Why You Sabotage Your Weight Loss (and How to Fix It) #499

This is my story of lessons of loss, and the gift waiting in grief. This special episode is our 500th together!

I am crying before I even walk in the door. I know that everyone else is already there.

I know this is the beginning of one of the hardest, but unavoidable weekends of my life.

My career path was really lit by walking with my mom the summer before my freshman year in college. Not accidentally for me, and based on science, not accidentally at all, walking has always been the simple and easiest needle mover. When I wasn’t doing anything else, as in that summer when I started. When in my 40’s I was doing everything else as in training for my second Iron distance triathlon, and in my mid 50’s during the pandemic when stress was high. Reducing cortisol with low level activity like walking can be one of the absolute biggest needle movers, especially for women post menopause. (research shared in previous episodes).

This 500th episode is dedicated to my mother. And because so many of my listeners have been here, are here, or will be here, I’m sharing the end and what I learned and take with me through even this, the first holiday season without her physical presence.

Inside

Once inside I hug my brother hello. But it’s not just a hello. It’s a hug for all the feelings of having our fears be realized. Knowing how even though we knew, as we all do, this is the way it will end, that it’s the hardest goodbye we ever had to say.

Having hugged my siblings and my niece and in-law, I wiped a few tears and stepped around the kitchen island to the table where most were gathering. Just then I was hit with the power of a 7-year old hug and completely lost it.

My youngest great nephew knows how to hug. And I would be the benefactor of that a few times that weekend. Once, while at my mom’s visitation, the kids were drawing cardinals – a favorite symbol of hers- to add to her casket as a final send off. My niece said, Owen has something he wants to give you when you have a minute. So, I went into the fellowship hall where they were and squatted beside him.

“Your mom said you had something you wanted to give me.” Immediately he smiled and simultaneously stood and hugged me again. I may or may not have told my niece if one of them was missing when they went to leave... they’d know where to look.

Long Life Well Lived

My mom, she was 95 and just over two months. On her 95th birthday she expressed the wish that she could go to the Brown Bottle instead of cupcakes in the dining room. No doubt once there she’d have had a glass of wine or a margarita.

My brothers and sister and I each spoke at the service. We hadn’t heard or seen each other’s messages beforehand. And yet, we beautifully complimented each other, humorously played off of each other, and shared our love for mom. Watching her leave that church alone was one of the hardest parts of the day. She wasn’t going home with one of us.

We all knew where she was going but that moment of letting go was hard.

She’d needed a little help letting go, too.

One Last Chance to Hold Her Hand

In mid-October, I flew to Iowa (where my mom lived) to meet two clients and support them on a half marathon. It had been planned for a couple months. My mother’s downward spiral came as coincidence. Or was it?

During a scheduled photo shoot, I got the message that she’d been non-responsive for 21 hours and was braced for the fact she might not be conscious during my visit Monday.

But I changed my plans, needing to hold her hand and see her. I got up early Saturday and drove to see her, letting my brothers know only when I was 10 minutes from town. One of my brothers was with her when I arrived. He informed me that for the last 30 hours they hadn’t had any response but 2 minutes before I walked in she opened her eyes.

I held her hand, looked into her eyes. I told her goodbye.

Where Should I Be?

My flight back home was early Tuesday morning and I remember boarding and wanting to run off off that plane. What was I doing? But I also knew it could be days or it could be weeks and no one knew.

On Wednesday afternoon in Scottsdale, I got another phone call from my brother. I stared at the phone again this time willing it to tell me what this message was going to be and not wanting to hear it. He told me, hospice suggested we each tell her again that it was okay to go. All the signs were there she was physically there, but not letting go.

I found some irony through my tears that at 95 one of your last messages might come from a cell phone held to your ear. A device that wasn’t even invented decades earlier. Oh, the changes you’ve seen in your life, mom.

So, in tears I told her what a great life she’d given me, and that I was safe and happy, and she could go.

An hour later, my phone rang. T...