Tag: mom

Some Things 03/15

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  • So spring is springing.  I find it extremely depressing.  It makes me miss my mother.  She was all about gardening.  Flowers, vegetables, any plants.  All the plants.  It’s time to weed and get things ready for growing.  Mom would have been here this weekend helping me weed the flower bed.  She’d have been bringing me drinks and insisting on helping rake out the pool area.  She’d be fawning over the Candy Corn Spirea showing its true colors for the first time (we only got them last year).  The daffodils are in full bloom.  The purple hyacinths she bought me last year are popping up under the bat house. It all screams MOM. 
  • I bought new shoes yesterday.  Three pairs.  I know, I spent far too much.  However, if you know me in real life, you know I never buy shoes.  I bought the three pairs, trashed five pairs and moved the old running shoes into the tornado shelter.  So I netted a big loss in shoes.  I’m just not a shoe person.  They’re expensive and a pain in the ass to find.  I need work shoes, work out shoes, dress shoes, and sandals.  So now if I just get a pair of rain boots for gardening I think I’m totally solid for the first time in my life on shoes. 

I went to Fleet Feet and they did all their technology to recommend the shoes for me.  I got two pairs of HOKA One One’s.  Holy shit, they feel like your feet are wrapped in marshmallows and walking on clouds.  I got the same shoe (the Bondi) in black leather for work and grey for walking/biking.  So I went the old lady route and even though I hated the look, I bought them because they were so fucking comfortable.  However, today I looked up the brand and read that they purposefully went for the huge wide foot bed as a style choice and to give you a firmer grip and more padding.  That makes sense.  And I realized what I thought was a PPU material is actually leather.  So I like them more now.  I’m really not used to my feet looking so BIG.  But my lord, clouds and marshmallows, yall. 

Shoes

The third pair are some slip-ons.  They’re actually Oofos recovery footwear.  Also, giant marshmallows.  I asked her if I could get them in a different, more neutral color.  She said they didn’t have anything and couldn’t order anything because doctors send people there to get them and they can’t keep them in stock.  Well, I can feel why.  So yeah, I got those in galaxy purple.  So sue me. 

I wish they had more than just athletic shoes.  Having them find the perfect fit for me as well as the perfect build for me made a huge difference.  She knew exactly which shoes I should try and what my feet needed.  And the sizes ranged from 8.5 to 9.5 because “these run short” or whatever.  I mean, I know it’s the computer and not the lady – but this shit works.  They found me three perfect shoes.  Maybe not the prettiest but damn my feet are comfy. 

  • Lastly, I think I’m in the angry stage of grieving. Or just angry for no reason. I’m just angry. I’m quick to temper. I’m bothered. I’m quick to call someone a dumbass on Facebook and then get gang pummeled by people defending them. Only to double down and explain why they’re a dumbass, only to get group pummeled again even so much as to pick apart my profile picture where apparently my lipstick is terribly applied. And I get angry driving, going to the store (fuck people), being at work — I’m easily angered. I have no chill. I hate my job, my cats dying and hates me shoving pills down his throat, and my mommas dead. What do you want from me? Mr C is suffering at work too and has the cough from HELL that won’t go away. I’m just really not cheerful.

And I miss mom. I miss having that connection and our conversations. I need her opinion about my new shoes.

My blog, My therapist

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I’m sad.  Just sad.  Mostly about momma.  I just really hate my job and my mom is dead.  I sit on her bed and look at the pictures on her memorial card and think “I’ll never see her again.”  It’s almost an unfathomable thought.  My brain can’t wrap around it.  I can’t really grasp that it’s true. 

I’ll never come by this bed to find her laying across it (never the right way).  He having fallen asleep, not under the covers, but under a throw while watching QVC.  I’ll never give her a hug and wish her goodnight and see if there’s anything I can get her before I go to bed.  I’ll never wake and look down at the dining room to find her painting at the table – or see her having coffee on the stairs by the pool.  Or just wake up to find she’s run off to Old Navy or Ollie’s or Old Time Pottery to return later with gifts.  Always gifts.  A shirt or a pillow for my pool chairs, maybe a float or a cute kitchen towel, or lord help – a plant for the back or the flower beds or the porch or god-knows-where.  Momma never showed up without some small gift.  She loved to go shop and find the best clearance deals.  “I got you something.”  No wonder my love language is gifts.  She was always like that. 

