Long time, no write. Just feel very mentally “still” right now. Hoping to not jinx or jar the zygote, while battening down the hatches for the next month and a half. As my father so kindly reminded me, yesterday was the official “beginning of the end” for Mama. Dr O’Rourke (who I not so fondly referred to as the HCP, or hope-crushing-pagan) lived up to his title yet again, and told Mama and Daddy bluntly in that special way he had that Mama had less than six months to live. I had forgotten this little date – August 13, 2007 – but Daddy insisted on ruminating through each horrid little detail until he had ensured that everything I had shoved away was completely unearthed and raw as if it had just happened. Today, I had my defenses up, however – when he started heading down the same path, the same conversation, I point-blank told him that I didn’t want to talk about it… now or ever. I explained to him that I’m working diligently to blur those grisly, wretched details from a year ago, and that I don’t need or want to talk about it.
Am I in denial? Is this an avoidance technique? I’ve had this sadistic urge to go back and read my journals from a year ago… why? Do I really want to remember it all? Do I really want to relive everything like it’s happening again? My mother dying once is enough. What would be accomplished by reliving it? But how much compartmentalization is too much?
I’m waiting still. Waiting for October 1st. On October 1st, all of the horrible one-year anniversaries will be over. The year anniversary of the final trip to Duke. The last family dinner. The first seizure. The discovery of the brain tumor. The psychological anguish that goes with making that first call to Hospice. The birth of Maggie, and watching Mama hold her and knowing that I wouldn’t have a mother to hold my baby. That last weekend, when the whole world went crazy, and began blurring, spinning out of control. All the people, the agendas, the needs of everyone else when all we cared about were the needs of Mama. The horrible, gut-wrenching, nauseating details of those last 48 hours. Even now, my throat is closing up and I can feel the bile churning and the tears rising.
On October 1st, my first trimester will be over. My chances of having a second miscarriage will drop dramatically. My worry will ease a bit… I think.
I always loved September. Loved fall, the changing leaves, the occasional and treasured chill in the air, the crunchy smell of smoke and campfires. Fall was Mama’s favorite season – she taught us to acknowledge the loveliness of the colors, and our annual family fall picnic was punctuated by silly traditions (apple pies from the grocery store bakery and Coke in a glass bottle from the little mountain store). But I don’t love it this year. I don’t know if I’ll ever love it again. Perhaps October will be better, but from where I’m sitting, September is looking like shit.
I hate this. I miss my mother. I don’t have the words for how much I miss my mother.