Sleepless thoughts

If I had an actual post published for every time I thought about something I could write about here, there would be significantly more content.  The fact that almost two weeks have passed  is in absolutely no way an indication that I have slowed in thinking about my mom or even this blog.  It's just that the process of rebuilding a "normal" life is apparently a never ending roller coaster just full of unexpected delights.  (If you didn't read that last sentence and infer a healthy dose of sarcasm, please do.)  I never know exactly how I'm going to react to things or what little reminder is hiding for me on any given day.

In my absence from this blog, I passed the two month mark since my mother's death.  Since there's never been any way to determine where I think I should be by different milestones, assuming the task of getting through each day would actually afford the luxury to do so, I can't say that I'm ahead or behind in anything.  The fact that so much time has passed, very relatively speaking, is a shock to me.  We're looking at Thanksgiving very soon, and Christmas beyond that.  (Along with  my mother's birthday as well as my own.  I would truly undergo cryogenic suspension from Mid-November until the second week or so of January in a heartbeat if at all possible.)  On the flip slide, just short of nine weeks is a blatantly insufficient amount of time to have been able to patch back together some semblance of a life.  At least it is from my point of view, since I certainly haven't managed it.  It's not been a lack of desire, either.

I had almost gotten my sleep schedule back to a normal rhythm, or so I hoped, but the last few days blew that out of the water again.  While I won't go into the reasons now, there was an event Sunday evening that I could have very definitely done without.  So now I'm backsliding in several ways, though I'm told that this is to be expected.  Okay, maybe so, but it still stinks.

The gods are showing some mercy to me.  There are several people, friends and family both, that continue to extend their caring and concern to me.  Words will never be able to convey how grateful I am and how much this has helped me.  Even at the times when they are caught not knowing what to say, or caught watching me when *I* don't know what to say, the simple fact that they are there is crucial.  

But "how are you doing" is such a loaded question these days.  I'm not going to insult anyone who cares at all about me and is asking by giving a false answer and cheapening their concern.  On the other hand, it's not easy to convey that mostly, I'm in pain, feeling lost and scared - still.  There's the additional irony that I can make it through the day okay, at least overtly, right up until I'm asked that question.  It makes for some awkward conversations when you spend half your time either crying or trying not to cry.

I'm trying to pull it all together, folks, I really am.  But being alone, dealing with all the financial matters and messes, figuring out what's going on with work, and trying to figure out what I want to do, let alone how, is quickly becoming overwhelming.  There's nothing to do but to get through it - somehow - but many times I can't see the how.  Tomorrow is another day, though.  Actually, since it's just past 3:00 a.m., I guess it's more apt to say today is another day.  

In the interests of not leaving this post completely negative and/or self indulgently pitying, there are some little fragments I've been thinking about.  I may well expand upon them later, but here are some scraps of memories about Mom.

• I had a period in childhood (around age 4-5) where I had many respiratory difficulties.  At one point, I had asthma, bronchitis, and pnuemonia, all of which resulted in a collapsed lung.  I couldn't go outside and play.  There was a Richard Scarry activity book - Richard Scarry's Best Rainy Day Book Ever - that I adored.  My mom sat with me for hours as we colored, cut-out, and made all sorts of things from that book.  She told me later we went through two copies of it.   (Mind you, this was a book that was originally around 500 pages.  Phone books were anemic in comparison.  I saw that it was released in an annotated version a few years ago, though it seems to be mostly out of print now.  I would dearly love to find a copy.)  At some point during this time, we were in my parents' bedroom doing something in the book and I got upset because I saw my dad and brother taking out their bikes.  I loved to go on those rides, but it was another thing I couldn't do.  I don't remember what Mom said or did exactly, but I've always remembered the feeling - she comforted me, let me know she'd be with me and I wouldn't be alone, and that we'd have our own fun. And we did.
• During this same period, I can remember going to Sears after yet another doctor's appointment.  My dad had been out of town, and I was upset in all sorts of ways.  Mom had taken me there to get a stuffed animal from Winnie the Pooh as a special treat.  She could always make things like that seem like an adventure.  It was a Piglet, by the way, and yes, I do still have it.  
• While speaking of Pooh Bear, whom I still love, I also have memories of one of the nights when a Pooh special was coming on television.  (CBS, to be precise.  I can still see the overlapping, multicolored 'CBS Special' logo spinning on screen.)  With the overwhelming media choices today, that would seem like no big deal at all, but it was huge then.  Mom made an event out of it by making caramel apples for us to have during the show.  She told me that she figured that caramel was enough like honey that Pooh would approve.
• Like most small children, sitting still was a difficult thing for me to do, even in church.  Mom would sit next to me and just fiddle with my ear - either gently tucking my hair behind it or just rubbing the earlobe.  As long as she didn't stop, I was blissfully quiet.  The conditioning never faded, either.  Last November when we were at the hospital awaiting the outcome of my uncle's open heart surgery, Mom and I were sitting next to each other on a couch.  My foot was jouncing up and down wildly, a nervous habit of mine, until she reached over and started smoothing my hair behind my ear.  
• A few years ago we extended our Labor Day vacation and went to Orlando after the usual visit to Jacksonville.  We picked Sea World as the park we wanted to go to while there and set aside our last full day for it.  It was raining that morning, and I was scared it would ruin everything.  I was worried not only for me, but for Mom's sake. I wanted a good vacation, but I really wanted her to have fun and relax, and didn't want anything to mar it for her. We were determined to go and make the best of it. It did rain on and off most of the day, but as it turned out, nothing was ruined.  The first show we saw that day was the dolphin show.  While I loved it myself, the absolute best memory of not only that show, but the entire day, was looking over at Mom and seeing the look of sheer delight on her face. I will remember that forever, and be thankful that we had that time together.

