Grief

Talk about taking things literally. I was thinking about how difficult it is to sever the apron strings, and then remembered that when I received my box of "stuff" from my sister yesterday, the stuff from my Mom's place, the detritus I get to keep now that my 94 year old mother has left the earth, in the box were several aprons. I don't know where the aprons came from. They weren't Mom's. They weren't mine. I expect they came from the "free table" at the senior housing where Mom spent her last 6 years -- the happiest years of her life. She loved to get stuff from the free table and put it in "my" drawer where I left things behind to wear when I visited her. A couple pair of shorts for the summer, a hat for the winter, slippers and p.js., a nightgown that disappeared and was replaced by underpants I've never seen before. Back to severing the apron strings ... do we ever really leave our mothers? Maybe sons do. Daughters become their mothers. I hear Mom's voice come out of my mouth now, even when I catch myself snoring. It's disturbing. Her words talking to my cat. Her voice telling my daughter I didn't mean to bother her. Shut the hell up, Mom. I hated when she said that to me.
I find myself so angry these past few days. Angry at my sister for her lack of communication, because I feel so shut out. Angry at my Mom for not wanting me there at the end. Angry at myself for not going anyway.
Then I remember when my first husband killed himself more than 25 years after I left him, but still soon enough for our son to perhaps have a life. I was suddenly thrown back into my life 25 years earlier, haunted by fear of him, recalling how I left him -- and my son -- remembering how I had feared for my life, wishing he had killed himself before I left so that our son hadn't spent those years with him. Angry that he hadn't. Angry that I hadn't killed him myself after all. Angry that I allowed our son to grow up with him. Angry, then sad, then relieved. Finally, relieved.
I remember ever further back when my Dad died. I was 7 years old. I wasn't angry then. Just scared and horribly sad. That was when I first lost not only my Dad, but also my Mom as she had to go to work at two jobs. We lost our house too. I guess it's time to start letting go.

First Day 2012

The day is nearly over, and so is the life of my 94 year old mother. I just received an email from my sister that Mom has stopped taking in anything, is doing nothing but resting now. They think it may be a matter of hours before she slips away. Sis will call me to let me know. I will meditate on the life of my mother and write about her in the coming days.
I had the good fortune to have plenty of time with Mom to work through a lot of the hard places in our relationship when she came to live with me for nine years in my 30s and 40s. After that and from then on, we always talked and spent time together. We cried together, we laughed together. There was forgiveness in the mix. We knew that we are human, that we always were just doing the best that we could do at the time. Sometimes that wasn't so great. As Maya Angelou says: When you know better, you do better.
I hope you're resting well tonight, Mom. And when it comes time to breathe your last, I truly hope it is so painless you don't notice it. I know that there was a time when you were afraid of that pain, that you once asked "how do we know a person wasn't in pain when they died in their sleep?" We don't, Mom, so I hope if it happens to you, you find out that it is absolutely painless. And if you're awake when you go, that you are fearless. I love you, Mom.