I am exhausted today. My current state, I'm sure, contributed to my fast and furious trip to the minutes, hours and days following Mom's passing. I was at work today. In the midst of cutting and copying a picture for a PowerPoint Presentation, I could not take it. Tears were already wetting my keyboard, and I quickly paced to the final bathroom stall of the closest restroom. There I stood, heaving and trying my best to squelch the horrible weeping that seeped out. I finally regained some composure, and attempted to casually walk back to my cubicle. I took the long route to ensure the least number of run-ins with co-workers. I ended up not making it back to my work space. Rather, I shamelessly cried to the first person who spoke to me.
Sometimes, I know exactly what causes this reaction in me. Other times, it can be the smallest of things. Either way, the response is always strong and deep. When I think of those early days, I want to cry and throw up. It was too much. I remember the cold December air outside. I remember the feeling of my braces. I had them put on two days before. Honestly, the pain I felt in my mouth was welcomed. It brought me solace to feel some physical pain. I needed something to take the edge off of the emotional rage.
I also remember everyone around me. People tried to help. I know they did. But, it did not help. Minutes after Mom's passing, I remember sitting next to her bed in the hospital. Dad had gone to find the monk, and I was left alone with her. My uncle came in and stood at the door. Maybe he was afraid he was going to catch her death? I am not sure. From a distance, he told me to uncurl her hands. That way, they would look nice for the wake. I yelled at him. Then, my aunt walked in mumbling about the willow tree in our backyard bringing bad luck. I yelled at her, too. This was just the beginning. People would proceed to say the insignificant words to me. Silly words.
In retrospect, I know they all meant well. In the moment, I heard empty words that were desparate to appease their personal discomfort. It was their noise, and they brought me into it.
"Why didn't you tell me she was sick?"
"Why didn't you call and tell me she was dying?"
"My parents are going to send you a check."
There were those that knew exactly what to do. I remember our dear family friend, Trudy. She would come to the hospital. She would talk to Mom and wash her body with a warm towel. Those were the only moments I remembered Mom allowing herself to sleep for a bit. For days, she was contstantly awake. I think she was afraid to sleep. She was afraid to die. I remember our dear friend Bertha coming in and just talking. Her voice brought so much warmth and love to the room. Her booming laugh made things feel okay. They just were. They did not bring their own noise to fill the space. They simply accepted the facts and showed us that they loved all of us.
Then, there were those who understood. Those who had already felt the pain of losing a parent. I hung on to their words. It showed me that someone understood. My mother-in-law sent a card a month after Mom's passing to say she was still thinking of me when the cards and calls had stopped coming. I recall an evening years after Mom's passing. I was sitting at a bar with friends. As the other 20-somethings were chatting about jobs, alcohol and whatever, Matt and I started to talk about our parents. He had lost his dad. As the noise moved around us, I recall feeling safe. I could be honest and talk about Mom with someone who understood.
Then, there were those who just listened. Those who just said, "I am so sorry," and meant it with every cell in their body. I could see that they just wanted to take away my pain with their hugs and kind eyes. I appreciated that. I appreciated those who were okay with quietly sitting next to me. They had not walked in my shoes, but they were okay with just holding me up. I am grateful for them. I am so grateful for Jeremy continually holding me up. It is a hard job, and he does it everyday.
So, today felt like December 23, 2004. I am pretty sure tomorrow will be different. It usually is. When the day comes back around, I will not be ready. I'm okay with that. Even years later, when I have lived those moments a million times, I will take them on without armour, without calloused hands, without stoicism. It feels the same each time because a daughter can never really be okay with losing her mother.
