6 years later…

Today is National Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day. Congress said so, and in making such a proclamation, let’s hope we get some action. Action beyond pink ribbons and promotional tie-ins like toilet paper and cups of yogurt. The estimate is that some 160,000 women are dealing with metastatic breast cancer, but I suspect the number is much higher. Metastatic means the cancer has spread. Stage IV. There is no Stage V. Every BC patient’s worst nightmare. Because being diagnosed at all, regardless of stage, isn’t nightmare enough.

I’ll save the mets post for another day, because there’s another commemoration taking place today, and I won’t be able to rest until I get this post out of my head.

Or so I thought.

I sat down at my computer to mark this important day, but I got nothing. I am stuck. The enormity of the topic overwhelms me. I want to write just the right thing, but in my quest for perfection I’m struck down, unable to convey the importance that screams to get out.

It’s not often that I’m at a loss for words, particularly on this little blog. I rarely have trouble thinking of what to write, and most days the topic guides me. Sometimes a topic pops into my head and I have an overwhelming urge to write. My fingers on the keyboard can hardly keep up with my thoughts as they tumble out of my head.

But today, I’ve got nothing.

And rather than make myself crazy on this day, this important yet heartbreaking day, I’m going to re-run the post from last year. I added a few more pictures, because this time last year I was brand-new to blogging and hadn’t quite figured out how to manage the images in my posts. But more importantly, I added a few more pictures because I need to remember what she looked like.

My heart is heavy as grief once again rears its ugly head and reminds me that she is gone, forever. 
It’s been exactly 5 years since my mom died. Lots of people have written about loss & grief, and most of them have done it more eloquently than I. If you knew her, you loved her. Plain & simple. She was one of those people. She never met a stranger and could talk to anyone. The stories are endless, and if I think really hard I can conjure up the sound of her laugh. I have to work hard to remember her voice, though, because her “sick” voice is the freshest one. I also have to think back to how she looked, pre-cancer, before the dreaded disease ravaged her body yet was unable to extinguish her effervescent personality.

My mom was an incredible cook. She grew up on a farm and lost her own mom at age 13, so she assumed more responsibility than a middle-schooler should. She taught me a lot in the kitchen, although I’ll never match her skill with pie crust. I try every year at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and end up exhausted, frustrated and having used a month’s worth of curse words. One year at Christmas she gave coupons for a homemade pie, and those were highly prized gifts for sure.

She was a “white” woman who married into a Greek family. “White” means anyone who’s not Greek. Sometimes the Greeks aren’t happy about “whites” joining a family, because they want their kids to marry other Greeks. My mom didn’t let that stop her. She ingratiated herself into the lives of the Greek women and learned their culinary secrets. It wasn’t long before she was the best cook in the bunch. Not bad for a “white” girl.

My sweet mama was the quintessential suburban at-home mom: PTA president, Girl Scout leader, queen of homemade Halloween costumes. She put a homemade meal on the table every night for dinner, and I was halfway through elementary school before I realized that the homemade cinnamon roll that was my lunchbox treat was a rarity.

She had a love of learning that I see echoed in my own kids. I’m sure she flourished at college, probably thrilled to be responsible only for herself for the first time in years. She was president of her sorority and got this fancy necklace to wear during her reign. The look of pure happiness on her face makes me smile all these years later. In her typical over-achieving way, she graduated college in 3 years, then became an English teacher before she became a mom. My whole childhood, she had us look up words in the dictionary to learn how to spell. I won the spelling bee in 4th grade, and to this day am proud of being a good speller. She instilled a love of words and reading that I’ll carry with me my entire life.

When Trevor graduated from business school in 2004, she was as proud of him as if he were her own child. In fact, once he married into her family, she considered him a son. Not a son-in-law, but a son. She was sick at the time this photo was taken, but hid it well. She didn’t want anything to interfere with his big day.

She had a lot of success in life, but her greatest achievement was being YaYa. She loved her grandbabies to the max, and when she knew she was losing her battle against cancer, she spoke of her sadness in not being able to watch them grow up. She’s missed out on a lot. But loss is a 2-way street, and the 4 kids who were lucky enough to have her as their YaYa, albeit way too briefly, have missed out as well. As each year passes, and her grandbabies grow up, they change and take on new interests and habits. She would have loved every minute of it. Something tells me she would have been quite adept at navigating whatever stage those little darlins are in.

Here they are on the day of her funeral.

Andrew was 8, Payton and his cousin Megan were 6, Macy was 3 when YaYa died. She was 67. Way too young, all the way around.

Life isn’t the same without her. While the pain of loss has lessened over the years, it’s still there, and I suspect it never goes away. No one in your life loves you the way a mother does. And no matter how old I become, I will always miss my mother’s love. Oliver Wendell Holmes said that “mothers carry the key of our souls in their bosoms.” That certainly was the case with my mom.

