My mom passed away on Tuesday. I can’t bring myself to say the “D” word yet. I haven’t had a good nights sleep in over a week, even with sleeping pills. It doesn’t seem real yet.Mom was in home hospice for 3.5 weeks after leaving the hospital. Despite all the nice, comforting things you hear about hospice, it is brutal. We watched her get weaker and shakier day by day.
At first we had some good conversations and talked about happier times. But all to soon came talk about “after”. Mom helped plan the funeral, she wanted to make some decisions herself. I spent a whole afternoon listening to her go over funeral arrangements, double checking the paperwork for them, listened to her talk about her urn. That was the first night I couldn’t sleep. And it just got worse from there. Watching her struggle with her failing body, having to have help with the most basic functions. Watching her cry. Thinking every time I left that this might be the last time I see my mom.
No matter how prepared you think you are, how many times you say goodbye, it still hits you like a truck when it actually happens. How can I live in a world that my mom doesn’t? She has always been just a phone call away. How is it possible she is never gonna pick up the phone again when I call? I hear her voice in my head so clearly. It doesn’t seem real that we aren’t going to talk again.
I’ve been trying to keep busy just to keep going. I wrote my part of the eulogy as request by my mom. I went through thousands of pictures I’ve taken finding ones I hope will be able to show people the mom I knew. When she is smiling and happy and surrounded by family. I want to put together a slideshow and somehow sear it into my brain, making me forget the images of mom over the last months and think of her when she was full of life and excitement. Always up for an adventure. Watching in awe as whales breached 40 feet away from us in the Alaskian waters, collecting shells on the beach in Florida, driving through the tunnel of trees in the fall. Laughing while riding in a scooter on the Silver Lake sand dunes, and then getting soaked by waves and laughing some more. So many fun times together.
My face is blotchy and my eyes red and swollen. My husband and kids keep checking to make sure I am ok. I’m not, but there is nothing they can do to help, though I appreciate their efforts. This is what grief looks like and its not pretty. The funeral is tomorrow. Somehow I will get through that day, and the next, and the next. I will get to the point when I smile when I think of mom instead of cry. Someday.