What She Left Behind

By Rebecca Caswell

In life we are blessed to have those who we love. Those we depend on. Those whose very existence proved to help to shape and form us into the very person we are. But what happens when you lose someone whose light, love, and strength brought so much significance and guidance to your life? How do families navigate through the pain of losing a mentor, mother, wife, and friend? What happens as the family dynamics begin to change and shift? After our lives are turned upside down do we ever find ourselves back to a new normal?

What She Left Behind is a deep emotional journey that takes you into the abyss of love and loss. It is a memoir of a fight with grief. It takes you down a winding personal account of tragic events and one woman's struggle to find who she really is without the love and strength of her mother. Caught between holding on and letting go, she attempts to weed through the pain and trails that the family faces. This is a story about finding our way out of the depths of heartache and the redemptive way we find ourselves back home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Caswell
• Release date: Aug 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735601700

Rebecca Caswell

Rebecca Caswell is a writer living in the beautiful foothills of the Rocky Mountains of Wyoming. She is a wife and mother of three.When Rebecca is not writing, she runs a salon and furniture renovating business called Teal House Beauty Lounge.What She Left Behind is Rebecca’s first book. She wrote it hoping to help others cope with the profound losses that we all must face.

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, who always saw the very best in me. I don’t know who I would be today without her constant love and prayers. She always fought for me and cheered me on. And so Mom, this is for you. May your love and strength always continue on.

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Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I want to thank God for helping me through the valleys and tough times that life has presented. I thank Him for enabling me with the saving gift of writing. I want to thank my husband for being the best supporter there could ever be through all of this. Thank you for always believing I had what it takes to finish this book. Thank you for being so supportive as I grieved. I also thank my wonderful family and group of friends. Your encouraging words helped make this a reality.

I want to thank my incredible editor for coming along and seeing my vision for this book. You helped guide me through this process, and your help has been invaluable to me.

Thank you all!

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Introduction

She sat in the car sobbing, just as she had for weeks before. Feeling ashamed, she quickly wiped her tears away. Staring out the window, she wished there was something else she could think about—some other way to relieve the knots that kept welling up in her heart and mind. Every thought had become a haphazard cryptic maze reeking of unkempt feelings. They had become strong and rooted. Twisting and turning into a thick leathery vine where it stood ready to choke out every moment and detail, she thought that she wanted to forget. But forgetting would be the sword that would cut off any purpose or healing. And that was not the way she was going to go down.

I believe that healing can come to us in many forms--a kind encouraging word, a song that penetrates the soul bringing us to tears, the sounds of nature while the wind whips through your hair. But for me, it has always been writing. A place where I can let go and be free--a place where words mend the soul and whisper kindness to my being. It’s a place where you can hear God as your fingers lightly drum the keys on the board. It’s self-expression and way to honor feelings, thoughts, events, and perceptions. And so, this book was formed. The key to healing for me was to remember every detail, every event. And release my inner demons so that I could accurately reflect on the source of my pain. I was a year into writing it before it dawned on me that it could help someone else. As I wrote, I witnessed the pain of others. The story is never the same. But the pain each one felt was a keen echoing reminder of my own. As I soldiered on writing this, I faced many dark, despairing days. Some were fueled with a passion for letting my mind be free of past events. Others were days of allowing all of my pain to seep out onto the paper. I sat in my chair, for many, many days reading and rereading every hurt. Every truth. Every event. Until I could no more. It was hard for my family to watch me go through this day after day, wondering why if it hurt so much, did I continue? Will she ever stop crying? But I felt a purpose for this. And I thought that if I could just get through writing this part or that part, I would feel so much better. And it worked. The more I wrote, the more I healed.

The picture on the cover is my mother on her honeymoon picking flowers in a forest. When the moments came, and I felt that I could not go on, or that I was stuck with no way forward, I would stare at her picture and remember why I was doing this--because of love, of purpose, and because I have a story to tell. And I tell it for me. I tell it for you. I tell it for all those who have or will someday lose the ones they love. Because in the end, we are all in the same boat--loving deeply while at the same time, finding ourselves in a place where we also have to learn to let go.

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Chapter 1

I met most mornings with expectation, usually with the hope of more good days to come. A few bad days spurred lingering thoughts of more trials to overcome. But as I woke up doing a lazy stretch that morning, I felt no impending doom pressing upon me. No sense that things may not be right. In fact, after months and months of enduring old man winter, we had been blessed with one of our first beautiful spring mornings. The thought alone of warm beaming sunshine made me want to get up out of bed and dance out of sheer joy.

My eyes opened slowly, blinking a few times, adjusting to the light pouring in between the curtains. As I lay there trying to wake up, my mind reminded me that it’s the weekend! This prompted me to snuggle down further into the covers. I had no plan, no to-do list. I could stay in bed and rest here a while longer. As I tried to entice my body back to sleep, I was hijacked by my mind. I began thinking about what I may want to do for the day. After that coffee filled my mind, I looked forward to it every morning. Caffeine motivated I began to move, untangling my body from my cocoon of covers. Sitting up and stretching, I reached until my toes touched the floor and tip-toed upstairs to start my morning.

