I am still very sad about losing my mother last December. I am in denial about it many days. I think back to that day in the hospital, holding her hand as her fingernails turned blue and the beep-beep-beep of her machines sped up rapidly then stopped and it doesn't seem real.
I am dreading December 7, 8, and 9th. How can I relive those days? The day I heard she had gone into the hospital...I was sick with worry...texting furiously with my siblings and the news kept getting worse. I couldn't sleep and decorated my Christmas tree in the middle of the night to keep my mind busy. It worked in the moment but at what cost? Will I ever be able to decorate a tree again? December 8...flying to see her and learning, realizing that I would never speak to her again. I would never know her last words. I would be motherless. And December 9, the date on her stone. The date she died. That day was actually easier than the previous two, strangely.
And I get to go through it. And the holidays. People say the first year with all holidays and milestones are the hardest. That's probably true. But that implies that it gets easier, that it gets less. I am also dreading the year mark because it somehow puts an expiration date on my grief. Even now...if it somehow comes up in conversation and I say, "My mother recently died" and a person asks when and I say, "Last December," the sympathy I get is so much less than when when the answer was, "Last month." But the truth is that the pain an emptiness isn't easier now than it was a year ago. Not at all. Not at all. And I am not supposed to suffer from it any more. People don't want to hear about it anymore. I shouldn't be crying like this anymore.
It's why I haven't blogged much in the past year. I used to blog several times a week. I just don't anymore because anytime I scratch away the superficialness of my life, all there is is this gaping grief over my dead mother. People don't always get that either. They ask about details, how old she was. They are sympathetic when they hear her death was unexpected, but that sympathy wanes when I say she was 70. Like, that's sort of expected, it's not all that tragic. I get it. Logically, I get it. But I can't move on from it. I still feel like her death was this giant injustice. I feel like my father remarrying was a shattering betrayal. And why do all these thoughts come at 1:33 in the morning so I'll have a crippling "cry hangover" in the morning?
My sweet Jocelyn, my sweet baby who carries my mother's name, speaks of Grandma Normandie daily. She says and asks the most beloved things. After praying about Grandma to God one night, she turned to me and said, "When will Grandma be done being dead and come back?" Those moments just turn to me mush and make the tears flow because I feel the same way. Today I mentioned that I was worried about the weather because it looked like it might storm. She told me she was worried, too, it might rain, and Grandma Normandie would get rained on because Joci was pretty sure there weren't houses in heaven.
This tidal wave of emotion just slammed into me today when I switched the calendar to December. Is it always going to be like this? I hope not because wow this hurts...and I hope so because if it ever stops hurting, does it mean I've started forgetting?