I think that's a good note to end on for now.

I love you, Mom.

Week seven

Yes, I know the title is counting things.  I mentioned before I didn't think that "not counting" thing made sense.  I miss her so ...

Life is going on, though, and I finally seem to be making some baby steps towards resuming living mine.  Last night, I cooked dinner for myself for the first time since ... well, since.  It wasn't anything fancy at all; I actually made breakfast.  Grits, eggs, sausage, and toast.  It was easy to do, and I knew I had the needed ingredients, which was a key factor consider the sorry state of most of my refrigerator's contents.  It was unplanned and bittersweet, but I realized that the last meal made in my kitchen, seven weeks ago last night, was when Mom made Nassau Grits for us for dinner.   Maybe that's supposed to be some sort of sign, who knows.

I can joke a little with friends now, which is good, I suppose.  One of my closest friends called tonight, and in talking with her I was able to laugh some.  It feels very, very weird.

This isn't to say I'm through the woods, and at that, this may just be a clearing.  I did break down yesterday when I had to go to the courthouse at noon.  When I got there, I ran into a judicial assistant who had known and worked with Mom.  A lot of the people at the courthouse fit that description, actually.  Anyway, she asked me how I was doing.  I can manage to make it through the days okay, right up until someone asks me something like that.   Before she left to go back to her own office, she made the comment that losing one's mother would never stop hurting.  I had already started tearing up, of course, and that comment really struck me.

When I got to the clerks' counter, I was trying not to cry.  Fortunately, since it was lunch, the place was largely empty.  I apologized and since they had obviously overheard the JA's comments, I simply said that my mom had died recently, and that coming to the courthouse was hard because she had worked for an attorney as well.  That led to the clerk asking which attorney it was, and when I told her, she immediately said, "I didn't know Margie was your mother!"  That led to a conversation with her and another clerk in the office.  Yes, I cried.  They were very nice and understanding, however, and had some lovely things to say about Mom.

I pulled myself together once again, completed what I needed, and turned to leave.  The first person I saw in the lobby outside the glass door was my former stepfather, whom I hadn't seen since Mom's death.  I was crying again before I made it through the door.  He hugged me, asked how I was, and we talked a bit.

After all that occurred in succession, by the time I made it back to my car, I simply lost it and started sobbing, which lasted until I got back to the office. 

I think it was somehow cathartic, though.  For what reason, I couldn't tell you, but I came home and gave the cats tuna for dinner as a treat, and decided I deserved one myself.  Normally that would mean not cooking, and perhaps even going to a good restaurant.  After the last several weeks, it was the reverse last night.  As I was preparing everything, I thought about having made the actual grits while Mom was cooking the rest of the Nassau Grits that night.  I thought about how she always referred to the way I liked my fried eggs as frambled and how she usually cooked them for me since I liked hers better than when I cooked them.   She'd always make me come season them, though, because she could over-salt them for my taste.

It feels very weird to be ... living again, even in little bits.  I feel vaguely guilty, like it is some how inappropriate, but not really.  Sometimes, I even wonder how in the world I can be managing to laugh again at all. 

I don't think Mom would mind, though.