I cried for mom today.
I cried for all the missed opportunities. She took care of grandma for so long. Then grandma was gone and we were both widows. I thought we would go to North Carolina. Perhaps the first of many trips together.
She had such a kind heart and I waited until she was dieing to realize it. She said since I was 18 it was a few phone calls a year, a visit for half a day every few years, an odd holiday. How sad. How selfish. I just thought she would always be there. Of course that is what I thought. I was so busy in my life. She was a picture in my head, mom at home. I did not think I needed her. I did not even think I liked her. Yet, in those few days before the pain medication took over her thinking, I really loved her. I wanted so much for her. I could have done so many easy, little things to make her life better. I was her oldest daughter, her baby girl, and I shunned her. I talked bad about her. I avoided her.
I moved in with her when she was dieing out of love and caring for her, not out of any sense of duty. I knew first hand, or rather second hand, how scary it was to die. How she could not possibly live alone with cancer. It was then I saw what a truly beautiful women she was and I realized she had always done for others. She was such a loving soul. I truly miss her. I sadly miss the relationship that could have been if I took the time for her, or judged her as an adult, if I did not listen to anyone else but saw for myself if I enjoyed her friendship. I have lost again. I have lost my husband. I have lost my mother. I realize I have also lost the chance of having a close, loving relationship with my mother.
I am adrift, alone, and the tears drip from my cheeks and run off the edges of my nose onto my husband’s sweater.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
1 Year, 9 Months - Suicide
I try to think of reasons not to kill myself again.
I picture curling up in child’s pose and slicing my wrist, pealing my rib cage open or taking a gun and shooting my chest.
I try to convince myself it is just the financial worries and I have been worse off financially. That it is not the ache I still have for my husband, the constant unsatisfied yearning for him to hold me, to let me feel loved, to know that I will be all right. That it is not my mom dieing. Memories of her naked in pain, saying she was a good person, why was her life so hard. Why is my life so hard? I am good. I try to convince myself it is only money. Just wait. Don’t kill yourself today.
I picture curling up in child’s pose and slicing my wrist, pealing my rib cage open or taking a gun and shooting my chest.
I try to convince myself it is just the financial worries and I have been worse off financially. That it is not the ache I still have for my husband, the constant unsatisfied yearning for him to hold me, to let me feel loved, to know that I will be all right. That it is not my mom dieing. Memories of her naked in pain, saying she was a good person, why was her life so hard. Why is my life so hard? I am good. I try to convince myself it is only money. Just wait. Don’t kill yourself today.
1 Year, 8 Months - Fading Memories
I curl up. I lay in yoga position of sleeping child. I try to remember you.
Remember more than your name, the thought of you, or visiting how I loved you, visiting my ache of missing you. I see only photographs or scenes from the day of those pictures in my mind. I want new memories. I do not want to be limited in my memory of you. I want to see a vision of you including your head, which seems to be fading. I want to remember your smell, your voice, your smile, your eyes, your body, the way you moved, where we were, all at once, without the need to focus and recall. I want memories of the everyday, driving, waking, watching TV, and eating. Oh, and to hear your treacherous snore!
And in the other bed my mom is dieing.
Remember more than your name, the thought of you, or visiting how I loved you, visiting my ache of missing you. I see only photographs or scenes from the day of those pictures in my mind. I want new memories. I do not want to be limited in my memory of you. I want to see a vision of you including your head, which seems to be fading. I want to remember your smell, your voice, your smile, your eyes, your body, the way you moved, where we were, all at once, without the need to focus and recall. I want memories of the everyday, driving, waking, watching TV, and eating. Oh, and to hear your treacherous snore!
And in the other bed my mom is dieing.
1 Years, 7 Months - Reminders, Memories
I am stripping the bed to wash the mattress cover. I lean over and look between the bed and the wall. Seeing all those mismatched socks brings tears to my eyes and such longing.
Every morning your alarm would go off before the sun rose. Sometimes it was dark and other times of the year the sun would be rising, with the color changing on the horizon, the lighter colors advancing across the deep blue sky. You would turn off the alarm and quietly sneak out of the bed. I would be awake, but not quite, with my eyes closed. I would listen to the familiar sounds, the creak of the bedroom door then the creak of the bathroom door. Silence for a few minutes, sometimes longer, then the shower turning on. I could tell it was the hot water and then a pause, the sound of the water increasing, as he turned on the cold faucet. Hearing the rings, as the shower curtain moved open and closed, I would drift to sleep.
I would awake again as the bedroom door opened. Rob dressed in jeans and a t-shirt for work. If it was cold his uniform would include a button-up cotton shirt over the t-shirt, blue or green, opened and un-tucked, cardigan style. The air would be damp from the steam escaping the bathroom. He would lean over me. I could smell his Contradiction for Men cologne, his Neutrogena T-gel shampoo, the Right Guard Active deodorant, and Orange Listerine. He would smile. His hair a bit damp but always surprisingly dry since it seemed I just closed my eyes and he was in the shower.