Coffee in hand, I headed to the This is the domain of my many projects. Paint cans lined the walls, and the concrete floor is splattered with a multitude of their differing shades. An old dresser stood in the corner, begging for a new life. And this is what I do in my free time. Renovate old furniture, giving the old new life. I love everything about restoring furniture. It bares seldom seen charms and structure. I often wondered about their past lives. To whom did they belong? Who were the people that owned it? How could I make what is old new and fresh again? And these were my thoughts as I settled onto the old worn blue tattered steps to enjoy the sunshine. Birds chirped loudly, competing for airtime. They are as happy as I am to have this warmer weather. I watched a small yellow butterfly swoop in and out of the garage as if to say hello. Gazing out at my rose bush, I am happy to see that its buds are promising fresh blooms. I was relaxed and content. After such a long winter, I was content to enjoy the small, simple pleasures that spring brings. All seemed well. Holding the mug of coffee between my hands, I brought it closer. I felt the steam of freshly brewed coffee travel to my senses. Watching the steam rise, I blew softly and took in that first glorious sip, always delighting in the sweetness. I drink my coffee with one drop of milk and five scoops of sugar. Don’t judge me. I am a bit of a sugar addict. Setting it down, I lit a cigarette and scrolled through my messages. I needed to call Dad back, I think. So I clicked on his voicemail. I never did this. I usually skipped the voicemail and just went straight to calling back. But something urged me to listen to it first. I’m sure it’s of no urgency, convinced that you only needed a haircut. But still, I felt the need to hear it first.

As I listened, my heart stopped, and my coffee splattered and dripped down the sides of the hot mug. Your voice isn’t the same. It’s a side of you that I hadn’t heard before. The usual dad voice was gone, and in its place is a crackling fear. Becky, it’s Dad. Your Mom fell in the shower, and she’s not responding. Come over as soon as you can! I’m shocked. Staring at my phone, I began to shake.

I jumped up. Sweet sticky coffee trickled down my robe, creating small puddles on the concrete floor. I dropped the cup on the step. I’m frantically twisting at the knob on the door as though it may not open for me as quickly as it had before. Stepping onto the landing, I raced down the stairs while shouting, Mom, fell and isn’t responding. I’m leaving! I shouted to my husband. Throwing off my robe, I become entangled in it. I was moving too fast, or was I not moving fast enough? I didn’t have time to change. I threw on a hat and called it good. Grabbing my keys, I raced out the door.

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Chapter 2

My hands shook as I tried multiple times to jam my keys in the ignition. All the simple things were a struggle. My mind was racing. My heart was pounding, and my body trembled like a tree in a hurricane. And all I could think was this car wasn’t moving fast enough. I tried desperately to calm myself. It’s only three blocks. It’s only three blocks! You’re almost there. Breathe. But somehow, that three-block drive was an eternity unto itself. And that’s when the pleading and bargaining with God began. Please, God, let her be okay. She must be okay. I will do anything. Anything! As the racing and pounding in my chest jeered and taunted me, I come to the sickening realization that nothing was going to be okay. And if it is not okay, then, in turn, I would not be quite okay either. My whole life would change. Fear was filling my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I fought tears while I scolded myself. Keep it together. Keep it together. Just get to Dad. What must he be feeling?

As I turned into the parking lot, I saw the ambulance parked in front of the apartment complex. Its flashing lights only served to fuel my deepest fear. I crammed my car into the only tiny parking spot I could find. And I took note of that moment when things would change forever for all of us. I realized there was no going back. From now on, time would stop, pivot, and shift. There would only be how we were before and how we were after. I shook my head as to jumble or lose those thoughts. I wiped the tears off my face and onto the door handle. I jumped out and sprinted across that parking lot as if my worst nightmare was chasing me. And it was. But I stopped short when I saw her.

She was as pale as a ghost. All the color had drained from her face. They had her strapped into a gurney. Two strong men carried her toward the doors that awaited her in the ambulance. It was unreal. Everything moved in slow motion, and I couldn’t move fast enough. I was scared. My sweet, strong mother looked so frail. I reached for her and realized her hands were ice cold. I am stunned. I gathered both of her hands, squeezing them tight. As if my grip might chase death away. As if my strength might give her body some life. I kissed her hands, hoping she could feel the love emanating from my body. But she gave no response. Not one flicker of recognition. No sign that I was even present. She was unaware of everything going on around her. I had to let her go. These men were trying to help her. Suddenly, the only thing I could think of was that I had to find my father. He needed me.

The electric doors slid open, and I ran inside. I had to find my Dad. There was no time for the elevator. It moved as slowly as the residents that resided there. My mind seemed to be in a fog. I couldn’t remember where the stairs were. What was wrong with me? I began to panic. Where are the stairs to get to the 3rd floor? I was shouting at anyone who could hear me. A small elderly lady with a pink hat and a walker slathered in fake tulips