One Month Later

Can you believe that it was one month ago today that my mother died?

I can't. Sometimes it seems like an event very far away; at other times it seems that it happened yesterday.

Yesterday I finally threw away her shoes -- her scuffy everyday shoes that were under a chair in her bedroom. They were in exactly the same place they'd been when we'd left for the ER. I'd somehow missed them when I'd gone through the first big sorting of her things, and completely forgot about them until this week, when I was folding laundry in that room. When I finally noticed them there was something disturbing about the way they were sitting there, casually askew, as if she'd be walking in and putting them on at any minute. They went in the trash.

And then there have been flashbacks -- I'll be minding my own business, usually at work, when suddenly I'll be subjected to a scene from our time in the hospital, when she was starting to fade, when she was angry and incoherent, when she said things that in retrospect were most certainly indications that she knew on some level what was happening. Or, one time, I was back in the room with her when the surgeon had come in and explained that she had major arterial blockages and needed bypass surgery right away, and her passive, detached response, as if she didn't really understand what was going on. I found myself wondering if her initial heart attack or some subsequent incident had affected her cognitive ability, or if she was just in a kind of shock, not comprehending the gravity of what the doctor was saying. I found myself second-guessing the wisdom of agreeing to the surgery, even though I know that the alternative would not have been a good one; that she would have either died a very frightening, painful death, probably alone at home, or else slowly died by inches as her heart gradually failed. These little scenarios play out in maybe a minute at most, but they're like being jolted with a Tazer; very upsetting. And guilt-inducing, as crazy as my rational self knows that is.

My dog is still very confused. Sometimes he goes in Mom's room and just stands there, stock still, for a long time. And his sleep has been affected by the changes in our household; now he wakes up at 4:00 a.m. and is insistent that I get up too. I was so tired today that at one point I felt as if I were actually going to fall asleep as I was walking through the office parking lot after work. Fall down; go boom. It made me a little scared to drive home.

And, of course, there's the matter of finally getting Mom underground where she wanted to be, in a family plot. It's just disconcerting not having this final funereal task done. (Our pastor and I are still working out a day for interment; he has overseas guests for the next 10 days, so it's going to have to be nearer the end of the month.)

Those are the bad things, the things still gnawing at me.

On a more positive note:

I am done writing my thank-you letters. One evening I just sat down and said, "This needs to get done," and I did it. These had been a stressor in my life, and I'm glad this task is over.

I'm gradually making my house more my house. Whether or not I remain here for any length of time, I want to be happier with the way things look around here. I have more houseplants; I went to Home Depot and bought some closeout remainder-table ferns that needed a little love, and have them here and there around the house. The other day I was visiting a new boutique in town, and I came away with an indulgent purchase of some good-quality silk flowers, in colors matching my sofa, and some berried branches; I put them in an amber vase we had stored downstairs, and put it in the living room. I felt very Martha Stewartesque. It just seemed to make it look more as if someone actually cared about this living space. (And if you're looking up at the vase you won't be looking down at the carpet, which I'm ready to tear out by hand and burn.)

Many bereaved people report that their friends start avoiding them; I am happy and grateful to report that I've had the opposite experience. People have been so wonderful to me. I had lunch with an old friend the other day, and it was nice. The other day I received a lovely care package from another friend that was like a treasure chest, each stratum containing beautiful things -- a book, various accoutrements for my home altar, mass quantities of chocolate. I struck up an online friendship with a couple of interesting people who, it turns out, live within reasonable driving distance of Outer Podunk; we've been instant-messaging, which seems a lot more fun this time around than back when it was a new technology and I found it incredibly distracting and stressful...either my reflexes and multitasking skills are better, or else these are just better conversationalists. But I'm feeling much more social these days. The other evening I looked at the living room and realized that I need more seating; Mom was so socially anxious that we almost never had company, and all we have is a loveseat and a chair; that's it. If I had people over they'd have to sit on the floor...which would bring back a lot of sentimental college memories, to be sure (I once lived in an apartment with a mattress and a sheet standing in for a sofa, plus a rocking chair -- the rocking chair was a homey touch, don't you think, to the general Abject Squalor motif), but most of my friends and are are getting to be an age where getting up off the floor ain't quite as easy as getting down there in the first place. I need another chair.

So it's still a roller-coaster ride, this experience, although I'm maybe not careening as fast from extreme to extreme. Right now the fatigue is what's bothering me the most. Even sitting here, typing, is a tremendous effort. I'd like to crawl under a feather bed and sleep, undisturbed, for about two days.