He would shake the covers and straighten them, standing at the foot of the bed, flinging the comforters in the air momentarily losing sight of each other. I would complain of the cold, to leave the blankets alone. He would complain I pulled all the covers up around my head and left my legs bare, that is why I was cold. The last comforter would drift down, floating unevenly between us, wafting his fresh shower scents through the air. He would come to the head of the bed and kiss my forehead, one arm extended next to my ear, the fresh Right Guard winning the aroma contest.
He would smile and say ‘I love you‘. I would smile and say, ‘Be Careful’. I used to worry. He was always so tired from working long hours in the heat with the long commutes. I worried because he tended to fall asleep anywhere, even when driving. I would say ‘Rob’ and he would snap awake. ‘I was blinking’. And I would respond, ‘That was a long blink. Let me drive’ and he would. I worried he would fall asleep driving or be electrocuted at work. Men were always getting hurt, going to the hospital, some died. Rob was always going to the emergency room for himself or taking other construction workers. I would say, ‘I love you, be careful.’ As I drifted back to sleep I would be comforted by the sound of the key in the door lock.
I often still wake at 4:30 or 5:00. The time of the alarm and then the good-bye kiss. I still find comfort in the sound of the key turning the front door lock of our house when I am in bed.
Oh yah, why the sadness tonight? When the covers floated above our heads Rob would playfully scorn me. My socks were always under the covers. Cold toes as I went to bed became hot. He always fished the socks out of the tangled covers and put them in the hamper. To find a collection by the side of the bed, well it just emphasized that Rob was not collecting them anymore. They just gathered dust until I collected them while changing the sheets or dusting under the bed. Rob was no longer here.
Every morning your alarm would go off before the sun rose. Sometimes it was dark and other times of the year the sun would be rising, with the color changing on the horizon, the lighter colors advancing across the deep blue sky. You would turn off the alarm and quietly sneak out of the bed. I would be awake, but not quite, with my eyes closed. I would listen to the familiar sounds, the creak of the bedroom door then the creak of the bathroom door. Silence for a few minutes, sometimes longer, then the shower turning on. I could tell it was the hot water and then a pause, the sound of the water increasing, as he turned on the cold faucet. Hearing the rings, as the shower curtain moved open and closed, I would drift to sleep.
I would awake again as the bedroom door opened. Rob dressed in jeans and a t-shirt for work. If it was cold his uniform would include a button-up cotton shirt over the t-shirt, blue or green, opened and un-tucked, cardigan style. The air would be damp from the steam escaping the bathroom. He would lean over me. I could smell his Contradiction for Men cologne, his Neutrogena T-gel shampoo, the Right Guard Active deodorant, and Orange Listerine. He would smile. His hair a bit damp but always surprisingly dry since it seemed I just closed my eyes and he was in the shower.
He would shake the covers and straighten them, standing at the foot of the bed, flinging the comforters in the air momentarily losing sight of each other. I would complain of the cold, to leave the blankets alone. He would complain I pulled all the covers up around my head and left my legs bare, that is why I was cold. The last comforter would drift down, floating unevenly between us, wafting his fresh shower scents through the air. He would come to the head of the bed and kiss my forehead, one arm extended next to my ear, the fresh Right Guard winning the aroma contest.
He would smile and say ‘I love you‘. I would smile and say, ‘Be Careful’. I used to worry. He was always so tired from working long hours in the heat with the long commutes. I worried because he tended to fall asleep anywhere, even when driving. I would say ‘Rob’ and he would snap awake. ‘I was blinking’. And I would respond, ‘That was a long blink. Let me drive’ and he would. I worried he would fall asleep driving or be electrocuted at work. Men were always getting hurt, going to the hospital, some died. Rob was always going to the emergency room for himself or taking other construction workers. I would say, ‘I love you, be careful.’ As I drifted back to sleep I would be comforted by the sound of the key in the door lock.
I often still wake at 4:30 or 5:00. The time of the alarm and then the good-bye kiss. I still find comfort in the sound of the key turning the front door lock of our house when I am in bed.
Oh yah, why the sadness tonight? When the covers floated above our heads Rob would playfully scorn me. My socks were always under the covers. Cold toes as I went to bed became hot. He always fished the socks out of the tangled covers and put them in the hamper. To find a collection by the side of the bed, well it just emphasized that Rob was not collecting them anymore. They just gathered dust until I collected them while changing the sheets or dusting under the bed. Rob was no longer here.
2 Years, 3 Months - Dove
A dove flew inside my car today. Its wings above, its body forward, hovering for a brief moment like a hummingbird, faced towards me, belly side up. I was startled, then amazed, and unsure of the significance.
2 Years, 2 weeks - Sibling Wars
I am back in Seattle. My brothers are so mean to each other. My older brother is mean to me. Mom would cry. Dieing is such sad business.
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