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.