. I am slowly coming to realize that I have to widen my support system in order to compensate for my mother's absence and these friends have been nothing short of extraordinary. My husband has used humor to diffuse the situation and for that I am grateful. 

Still, it's times like these that I miss my mom the most.

The Haunting

Today, Kevin and I completed the USA Rock and Roll Half Marathon in DC. It's not unusual to see familiar faces along the course at a local event. While we were riding home on the Metro, I mentioned that I had seen Team in Training running coach, John Park, on the course. Kevin said that he had also seen John riding his bike along the course in Rock Creek Park and almost called out to him. 

Normally, it wouldn't be unusual to see John, clad in neon green compression socks, on the course supporting runners, especially during a TNT event. 

However, John died over two years ago during the Nation's Triathlon.

This isn't the first time I've seen, heard or smelled things that couldn't possibly there. Shortly after my mom died, the light on the front porch would flicker each time I would walk under it. There was nothing wrong with the lightbulb or the light itself. 

The day after she died, a green light flickered as I drove under it.

One morning, I woke up to the strong smell of perfume. Specifically, my mother's perfume. Later that week, my husband mentioned smelling her perfume at work.

My Dad's TV keeps coming on by itself at random. The show that consistently comes on? My Dad's favorite show, NCIS. (Kevin insists it isn't mom, or else the TV would turn to HSN. I insist that she is being nice and letting him watch NCIS.)

I often get the sensation of being watched, which is annoying. I mean, who really wants their mother to be omnipresent?

Do we miss Mom so much, that we attribute a bunch of coincidences to her actions beyond the grave? Are we so accustomed to seeing John at races that we think that someone who looks similar to him is actually him? Or are they trying to reach out to us in the only way they can? I truly want to believe the latter. I mean, Mom did threaten to haunt us on a number of occasions. And John wouldn't be anywhere else but supporting his team on the course.

Don't cross this woman. She WILL haunt you.

Happy Birthday, Part 2

I had dinner at Ruth's Chris with two of my favorite men last night, Dad and Kevin. The waiter looked a little like David Tennant, which was just fine. Kevin got me gift cards to two of my favorite places and Dad got me, wait for it, cash. He's a smart man! Sammy, my parents' dog, gave me plenty of kisses. Mom provided a great parking spot, courtesy of her handicap parking pass. All in all, a good evening.

Happy Birthday!

Birthdays usually begin with three people. The one who is being birthed, the person doing the birthing and lastly, the poor man who has been putting up with a pregnant woman for nine months. For parents, the birthdays of their children mark the passing of time. Young parents never think about the time when their children will turn 40-something, but if you are lucky enough, you will live to see them become middle aged. It is quite funny to ask my dad how old he thinks I am. He is usually never right. But one person always remembered, with incredible accuracy, the entire event. And that was Mom.

To hear her tell it, the entire pregnancy was torture. I was the reason why my mother gave up a perfectly good career. I was to blame for months of bed rest while she waited for a baby that was never supposed to happen. Because of me, Mom ate awful food and Dad worked two jobs. Mom woke up after the Cesarian, called my dad at home, only to find out hours later that he had gone out with his friends to drink and watch Jimmy Durante perform. All for me. Except the Jimmy Durante part. I was reminded of this quite frequently while growing up, often when I messed up. She would recount this event at the most inopportune times, usually in front of unsuspecting boyfriends.

My mother with the object that led to nine months of unbearable torture. 

This weekend, I'll celebrate my birthday a few days early. My dad is going to treat me to a dinner at Ruth's Chris using a gift certificate he got for Christmas. From me. I am actually buying my own birthday dinner. Boy, he's good. 

This will be the first time my dad has picked out my birthday present unsupervised. Dad didn't ask me what I wanted and I didn't volunteer. This seems like this is a test to see if he has been paying attention the past 47 years. Perhaps, in her own way, this is Mom's revenge for Dad stepping out on the town 47 years ago while she was recovering in the hospital. I wouldn't put it past her...

Frustrated in Manassas

I am so frustrated. More than frustrated, I am angry.

Grieving has become less about my mother and more about me.

I have been told that in order to process my grief, I need to talk about it. But with whom?

Friends are uncomfortable around me. They don't want to listen. They don't know what to say.  I haven't heard from one of my closest friends since my mom died. Another said she would be available to talk Christmas Day. I haven't talked to her since the funeral. People just hope that I am OK. I think that makes them feel better.

My husband doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do. He has lost a parent, but he grieved before his father's death. His father's death was a relief, an end to his father's suffering. My husband doesn't talk about his father much.

Talking about my mother makes my father sad. As one well meaning co-worker told me, "Don't rely on him. He'll be gone, too."

Grief counseling? It took me nearly two months to get an appointment. My counselor can only see me twice a month because she doesn't have many "late appointments."

Grief support groups? Groups have already started or are scheduled during the work day. The next sessions begin in April. I was matched up with a volunteer from a support group, but I never received an email from her. We talked once on the phone, but our plans fell through.

It has been suggested that I take time off of work to process my grief. How do I do this? By talking? Tried that. (See above.) By crying? I've done that too. I could use the time to attend to things I have neglected, like my laundry, my health.

Grief doesn't realize that I have students to teach and SMARTR goals to reach, meetings to attend, beliefs that I need to shrug off so I can teach standards instead of children. Watching literacy take a backseat to technology, testing and gifted education. Teaching the way I am told to teach rather than teaching the way I should teach is so much harder when you are grieving.

So here I sit. Typing. Not talking to anyone except a counselor. Twice a month. It's not enough.

The only person I could talk to is gone. And I need her more than ever.

Sorry For My What?

During the past month, I have heard the phrase "Sorry for your loss" more times than I care to count. It's a wonderful phrase, don't get me wrong. Sometimes, I just find it kind of unusual. My mother isn't lost. I know exactly where she is. 

She's sitting on the dining room table.

Well, that's where she was at first. She was in her little plastic box in a paper bag. (Coach should really make tote bags for such occasions.) Dad started going through Mom's belongings and began to lay various Goodwill donations on the dining room table. In order to avoid an awkward call from the good people at Goodwill, I encouraged Dad to put her someplace else. She sat in her bedroom for a while before finally settling in her sitting room.

Occasionally, I will walk into her sitting room and grab a People magazine. I will casually say, "Hi" to Mom, as if the box will talk back. Apparently, talking to boxes runs in the family. My mother would tell me often about talking to her father-in-law, my grandfather, as they drove up to Marblehead Lighthouse to scatter his ashes.

This summer, I will make the same journey to Marblehead Lighthouse to scatter my mother's ashes. And we will have a little chat, just the two of us.

Mom at Marblehead Lighthouse after scattering my grandmother's ashes. The bench is a memorial to my grandparents. We're going to look into putting her name on it as well. This means she is technically sitting on her own gravestone. Which is kinda creepy.