There’s just an empty chasm of sadness beside me.  Nothing to be said for it.  Nothing to be done for it.  I thought about scheduling an appointment with my therapist, but what’s the point?  He can’t make me un-sad.  No one can say or do anything to seal this chasm.  I’m not self-harming or life-interferingly depressed.  I’m just really fucking sad.  I’ve honored her memory.  I made a beautiful vase full of rose petals — all carefully saved and dried from the many flower arrangements that were sent as condolences.  Some roses from the funeral, some petals from the corsage I wore.  I sit on her bed and look at her infamous red glasses sitting there on a tray with the book she wrote, a picture she painted, the memorial card from the funeral and a small urn of ashes.  I wear her star sapphire on my right hand.  Mom on my right and my sweet husband on my left (via my wedding ring). My rocks.  It’s like they’re holding my hand when I need a nudge. 

I look at the star in the sapphire when it magically decides to appear.  I’ve had my own sapphire.  I know the magic well.  I bought us each these sapphires years ago when I got my first real job.  The biggest present I had ever given her at the time. I was determined she’d wear another star sapphire – like the one that was stolen in her childhood.  A story she had mournfully told me many times.  Now I wear her stone instead of mine.  The stone she wore so often and that shows up in most of her pictures.  When I see the star I wonder how often she looked at the same star with amazement at the beauty.  Something otherworldly about the stones transformation in the light. 

I called M the other day.  One of my best and dearest friends.  I needed to talk to someone else who lost their mother.  Someone who knows this sadness.  What did he do with it?  How did he cope?  How did he keep going? True to our natures he didn’t bullshit me.  He didn’t cope.  There was no healing.  Only learning to live with it.  Time doesn’t heal wounds it just makes you keep trudging on with your new normal until the pain is almost a numbness.  Simply because there is no choice.  His anger is still palpable and fresh.  As if she’d passed as recently as my own mother.  It was genuinely surprising to me. We were angry and sad together.  We talked for over an hour.  We joked about fake boobs and caught up with each other.  He lives so far away now.  We talked through my drive home, through the pharmacy drive thru and on into my coming home, greeting my cat, and doing my daily Animal Crossing errands.  Mr C did not come down when he heard me arrive.  M’s voice is extremely loud and boisterous, no doubt who I was talking to on speaker phone.  Mr C was glad we were talking, he knew I needed it.  As we wrapped up our conversation I asked him “what do I do?”  And as cliché as it sounds, I shit you not, he told me what any beloved body-hiding-friend would say.  He said “you call me, and we’ll be sad together.”

And a suitcase full of black

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Man, life does not take a break when your world stops. It doesn’t stop. It feels like it should stop. My mom died, the funeral is Monday, everyone be respectful. But no. Your sisters dog still tears and ACL and requires surgery. Your shower still gets a leak that requires a plumber. Work is still a shit show. The escape plan for May is getting pushed back to October. Your husband is still having the worst week of his career. And you’re packing a suitcase full of black clothes.

A suitcase full of black. I’m still oddly numb and practical about everything. I had to make sure my husband had appropriate clothes which required clothes shopping. I had to get new black pants for us both. So this afternoon we’re driving down to stay with the family tonight.

My over stressed husband, who’s been in quarantine for nearly a year, is being forced to stay with other bubbles. However, it’s unavoidable. He knows this. I do worry about all of these bubbles crashing for the funeral. Ugh. When are we getting a damn vaccine rolled out for all of us? I can only pray there’s no virus spreading going on with the funeral. We won’t be having visitation at the funeral but we’re having a big lunch after. Not remotely my decision. But how can I say no? It’s moms funeral. The family wants to do lunch after which I thought was nice. But now a lot of people are coming to lunch. I’m a bit worried. I’ve already bowed out my husband but I feel obligated to go. Mom just died of Covid and we’re having a party. Blarg.

Well, wish us luck. Emotional and health-wise. Here we go.

Some Things 1/15

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1) I’m trying to get stuff for the funeral organized. We need to pick a photo for the main mom photo. But my sisters are still too distraught to look at photos. Sister I was talking to said she didn’t even leave her room yesterday. She just ate some cottage cheese she had in the fridge down there. Okay, thats not healthy.

Also, I can’t shut down. I have a job and a mortgage and a husband and a cat I had to take the the vet today. I know she’s fucked up and grieving but I kinda want to smack her. Get off your damn ass.

2) Took the cat the vet today. The good news is, all of his levels have improved! I think the vet was very impressed that I followed directions. She basically treated me like I was a good dog. I’m cool with that. Go me!

