My mom has died. I’ll probably fill you in a bit more further down the road (almost as fun as a birth story, I’m sure), but for now just know this: she passed away Tuesday afternoon, almost a week after she started to really shift and we came together to keep vigil. She died at home, in her living room, with us by her side and a favorite young caregiver who knew exactly how to guide us through it. It was no easier after almost two years of knowing it would happen this way. My mother is gone.
Yesterday, David and I stopped by Wegmans to get some groceries after a long day spent funeral arranging with Paul and Sarah. I need to stay away from stores for a while, I think, because here’s what happened every single time I passed an older person: “Oh, you’re alive!” I’d think. “Good for you.” Or, “Ah! Still alive for your kids? Must be nice!”
I doubt that’s healthy.
I took the girls shopping today for dresses to wear next week. It was a sweet mother-and-daughters day, and their first time in stores since coronavirus moved into Central PA. But as we parked in the shopping center, a woman about my age and another lady who was presumably her mother walked in front of our car, chatting closely. I looked at them and felt angry.
Maybe I shouldn’t?
This afternoon I picked up the phone to call my mom. It was sheer habit: my days revolved around the medication updates, the visits, the every-couple-hours phone calls. Except, you know, I don’t do any of that anymore. So I called my brother instead.
I think that part’s good, at least.
I am so, so sad. It’s all I can really say right now. We’d grown up a lot together as mother and daughter these past twelve years or so, and I was really looking forward to seeing what could happen next. But I’m on my own now, parent-wise, and I’m to raise my own children without her guidance or ear or one-liners (or, um, Netflix password). This is going to be hard, you guys.
We are going to miss her so much.