When I came back here, I had every intention of writing. Daily. Or maybe almost daily. But close enough to daily that it made me feel like I was writing again.
But I never came back. Until now. Until I finally released a breath.
When I wrote, I had just quit my job. Yep. Quit! After 18 years of good service, I had had enough.
My mom was growing ever more needy of my help. And she had finally decided, at 88, that maybe she should move into an assisted living apartment.
So I just took the leap, with the premise of helping my mother transition into her new home.
But Lord, I had no idea what the universe had in store for me.
Yes, I cleaned out Mum’s condo on the beach. Loaded up her things. Tossed the stuff that was useless and clutter-inducing. A nice clean start, I tried to convince.
But she never really settled there.
I got a call one morning, very early. I need you, she said. I think something is very wrong, she said.
And I, like Batman, threw on my duds and raced to her apartment.
I found her in a state of panic and pain. Two very fucking awful words.
And to make a very long, dreadful story short, I will say this:
My mom went from her apartment to a hospital. From hospital to rehab. From rehab back to another hospital.
From that hospital to a hospice.
Just like that.
In one month’s time, she was gone.
And the whirlwind that had become my new normal had vanished. Replacing itself with anguish. With sudden, over-burdening pain.
She was gone.
She is gone.
I didn’t have a minute to think. To think that my mother would die. In that brief, fucked-up pageant we signed up for. I thought they’d fix her. I knew they’d fix her.
But they didn’t.
We buried her two weeks ago. It’s as hard to believe it now as it was then. And even seeing it in print makes no difference. Makes no sense.
How can this be!?
At her funeral I said her eulogy. Just as I jokingly told her I would one day. One day. Not now. I always thought that I could keep it funny. I mean, who could be sad at losing someone who got to live all the way to 88??
Now I sit here, typing at this stupid screen, weary-eyed, disbelieving every word I’ve written.
And I talk to her every day. I see her all the time. I hear her voice as if she was right beside me.
I think I’m going mad.
But that’s how life goes, doesn’t it?
One day we’re laughing over the black-faced salt and pepper shakers she just had to buy at a yard sale.
And the next you’re eulogizing your mother.
Listen, I don’t even know if this damned entry makes sense. And I don’t care.
And there’s not one fuck I give for any emotion but my own sick despair.