Problem is he’s still in kidney failure. I got the copies of his labs so I could look stuff up. He’s right at the bottom levels (good end) of stage 3 failure. Ugh. So I don’t think he’s going to get off the fluids and stuff. He has an average life expectancy of 2 years at this point. Let’s make ’em good.

After the bath, he was licking himself so much he had a hair ball… in the new heated cat bed. He was obsessed with it and now he wont go near it. Fuck. It’s like Mr C and grape juice. He’s traumatized now.

3) Someone was using “my” bathroom stall at work and it was surprisingly weird. There is like one bathroom per floor where I work with 6 stalls. I always use the same stall. Row 2, Stall A. It’s a good one. Row 1 Stall B runs forever. 1 A flushes too much (sensor calibration issues). I can’t use a handicapped stall so I stick with my safe 2 A. But the other day someone was in there! I had to use one of the handicapped stalls.

Am I the only one who always uses the same stall?

Heavy Sighs

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Missing mom is weird.  It’s been three weeks since we last spoke.  The last time we’d ever speak in this life.  I keep catching myself going “I’m gonna show this to mom” or “I haven’t called mom yet!” or getting up late and thinking “moms gonna rag me for sleeping so late and being late to work.”  I’m making mental notes about things I’ll tell her or talk to her about when we next talk.  I miss that connection and that outlet. 

But I’m not broken.  I’d never think I would handle her death this well.  I certainly didn’t expect it.  We were going to build mom an addition to our house.  I had it completely planned out and drawn up in sketches here or there.  We’d discussed it.  She wanted one of those step in tubs.  She’d have her own kitchenette.  It was going to mirror the dining room bay windows size and shape by the pool.  Creating a kind of courtyard.  She’d have her own home entrance and foyer on the side of the house.  And when we built it making a hallway through the storage room, I’d build in a closet for all that shit in the downstairs hall.  And there would be a wooden deck between the back doors.  I’d imagined I’d find her there a lot in the morning having coffee and tending her plants.

I miss her and I weep.  But it doesn’t feel like a massive Greek Tragedy that I think it should feel like.  The way it seems to be for the rest of my family.  They can’t talk about her without crying.  Can’t look at photos of her.  I like the memories the photos hold.  I don’t mind looking though them.  She always looked happy.  It makes me remember the trips and who took that photo.  I just ordered a 20×30 print of her sitting in a window looking out over the Fox Theater in Atlanta when I took her to see Third Days final concert tour.   I had planned to have her sign it or something.  But she won’t be here to sign it.  However, I will still have it hanging by my side of the bed.  Mom forever looking happily out the window. 

My family won’t even let me post the memorial date and time.  They’re “too upset” and “not ready.”  I don’t understand.  We’ve planned the memorial.  We’re having it, why is it weird to tell people when it is?  I completely don’t get it.  K said that maybe I’m just more in touch with my feelings and they’re not so they can’t look past themselves right now.  I can see that being true.  But shouldn’t I be more broken?  They’re all fucking puddles of tears over there.  Am I too medicated, perhaps?  Too many antidepressants?  Do I WANT to be more sad?  Should I be?  I just don’t know.  

I’ll never give her that house of her own.  We’ll never sit on the tanning ledge together again.  I imagine opening the pool this year with her gone will be a very difficult thing for me.  She loved my pool so much.  She’ll never sign the window portrait for me.  I can’t take her on a trip to a place she’s never been.  Or even a trip to a place she has been.  What will Florida be like without mom?  How will it be without her being awake before everyone having coffee on the balcony?  That’s just weird.  Should we even go?  Mom was the one who worshipped the Florida trip.

Yet I don’t feel like there are loose threads.  I don’t feel the carpet unraveling beneath me.  She had a better life than I’d even realized.  She touched so many people.   She knew I adored her and would do whatever I could for her.  I know she adored me and would do anything for me. 

I only had three touch stones.  Mr C, Mom, and my cat.  Mom was the strongest bond and now it’s lost.  And the cats in kidney failure.  And Mr C has his games. 

I keep thinking of when I worked on tanks.  “Always have three points of contact with the tank.”  Your ass, your hands, your feet, your stomach – just have at least 3 places of contact with your body and the tank at all times.  Don’t fall and break your ass on the company’s dime.  No standing willy nilly on the tanks – put your ass down.    

I had three points of contact with the Earth, life, whatever you want to call it.  And now one’s gone and one’s going.  Will I fall? I’m certainly not following directions.   I’ve never had good balance.  What will happen to me?  What will happen when I’m balancing on one foot and that foot has a bad day and just wants to play his games and be left alone?  Do I just go play Animal Crossing?  I get on every night to get my money tree and see if that bitch owl shows up.  But I’ve got over 6 million bells in the bank and she never gives me anything good anyway.  Fucking owl. 