Milestones are hard when you’ve lost someone so dear. Every year, the week or so leading up to the anniversary of her death has been miserable. I find myself transported back to the time of  illness and all of the unpleasantness that entailed. Taking care of her was both the hardest thing ever and the greatest honor. I went into it knowing it would be hard, but having no idea how brutal. Balancing that with taking care of my young family was grueling, no doubt. But I wanted to come out of it with no regrets, and I’m happy to say that I did.

This year, however, was different. I wasn’t dreading the date. Maybe because I’ve got a lot on my mind and a lot on my plate. Maybe because as I get ever closer to regaining my “normal” life after my own cancer battle, I have a new perspective. Maybe I’m just getting absent-minded in my old age.

For a while after she died, I looked for her in crowds: at the grocery store, at a baseball game, at any random gathering. I knew, of course, that she wasn’t there. At least my rational brain knew that, but I looked anyway. I don’t know when it was that I stopped looking, but at some point, I started to see her. Not really her, but glimpses of people or expressions on faces that recalled her: the woman at the gym who looks a lot like her from the back. The resemblance in my niece to my mom’s photos as a child. My aunt’s hands, which look just like my mom’s.

This year, today, on the anniversary of her death, I wasn’t looking for her, but she was there. Today in my much-anticipated first tennis match since my mastectomy, my opponents’ names were Barbara and Ann. Guess what my mom’s name was? Yep, you got it — Barbara Ann.


12 Comments on “6 years later…”

  1. Amy H. says:

    This brought tears to my eyes, Nancy, for a few reasons. I thought about your loss of your mother, what your kids have missed, how I would feel if my mama weren’t around and I thought of my brother, Sam.

  2. Laura in Texas says:

    What a treasure your Mom was! I really enjoyed reading about her and her impact on you. I don’t know how you managed to write the post, I don’t think I could have shared that, but I am so glad you did.

  3. Stacimar@yahoo.com says:

    She was one in a million, I can attest to that! You forget to mention how she helps with your friends’ baby poop! Remember at your house in Greatwood? I had no idea how to get a stool sample! Leave it to YaYa to guide me! Gabby would die if she new. Yes, she was with you on the courts.

  4. SusanP says:

    We moved back to Tulsa with those three little guys in tow ~ Your mom became my best neighbor and friend EVER!!! When I was at my wit’s end, I would send Collin down for Leon to entertain and she would take on Christian … Cody was always (still is) pretty self sufficient…but she saved my sanity with her always quick wit and good advice. She was everything I ever wanted to be ~ PTA President, cool mom, and fun friend … You and John and those precious grands are her greatest ‘accomplishments’. I know she was so proud of all of you ~ she died the day before Daddy. I miss them both every day.
    So happy to hear you are getting back to your LIFE. Thanks for sharing the sweet story of our Barb.
    Love you,
    Sus

  5. Jody Hicks says:

    About a month ago I was thinking about Barb and remembering that this anniversary was coming up, and I wanted to remember to send you a note. But then at the first of this month the unexpected trip to Birmingham came up on the heels of our trip to North Carolina, and I’ve been a bit discombobulated ever since. I wish I were the kind of mom that your mom was. She was a very special woman, as you have written so eloquently, and I treasured her friendship. Many blessings to you.

  6. Lisa Wheeler says:

    You had a wonderful mom and she made you to be a wonderful mother too. I still think of the wonderful greek meals she would make for your family and anyone lucky to be invited like me!!! I smile when I think of her she was so darn funny I know today must be hard for you but know one thing she is smiling down on you and your precious family. Love you and keep strong I’m so proud of you

  7. David Crow says:

    Nancy, I remember your mom well from those years growing up together in Tulsa. She was a great lady and although I’ve lost touch with you over the years, through your CaringBridge and blog posts I feel I’ve reconnected with you and remember traits of your mother in you. The timing of me catching up on your blog today and reading the post about your mom is quite a coincidence. Three years Saturday, Nov. 6th marks the day I lost my mom to lung cancer. You are a much better writer than me. But when reading your post it brought back so many memories of my mom. I too catch myself wanting to call mom on the phone and this week many times seen woman at the store, airport, etc. who look so much like my mom. Thanks for taking the time to share with us your journey and the memories of your mother.

    David

    • nancykhicks says:

      David, I remember your mom too! So sorry for your loss. The milestones–anniversaries, bdays, etc–are so hard. I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow as you mark 3 years without your mom. I bet she & my mom are catching up on all the neighborhood gossip!

  8. […] Uncle Wilford (my mom’s older brother) used to say he liked two kinds of pie: hot and cold. Me too. And I hope Uncle […]

  9. […] written about the anniversary of my sweet mama leaving this earth. That was early on in my blogging, and I hadn’t mastered the art of inserting photos. The […]

  10. […] it. In addition to facing my own demons of funeral-memory-overload from my mom’s event in October 2005, I also had the momentous task of getting my dress-clothes-hating son kitted out in appropriate […]

  11. […] are happy, like Payton‘s and Macy‘s birthdays; some are poignant and sad, like the anniversary of my mom’s death; some are sobering, like my first […]


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s