Wende's Blog: Wise Women, Bitches, and Assorted Others
MOTHER GRIEF, A DAUGHTER'S JOURNEY FROM SORROW TO SELFHOOD
This is a very personal piece of writing and I hope a book that tells a story in a way that heals and inspires
AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS : Free Preview
Review:
"Reading your book was one of those defining times that don't come that often but they mean something. Wende it is beautiful. I's raw and gutsy and as gentle as a feather falling in the air. I just love to read books that touch me and especially books that touch me like a sledge hammer which I think your book has done. The final wisdom I received from it was that as Mothers we make the ultimate sacrifice - we die so our daughters can blossom and live. It is all so powerful." - Kris Frew
Excerpt:
Dairy Entry: 2nd August 2006
Mama, it’s just you and me here now, and my heart is so broken. The chord has been cut that shines light through my eyes, so I’m blind to where you are. Today the mortuary people needed to know if I would sign forms so that no preparation of your remains will take place as you don’t want any funeral. Remains—like something you find after an accident for vultures to pick over. I don’t want strangers touching you. I want to be the one to wash you down and put you into some comfortable clothing. I can’t stop the image of you lying in a hospital morgue in some small dark drawer with a handle. Your head must be in a tight place and I know how much you hated that. I hate the thought of you being cold, that warmth of life gone and the womb I came from empty. I don’t know what’s happened to my spiritual beliefs; the child in me doesn’t care. I want my mama, I want her warm and alive and smiling. I want some way of knowing she’s all right, some sign that she’s only left a shell behind and that her spirit lives—Something!
The hours pass. I don’t watch the clock’s hours or even care what fills them. I hate that life goes on and I also need it to. I hate that you’ll never see the pictures I sent, that no more phone calls or emails are coming. I hate that people will be waiting for me to “get through this” and get back to business. To hell with that!
I want to get on top of the house and scream for silence until I can hear your voice above the madness.
This is a very personal piece of writing and I hope a book that tells a story in a way that heals and inspires
AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS : Free Preview
Review:
"Reading your book was one of those defining times that don't come that often but they mean something. Wende it is beautiful. I's raw and gutsy and as gentle as a feather falling in the air. I just love to read books that touch me and especially books that touch me like a sledge hammer which I think your book has done. The final wisdom I received from it was that as Mothers we make the ultimate sacrifice - we die so our daughters can blossom and live. It is all so powerful." - Kris Frew
Excerpt:
Dairy Entry: 2nd August 2006
Mama, it’s just you and me here now, and my heart is so broken. The chord has been cut that shines light through my eyes, so I’m blind to where you are. Today the mortuary people needed to know if I would sign forms so that no preparation of your remains will take place as you don’t want any funeral. Remains—like something you find after an accident for vultures to pick over. I don’t want strangers touching you. I want to be the one to wash you down and put you into some comfortable clothing. I can’t stop the image of you lying in a hospital morgue in some small dark drawer with a handle. Your head must be in a tight place and I know how much you hated that. I hate the thought of you being cold, that warmth of life gone and the womb I came from empty. I don’t know what’s happened to my spiritual beliefs; the child in me doesn’t care. I want my mama, I want her warm and alive and smiling. I want some way of knowing she’s all right, some sign that she’s only left a shell behind and that her spirit lives—Something!
The hours pass. I don’t watch the clock’s hours or even care what fills them. I hate that life goes on and I also need it to. I hate that you’ll never see the pictures I sent, that no more phone calls or emails are coming. I hate that people will be waiting for me to “get through this” and get back to business. To hell with that!
I want to get on top of the house and scream for silence until I can hear your voice above the madness.
