11/26/06

My mom died two days from today. This year that day is Thanksgiving.

I haven't really liked this time of year for nearly a decade. Has it really been that long since I sat in the ICU waiting room?

I think it rained that day but I can't remember. It's a safe guess. I remember one day it was sunny, just before, and we all thought that would be the day she'd go-since it seemed...peaceful that day.

I smoked a lot of cigarettes while I was waiting. It's strange the things that stick out. I remember being outside and the wind just howling but I wasn't cold. I sat on the concrete walls surrounding the hospital until I went numb on the outside too. Just waiting.

I was on the phone a lot. I called family members, friends, providing constant updates on how I was, how she was, how dad was...estimating how much time was left.  I saw people I hadn't seen in years. I barely remember talking with them.

I was in the bathroom, staring at my reflection and frowning when my uncle knocked. "Its happening."

I ran to her room and struggled with the required paper gown and gloves outside her door. I remember thinking, what did it matter and I tried to just go in but someone (a nurse?) stopped me, made me put them on.

I knew she was gone as soon as I walked in. I couldn't feel her anymore. My uncle was at the foot of the bed, crying quietly. He didn't stay in the room long. My father left shortly after that but I stayed. I took her hand, stroked it gently. I think I was crying too but I don't know. I was relieved. I was glad her suffering was finally over, even if it meant I was in agony. And I was. Part of me died with her.

I  looked up, saw the hospital tiles in the ceiling and thought how often she'd had the same view. I listened to the machines hum, her heartbeats quieted. The monitors were off but everything was still there, a looming presence in the stillness of death.

I told her I loved her, that we were going to be ok. I told her I was so sorry she'd had to go through this. I don't know how long I stood there holding her hand.

I went back to the waiting room and began making phone calls while my dad talked with the doctor about what to do next. Everyone I called knew it was coming so telling them was almost easy.  I wrote a letter to the people that I'd become acquainted with in the waiting room. Other people that came and went, slept and worried.  I wished them peace and said thanks for being there. I remember leaving it on the table next to the newspaper my dad had been reading when they told us.

In the parking garage my dad awkwardly told me about a printer he had for me in the car. I remember my uncle putting it in the truck before I got in but I can't remember why.  It was strange that I wasn't going home with dad. We hadn't lived together for nearly ten years but now we were really living alone.

I rode home with my uncle in silence. I don't remember what happened when I got home. I probably slept or cried. I can't remember if there was anyone with me or if I stayed by myself. I became numb until the funeral.

Everyone told me I looked like her. They told me I was beautiful, that she'd be so proud. They said how much they missed her, how much she'd meant to them. They cried. I saw my father cry for the first time. I held his hand and walked with him down the aisle to the front pew. I couldn't find her urn at first, there were so many flowers. And when I did I couldn't stop staring. Such as small vessel.

I know people spoke about her, talking about how wonderful she'd been but I couldn't hear them. I felt like I'd done all of it before. Six months earlier my grandmother had died. Front pew, crying, stories of her...it was so familiar and overwhelming. I couldn't focus on anything. I don't even know how I got there.

And then it was over and I had to figure out how to live without my mom. Maybe for the first time, I allowed myself to feel grief and sadness. I mourned. I remembered.

Each year since has been a little different. The first year dad and I tried to have a Thanksgiving celebration with my uncle. After that we decided it was just food on a day and we could do that any time. We could share our thanks with each other any day of the year.

It's never actually been on Thanksgiving until this year. I can hear my dad telling a well wishing nurse "What do I have to be thankful for?" while we waited...and how hard it was to remember.

Some days I listen to music she used to like and sing along, picturing her singing in the kitchen while she did the dishes. Or I see her face smiling at me from behind a book. I see her comforting a scared child or helping them understand a math problem in class. I make her banana bread and let my house smell like home again. I can hear her bracelets clinking together as she moved, smell her perfume and see her thin hair glowing in the sun. I remember her voice and her laugh and the sound of her tears. I remember everything.

And I'm thankful I can.