Pouring Out the Remnants

Someone once told me that it’s not what you wish you had, or in my case, still had; it’s what you have left. And that often, the thing that you have left is so unremarkable or feels like such a failed part of your life that it doesn’t even come to mind when someone asks you what you have, what you’re good at or what you do. But that remnant—whatever it is—can become your biggest blessing.

Like the impoverished woman in the Bible who had lost her husband and had nothing but oil to her name. It was when she began pouring the oil (out of faith) that it began to multiply (because of faith), that it became her blessing.

I often feel as though I don’t have much left.

I feel like the biggest, most central things of my life have left me.

When my mom passed, I felt all of the dreams that we had shared together died too.

The wedding plans we’d make. The grand babies I’d give her, knowing full well if I didn’t have a granddaughter for her, she’d never let up. The trips we’d take when she got well. The shopping days and the simpler nights—watching bad TV with a glass of wine and all of our pups in our laps. Those small things quickly became as hard to lose as the big things.

And today, it wasn’t the fact that my mom, my best friend, my supposed to be Maid of Honor, wasn’t going to be at my wedding. Today what left me holding back tears for the majority of the afternoon was that I simply wanted to talk to her.

Damn, I just wanted her advice.

I wanted to talk to her about things that I can’t sort out on my own. I wanted to talk to her about particularly feminine fears, my ambitions, the things I’ve accomplished just since she was gone, all of it. I wanted her to tell me what to do. I wanted her to help me figure out how the heck I felt. We all have that person who can talk us out of the tree and then make each and every branch of the tree make sense and shrink the whole thing down to size so that we can process why we got stuck up on a limb anyway.

My person, my tree-talking, sense-making, truth talker is gone. The only person who could give me the correct dosage of empathy without counteracting the sting of the venomous truth.

Sometimes, like today, I feel like I have so little left. I never feel as though I have completely nothing. But I feel the sting of the flashbacks—the trauma of ICU trips and deathbeds, of debilitating chemotherapies and horrific procedures that you wouldn’t believe still happen the way they do today. I have as many nightmares as I do dreams of her. And all too often, I wake up wanting more regardless of the end of the spectrum on which the dream falls.

I have things left.

I have my wonderful dad. I have my family and friends. I have my sweet puppy, good wine, good coffee, pasta and lots of love in my life.

But the oil I have so often refused to pour out is my writing. I have felt for so long that it was truly too inadequate to be worthy of producing, much less reading. I have felt for so long that writing would only hurt me. I guess it’s because every time I have started to write anything in recent years, it has always eventually ended up being a reminder that I’m no longer good at it the way I remember being in my younger years.

Because of this, I thought for a really long time that my oil wasn’t valuable anymore.

But a timely reminder has come my way—the more you pour, the more it all flows. If I invest in what I have left, it can still multiply. It can still be my salvation. It can still be my hope, my sanity or at the very least, my truth.

In a lot of ways, my life is comprised of two major points:

Before cancer. After cancer.

Before mom. After mom.

It has been almost 3 months since the last text she ever sent me. It has been almost two months since she left us. 

And some days it feels like the next day is always going to hurt more than the last.

But I still have oil, and I am still called to pour it out.

Right after mom got diagnosed with Stage 3, high grade, inflammatory breast cancer, there were weeks of scans, tests and unbelievable, tangible, omnipresent fear and anxiety. When we found out that the cancer was nowhere else—just her breast and her lymph nodes—my parents and I split a bottle of champagne and cried of joy. I’ll never forget crying over clear scans. I’ll never forget my mom saying, “I’ve never been so thankful to just have Stage 3 Breast Cancer.”

Then there was chemo. It ravaged everything and nearly broke her spirit. Then there was surgery, with a recovery time that, at best, doctors underestimated, and at worst, straight up lied about and downplayed. Then there was the beginnings of reconstruction, which was little more than a “well, this is protocol” discussion and ultimately resulted in unbearable pain with no payoff. Then there was radiation, which knocked her right back to being unable to drive, debilitating lack of strength and more pain. 

Then, the pain was identified as a mass in her liver.

And then there was a spot here and a spot there.

Then there was brutality masquerading as medicine, extended hospital stays and level 10 pain for weeks.

And then she was home, and then she got worse and worse by the day, and then she was gone. And I cannot eloquently, nor appropriately express how angry, sad and awful that statement is to spell out. How the leftover Ensures, the puddings and random attempts at arousing her appetite were left in the fridge. How the coming together of family we hadn’t seen in many Christmases began. How picking a burial outfit, flowers for the casket blanket and helping to write an obituary became the new normal for a week or so. How sympathy cards, flowers and outpouring of love became so impactful and needed, but sometimes messy. How it all went from stressful days and nights of watching her wither away to her actually being gone. How the world felt like there was now a rift in time known as April 30th. I can’t do that feeling justice with words any more than my heart can mend itself in a couple of months.

But I suppose catharsis does not come without trying, without honesty and without a little pouring out of what you have left.

In the same way that my identity as a daughter has changed, but I know I am still a daughter, I also know that despite often feeling like I am not a great writer anymore, I can still write.

So this is me, pouring out my oil, as instructed, putting all my faith into believing that if I keep pouring, all of these empty vessels left in my life can be filled again.