Wednesday, December 18, 2013

I'm Having a Hard Time

My thoughts won't stay focused.  I begin to opine about sequestration, and I wonder how I'd explain it to G'ma.  I listen to a fascinating four minutes on health care costs and consider that post on where does the money go which I've been trying to write for a year or more and then I devolve into thinking about how much G'ma's broken leg cost the insurance company and Medicare.  I wander into the room where TBG is watching talking heads and I burrow into his chest for a hug and a kiss.

I miss my mommy.

The post you read yesterday was written the afternoon before she died.  I had it scheduled as a buffer between remembrance and reality.  I just re-read it.  I don't think I could write that right now.

It's an olio for sure, but one without G'ma.  Since she died in her sleep two Thursday's ago, I haven't had three thoughts in a row without my mother poking herself into the stew.  In the grocery store, every second customer is a mother-daughter combination.  I can't leave the neighborhood without passing her pod-castle; I still wave and say "Hi, Mommy," as I drive by. I wash my Revereware pots and channel her telling me that they would last forever; thirty-eight years and counting and they are still as good as new.

What I can't get over is that there will be no new events to remember, no new memories to be made.  I want a hug and Mom is not here to provide it.  Never will be.  Ever ever again.  My brain just doesn't want to get around that.

Big Cuter likes to think about infinity and what's outside the universe and was surprised to hear that those conversations give me a stomach ache. Recognizing the finality of my mother's passing is giving me the same kind of willies.  I can't understand it.  I have no place to put it.  I don't know how to frame the conversation with myself.

Hospice has a bereavement group, but I have a lunch date at the same time so I won't be going this week.  Last week felt too early; I didn't need any help to cry.  Perhaps next week, for ninety minutes, I'll be ready to share the grief.  I know that help is out there; they called and reminded me about the group and asked if I needed anything, anything at all.

They can't give me what I want.  I thanked her for calling, hung up the phone, and bawled.

The tears come and go.  They don't last for long.  When I think of how peaceful she was, how ready she was, how in control of the situation she was, I find it hard to do more than smile.... through the tears... which are for me and not for her.

We were so lucky, my family and I.  We had no hard decisions to make.  We had no awful pain to watch her suffer. We had caregivers and family members and a mother who was considerate enough to die early in the morning so that we had all day to take care of the paperwork.  A Sunday funeral was convenient for everyone; once again, G'ma was looking out for us all.  She lived a long life, had an easy death, and I am, from time to time, able to smile about it all.

That's a good thing.


8 comments:

  1. You carry her in your heart always. Grief is a process and the pain eventually softens.
    I am sorry for your great loss.

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    1. Thanks for the love, Olga..... having you all out there in the ether helps so much!
      a/b

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  2. I dreamt about my mommy last night for the first time in a long, long time. She passed in 2003, I can't believe it's been 10 years. Thank you for enabling that process, I truly feel the posts about Gma, prompted my dreams. I said before that Hospice is the best thing ever and you will know when to attend the grief counceling, it can be very helpful. I had to attend a couple different groups til I found the one that fit. As Olga said, you will carry her in your heart always.
    My heartfelt condolences go out to you and yours.

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    1. Glad to be of service, Ellyn. It makes me happy to know that my rantings and ramblings have a positive effect on someone other than ME :) I will find a place for all the feelings.... just don't know when or how.
      a/b

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  3. There's a chance this is going to sound a little (or a lot) crazy - but it's eased my heart and (I hope) maybe it'll mean something to you.

    Since I was a kid and first lost a person I loved I have had an image in my mind of grief being and behaving like a river ~

    The level raises and lowers with no warning. Its direction can change for no obvious reason. It will overflow its banks, tearing your heart out with torrential force then be calm, sparkling and beautiful, sweeping wonderful memories to you. Peaceful as tho asking you sit awhile and remember the joy and love. (Sort of a heart-picnic, a brief respite from the heart crushing pain)...

    The river in it's flooding and changing of course etches you, changes your life. Nothing about the river, its banks or the person standing alongside it remains the same. That's why some people spend their life far from the river - safer. But I think love is the river ~ carrying joy and pain, dangerous and glorious. One inseparable from the other. Loving is counter-weighted with loss. Grief and sorrow sweep the same banks the joy and laughter do...

    Somehow, those images, ideas, have always made sense to me in a comforting way and eased the pain (a bit)

    OR like I said sounds a little (or a lot) crazy.....

    Thinking of you, Issy


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    1. Issy, you don't sound a little or a lot crazy. You sound profound. I love the image of the river... I'm thinking the NIle, flooding and feeding and receding and frightening but always present and moving. Inseparable. Thanks for this. I know I'll come back to it.
      a/b

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  4. I am one of those who thinks it's healthy to grieve. It isn't fun but sometimes we need to do it and I don't think there is some time limit or method on how it must be done. Give yourself permission, as it seems you are doing, to feel what you feel. If it goes on too long and leaves you feeling depressed, then get help for that. There are some good books out there on accepting dark times as part of the cycle of life. I find after a loss it can seem like it's all over and then it crops up again. Tears are healthy is what I think and although it might make those around us uncomfortable, it is a good thing to do.

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    1. I'm haunted but not stymied, I'm sad but not depressed, I miss her but I know she's better off. I agree with you, Rain - grieving is good. The seven days of shiva - which I made my own by doing what I wanted, when I wanted, leaving piles behind and tending to my heart and my soul and my loss - were a nice buffer between her death and resuming real life. AND, I have The Burrow to work it all out and get gentle feedback.

      I am blessed... tho lonely :)
      a/b

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