It's in the quiet moments, the unexpected ones, when all this catches up to me and brings me to my knees.
It's the defenseless nature of it, not knowing how or why it happens, missing all the signs and warnings.
I've become practiced at heading off the deflation when I feel it coming on but am still a hostage to these quiet times.
I have no idea where this is going and I think I've ceased to care.
Holding on, waiting for sunrise.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Weird. That's all.
I was driving down the highway distracted by things like my long to do list and the fact that it's my son's first birthday.
Hard to believe it's been a year.
This isn't about him, though. Birthdays are cool but at a year old he really doesn't get it. I'm good with that. When he's older, I'll sneak in birthday messages all day long. At a year old it's mostly just normal operating procedure.
So this is about my mom, instead. As I was tooling down the road, doing my thing, I realized that 14 years ago today the all important doctors changed her long term prognosis to terminal. This label changes everything. The approach to care is different. The waiting begins.
I could go on about the depressing and nasty way that I remember my mother's slow and painful death, but I've done that before and I'm not in the mood. Just accept it: it was bad.
By some weird coincidence we were near the cemetery where Mom is buried. I don't usually go there (actually, it's been almost a year and that was for my grandfather's graveside service). And if I do go, I don't take my kids. Mom never met my children and they have no connection to her. I talk about her when it's appropriate and I field questions when they come up. And those questions do come up - I've written about that before, too. But the cemetery, for me, is a random and odd place. It's a physical symbol, presence, of something so esoteric.
I'll never forget standing at the side of my mother's coffin, watching my 7 yr old brother let a bunch of bright pink helium balloons go, sending them to Heaven.
It seemed odd to avoid the cemetery, given the near nature of it and my thought process. So I pulled in and hauled all three kids out of the car. Ari asked about the people who's names are inscribed on the markers around Mom (I'm related to quite a few in those square feet surrounding her). Oliver just hung out and did his 1 yr old thing.
Xavier walked across the road and straightened the porcelain figurines someone had placed on a nearby marker. Then he came over and played trains on the top of Mom's granite stone. I let him. It seemed appropriate.
My mom was a short woman (barely 5 ft tall). She was quick to temper and held a grudge for years. She was a housewife. She drove a minivan. She was loving and passionate. She was a force of personality. Mom bounced through life. She came to all my sports games and speech competitions and high school plays. Mom was good and bad and back then, before being terminal, she was so alive. That's how I remember her. That's how I will always try to remember her.
Hard to believe it's been a year.
This isn't about him, though. Birthdays are cool but at a year old he really doesn't get it. I'm good with that. When he's older, I'll sneak in birthday messages all day long. At a year old it's mostly just normal operating procedure.
So this is about my mom, instead. As I was tooling down the road, doing my thing, I realized that 14 years ago today the all important doctors changed her long term prognosis to terminal. This label changes everything. The approach to care is different. The waiting begins.
I could go on about the depressing and nasty way that I remember my mother's slow and painful death, but I've done that before and I'm not in the mood. Just accept it: it was bad.
By some weird coincidence we were near the cemetery where Mom is buried. I don't usually go there (actually, it's been almost a year and that was for my grandfather's graveside service). And if I do go, I don't take my kids. Mom never met my children and they have no connection to her. I talk about her when it's appropriate and I field questions when they come up. And those questions do come up - I've written about that before, too. But the cemetery, for me, is a random and odd place. It's a physical symbol, presence, of something so esoteric.
I'll never forget standing at the side of my mother's coffin, watching my 7 yr old brother let a bunch of bright pink helium balloons go, sending them to Heaven.
It seemed odd to avoid the cemetery, given the near nature of it and my thought process. So I pulled in and hauled all three kids out of the car. Ari asked about the people who's names are inscribed on the markers around Mom (I'm related to quite a few in those square feet surrounding her). Oliver just hung out and did his 1 yr old thing.
Xavier walked across the road and straightened the porcelain figurines someone had placed on a nearby marker. Then he came over and played trains on the top of Mom's granite stone. I let him. It seemed appropriate.
My mom was a short woman (barely 5 ft tall). She was quick to temper and held a grudge for years. She was a housewife. She drove a minivan. She was loving and passionate. She was a force of personality. Mom bounced through life. She came to all my sports games and speech competitions and high school plays. Mom was good and bad and back then, before being terminal, she was so alive. That's how I remember her. That's how I will always try to remember her.
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
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