Morbid but successful at cutting red tape.

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I’m surrounded by moms death. I’ve got so many gorgeous flower arrangements, my counter is a memorial now. In addition to making the music playlist, I’ve got to make the slideshow for her memorial. Which means all my texts, emails, and facebook messages are pictures of mom. But there’s also mundane stuff. Gotta shut down her debit card. Gotta cancel her phone line…

That last one is what I wanna talk about. I called Verizon to have her line removed from my bill. They, naturally, have to give me bullshit. They have to try to sell me on keeping the line. I get it, it’s your job. So the guy tells me he has to read me a few offers before he can remove the line. I reply very flatly that “there’s no point, the user is dead.”

To his credit, the operator gave me zero bullshit after that and immediately removed the line with his condolences. I wonder if they get that often?

Case of the Mondays

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Ah Monday. Monday after a holiday break. It’s truly painful. Reminding myself to sit and make nine hours pass is just excruciating.

“You sit here, in this place that you hate, doing crap that you don’t like for nine hours. Don’t move until 4:30pm. Starting the clock… Now.”

No one on my team asked how my holiday went. I mean it was an absolute shit show and I had no intention of hiding that, but someone had to ask first. I don’t work with the kinda team that notices hair dye or asks how your weekend was. I work with a person who hates my guts and another who’s a squirrely micromanager. But DeBitch hates everyones guts so apparently that makes it okay. Yes, I’ve complained about her multiple times. Multiple people have.

Anyway, finally after lunch, a guy from another lab comes over to snipe some candy from the goody bowl. He asks the whole room how their break went and I took the opportunity to unload. DeBitch didn’t even both to offer a glance or condolences because she hates me. Who cares?

And the news just states the numbers. Over 350,000 dead in the US from Covid-19. Three hundred and fifty thousand people. Moms in that number. Just one in a massive sea of other faceless number ones. It’s almost insulting. I want to take insult. You mean 350,000 deaths PLUS MY MOM. She wasn’t a fucking number. But to most that’s all it boils down to. A massive pile of lives lost: people they loved, deeds they did, plans they had — they’re just a statistic to us. They don’t even care to keep track of the hundreds, tens or singles. In fact, we’re not even tracking thousands anymore. Just a single partial digit in an unfathomable number. A god damned fraction of a single digit. In a growing number that doesn’t even register much to anyone anymore.

I called my brothers wife on the way to work today. It was nice that she was expecting my call. She had asked me what time I usually go to work when we talked the other day. She asked me what time I’d be off too. I’ve talked to my brother and sister-in-law more this week than in the last two years, I’d wager.

My sisters don’t answer their phones or respond to text messages reliably. I wonder if we are destined to drift apart without our mother to hold the team together. Or is it just me drifting? My sisters currently live together and they’re chained to my brother for the sake of his children, our sweet nephews. I’d always complain about no one responding to my messages and mom always got mad and said “none of these people talk!” It’s true. But we all talked to mom. And mom kept us all up to date on the others. Now they don’t answer my texts.

Moms Dead

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Yeah it was that shocking and sudden for me too.  She just up and died on Christmas fucking day.  Covid.  What a cluster.  And who’s the one to tell me?  Crazy alcoholic sister.  I didn’t even believe her.  Had to hang up and call my brother.  Nope she dead.  D. E. D.

And I adore my mother.  She’s the best person I’ve ever known.  She was my best friend.  Not in a cliché way – I talked to her twice a day.  When I was driving to work and when I was driving home, I chatted with mom.  She’d say “What you doing?” and then answer her own question with “Driving to work.”  And if she didn’t get a call from me, she knew I skipped work that day.  We’d talk about what we had to do that day and then later talk about how it went and what we were gonna do for the evening. We’d trash talk family and coworkers.

We were all up in each other’s lives.  So now I’m just… left wanting to call someone who isn’t there.  She’s not there.  Sure I can “talk to her” still.  But not really, she doesn’t talk back.  And I have SO MUCH to tell her!  It’s been over a week!  And so much has happened!  I mean I’ve got shit to talk about. 

I’ve got loved ones and family and friends who all say I can call them.  And I have.  I’ve tried a few people.  It’s not the same.  I miss mom.  So I need someone to talk to.  So here we go.  I’m blogging now. 

Hello.  Call me C.