So Thursday started out like any other morning, except that when I finished my mental review of the days activities, I felt my eyes well up with tears. I thought it was odd, as I didn’t know what there was to cry about. I laid there a while longer, fighting back the urge to cry, unable to identify what was making me feel sad. I just kept thinking “What is wrong with me today?”
Once I finally managed to get up and get some coffee in me, I got into “busy” mode . . . returning phone calls, reading and responding to emails, doing some laundry. I was determined to keep myself busy and ignore the sadness that was lurking below the surface, but in between calls, in between emails, I kept getting pictures in my mind . . . pictures of Lucky’s last day here and they were pictures that made my heart ache.
I didn't know why I kept seeing images of her in our final days together but I found myself wishing we could have that last day again . . . wishing I could lay on the floor with her, and listen to her breath, feel her fur against my face. The images would come, and then I would force myself to get working on my to-do list again . . . until the images came back into my head. After a while, I finally stopped and looked at the calendar and saw that it was April 15th. It was 6 months ago, to the day, that Lucky passed away.
The strange thing was that I knew this “anniversary” was coming and I even warned my best friend last week that I feared I may be emotional when the day arrived, but it had been such a crazy week, between work and dealing with insurance companies, car repairs, rental cars, etc . . . I had completely forgotten it was the 15th until I looked at the calendar.
I felt better knowing what was making me feel so teary, but I didn’t know what else I could do about it, so I kept plugging along, trying to power through my to-do list. Around 3pm, I decided to go for a run. It was the first time I had been out running since the car accident almost two weeks ago and again, I felt teary on the run. I tried to rationalize that it from the pain that I still feel in my back and neck, but I knew in reality, it was probably a sign I needed to just "be" with the feelings of sadness I felt, instead of trying to ignore them.
When I got back home, I looked at the clock and then my calender. I had an important conference call at 5pm and then a client appointment at 7pm, and it was already 4pm, so I decided I’d better give myself some time right then to work through the emotions that were coming up. It may sound odd that I was "scheduling time to be sad" but I've learned in recent years that shutting the feelings out when they are coming up doesn't do anything but make me work harder to keep the feelings at bay.
I sat down on my bed and began talking to Lucky. I told her I couldn’t believe it had already been six months since she left because in some ways, it felt like it was just a couple weeks ago. I told her I missed her terribly and that I wished she was still here. I told her I didn't know if I would ever be able to remove her bed from our room and that it makes me smile when I pull a sweater out of the closet and find her hair on it.
I picked up her urn from it's spot on the shelf and held it in my hands. On the front there is a plaque that says “Lucky (For me)” That is the title of the book that I was working on in the last few years of her life, that I have yet to finish and publish. I wondered if I would ever get the book done or if the exercise of writing it was just for she and I. I thought about how my friend David helped me decide that was the right thing to put on the plaque, when he drove us to the place where she was to be cremated. Not only was it the title of my book, but it summarized perfectly the way I felt about having her come into my life . . . it was certainly "lucky for me."
This next part, I hadn’t wanted to share with anyone, because it’s a little embarrassing, but if I don’t share this part, then the next part won’t make as much sense. So, with a cringe as I type . . . I’ll confess that the next thing I knew, I was curling up on the floor, in the spot in the hall where Lucky passed away. At first, I was in observation mode . . . I focused on what I was seeing from where I was laying, thinking about the fact that it was the last view Lucky had before she left. It made me smile because I knew she had been able to see the big beautiful tree through the window in the front of the house, and she could see the CD towers with all my treasured music. She could see the coffee table and the couch, where we spent so much time, sharing meals and playing with tennis balls. I was glad that was the view she had in her final days here, it was a nice view.
And then the tears came . . . and they came on strong. There I was, laying on the floor, clutching her urn close to my heart and sobbing. I had moments of thinking “wow, Maureen, this is kind of pathetic” but I would push those thoughts out because I knew I just needed to feel what I was feeling and the truth was, I felt sad. I still miss her with every fiber of my being.
My mind was swirling with thoughts, some of which surprised even me. I realized a lot of my sadness was over the fact that I hadn’t received any signs that she has been here in spirit, and sadness over the realization that I didn’t really need any signs to know that she has been around.
I used to watch Crossing Over with John Edward all the time and I remembered how many times spirits came through to people who were totally skeptical about “the other side” and how it seemed to be more important for spirits to get through to those who didn’t believe in an after life. I realized that since I am not skeptical, I technically don’t “need” a sign because I already believe in the spirit world, I already believe that spirits can still see us and visit us once they cross over. But I felt sad that since I didn’t need any convincing, I may not ever get a “sign.” It felt childish but it was what I felt, so I just accepted it and tried not to judge it.
I laid there, holding her urn and crying until I felt I had gotten it all out. Then I calmly got up, put the urn back on the shelf, washed all the tears off my face and sat down to prep for my 5pm conference call. It sounds kind of odd when I type it out, but it felt very normal and very natural. It was a way for me to process what I was feeling and that is what I had done. It actually felt like a huge accomplishment for me, to just acknowledge my feelings, and give myself permission to feel them, since I spent the first 30 years of my life stuffing my feelings and judging them as a weakness. I was glad that I had given myself the time to feel, since my old pattern of stuffing feelings was attempting to resurface earlier in the day.
The conference call went well and then I got ready to go see my client. She lives about ½ hour away, so I was in the car by 6:30pm, making my way up 280. I was feeling alright, although I am more tense in the car these days, since the accident. I find that I am much more concerned about what other drivers are doing than I used to be and feel on edge when I am in the car.
I was cruising along, listening to the radio when all of the sudden a car changed lanes right in front of me. At first, I was irritated that they pulled in front of me with so little room between us but then my eyes glanced down at the license plate. It took my brain a minute to compute and I felt like I was doing one of those slow-motion-blinking things, as I tried to focus on the personalized plate in front of me. It said “LUKY4ME.” It didn’t look like a California plate . . . it was a fuzzy mixture of red and white, and as I was trying to focus more intently, to figure out what state the plate was from, the car abruptly changed lanes again, into the fast lane and zoomed off.
I wondered for a few minutes what a person with “Lucky for me” on their license plate might look like and I wanted to catch up to the person and find out, but the rental car that I am driving right now doesn’t seem to want to go any faster than 65 mph, so even though I tried for a few minutes to catch up with the car, I was unable to.
I slowed back down, wondering why I hadn't been able to see what the driver looked like and then it dawned on me . . . that I had already seen what I needed to see. It was my “sign." My sweet girl had found a way to get through to me . . . and as I continued along the freeway, I was filled with feelings of gratitude. She knew how much I wanted to see a "sign" that let me know she was still with me and she found a way to reach me. I laughed to myself as I realized it was probably also a sign that I need to stop whining about the fact that spirits only come through to skeptics. :-)
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