Why does six months seem so much more significant than five months or seven months?
So little has changed, and so much has. I’m still hurting, a lot. Every day. Especially when it slows down, when I’m by myself at night. But I’ve also done the work – I’ve been diligent about letting my feelings and my tears come, and spending time processing and remembering.
I remember that night so vividly. Not the what happened before she died, what happened that evening before I went to sleep – it was just another day – but the what happened when I woke up in the middle of the night knowing she was gone.
Because I knew she was gone. I woke up a little before 2am, and I knew something had happened. Or at least in hindsight I know I knew. Then, in the middle of the night, I just felt like I should go check on her, see if everything was okay. I felt that something had happened. But then the rational part of my brain kicked in, and told me I had just heard a loud noise outside, so I went back to sleep.
My dad came in just after two and said “Katye. It’s your mom.” And that was it. He didn’t have to say any more. I knew she was gone. So I walked over to their room, and I stood by her bed, and I held her hand, like I did when she was alive. And I told her I loved her, and I smoothed back her hair, like I did when she was alive. And I kissed her cheek like I did when she was alive. And I closed her eyes just a little more, because it seemed wrong for them to be open, even a little bit. (It was the same, but different. The big vein that had been popping out of her forehead the last few days, when she was struggling to pump blood and oxygen, was gone. She felt a little colder.)
And then we waited. We waited for my sister to drive over. We waited for the hospice nurse. We waited for the funeral home. As we waited my dad dozed off in his chair, and I sent in a few things for work (so I wouldn’t have to deal with them later that day), and I sent an email to my friend Alex who was going to spread the news. And we waited.
The hospice nurse came, and pronounced her time of death, and took out her catheter. She pointed out the rings on my mom’s hand, so I maneuvered them off her finger. (Her hand felt even colder.)
And that was it. We sat in the living room as the funeral home people came and got her body. They wheeled it out, not in a visible body bag, but covered by something that looked a lot like a piano cover.
We sat for awhile longer, and then agreed to sleep for a bit and then go to brunch together later. I ate a bowl of cereal and then went to bed. I think I slept for a few hours, but I can’t really remember. I know that by the time I got to bed it was about 5am, and the sky was starting to lighten.
Somehow writing this down is cathartic. It helps me step outside the memory, step away from reliving it into just remembering it. It keeps me from replaying it in my mind, wanting not to lose the memory. Because even though it was a landmark day, it still felt pretty ordinary. Death, in the end, is pretty mundane.
I love you, mom. I tell you “I love you very much,” and I hear your response: “I know.”
So little has changed, and so much has. I’m still hurting, a lot. Every day. Especially when it slows down, when I’m by myself at night. But I’ve also done the work – I’ve been diligent about letting my feelings and my tears come, and spending time processing and remembering.
I remember that night so vividly. Not the what happened before she died, what happened that evening before I went to sleep – it was just another day – but the what happened when I woke up in the middle of the night knowing she was gone.
Because I knew she was gone. I woke up a little before 2am, and I knew something had happened. Or at least in hindsight I know I knew. Then, in the middle of the night, I just felt like I should go check on her, see if everything was okay. I felt that something had happened. But then the rational part of my brain kicked in, and told me I had just heard a loud noise outside, so I went back to sleep.
My dad came in just after two and said “Katye. It’s your mom.” And that was it. He didn’t have to say any more. I knew she was gone. So I walked over to their room, and I stood by her bed, and I held her hand, like I did when she was alive. And I told her I loved her, and I smoothed back her hair, like I did when she was alive. And I kissed her cheek like I did when she was alive. And I closed her eyes just a little more, because it seemed wrong for them to be open, even a little bit. (It was the same, but different. The big vein that had been popping out of her forehead the last few days, when she was struggling to pump blood and oxygen, was gone. She felt a little colder.)
And then we waited. We waited for my sister to drive over. We waited for the hospice nurse. We waited for the funeral home. As we waited my dad dozed off in his chair, and I sent in a few things for work (so I wouldn’t have to deal with them later that day), and I sent an email to my friend Alex who was going to spread the news. And we waited.
The hospice nurse came, and pronounced her time of death, and took out her catheter. She pointed out the rings on my mom’s hand, so I maneuvered them off her finger. (Her hand felt even colder.)
And that was it. We sat in the living room as the funeral home people came and got her body. They wheeled it out, not in a visible body bag, but covered by something that looked a lot like a piano cover.
We sat for awhile longer, and then agreed to sleep for a bit and then go to brunch together later. I ate a bowl of cereal and then went to bed. I think I slept for a few hours, but I can’t really remember. I know that by the time I got to bed it was about 5am, and the sky was starting to lighten.
Somehow writing this down is cathartic. It helps me step outside the memory, step away from reliving it into just remembering it. It keeps me from replaying it in my mind, wanting not to lose the memory. Because even though it was a landmark day, it still felt pretty ordinary. Death, in the end, is pretty mundane.
I love you, mom. I tell you “I love you very much,” and I hear your response: “I know.”
Yes. I'm glad you wrote this down.
ReplyDeleteYou will always remember.
ReplyDelete