They Say

They mean well. Who ever they are. They, for the sake of this blog, are articles written by the experts regarding my life experience right now. They inform me of the 5 stages of grief. All grief differs, but yet it is the same. Sounds like inane rhetoric to me, but yet, I totally understand the concept. How does losing my mom compare to others losing their mom? or dad? Some state that the grief of losing a child differs from the loss of a parent. I will accept that fact as truth, because I have not been there, nor do I want to be. Some say it differs because of the age of the of the loved one. In my case, it does not. My grief is not alleviated based on the fact my mom was 84. I've heard all the standard phrases."She lived a full life"...I know that. "She spent her last years happy with the grandkids"..I know that. "She was old"..I know that. "She had no quality of life stuck in that bed". I would say I know that, but I don't know that. She and I had sweet moments of laughter while she was in that bed. There was quality, but not in the perception of others from the outside looking in. For instance, when I fed her oatmeal for breakfast, and she wouldn't eat it as fast as I liked for her to, I looked at her, and asked," You don't really like oatmeal, do you?" And she replied back not skipping a beat, "I don't like it, but I'll eat it." Then the laughter from the both of us. Our quiet times at night, when we would get tickled at really nothing at all and just giggle and giggle with her sweet little toothless smile. When I would kiss her cheeks and forehead, and told her she was the best mom I could have hoped for, and she said, "Why, thank you". Quality.

I grieve for what was, not just for the last few years of my care of her . I grieve for the 6 year old me, who's mom took care of the the multiple relentless itching chigger bites behind the ears, by washing and applying the stinky medicine, all the while I squirmed and cried, as she yelled at me to sit still. The same 6 year old that enjoyed a delectable snack of crunchy dog food, and mom would have to hide it from me. I grieve for the 10 year old, who's father was in a awful car accident,with severe brain injury that devastated our little family of 3. But my mom sheltered me from the fallout of the situation of the hospital visits, and the lack of money that was heaved upon her. I grieve for her care when I never had to share the words, but she knew, when a male family member who was a child molester, molested me, and she kept me away from him from that day forward. It's a lifetime of love and care from my mom that I grieve, not just love and care I gave to her for the last years of her life.

My grief, I'm finding, is like a sore that is scabbing over. And then along comes a situation, or a comment, which is not meant to hurt, it's not bad or good, but nevertheless, it rips off the scab..and I'm left bleeding and hurting. So, I'm left with applying the ointment of tears, and trying for another day of living my life, without my mom. I wish "they" knew what to do for that.

Hit and Hurt

Ok..so, like, Z is new to this Google Blogger..so bear with me..

I never know when it's going to hit and hurt. This evening "it" was as I was attempting the task of a dog hair free clean bed.As I was headed up the stairs to my bedroom, I had in my hands the colorless white, queen size Downy fresh sheets. Ok, ok, they weren't Downy fresh, they were Purex lavender blossom fresh. Purex is within my broke-now budget. But, to be honest, I would still buy the Purex over Downy.
M.A.S.H - the good old 4077th, 70's show was on the t.v. The retro station. The shows I have watched through my entire life are now retro. I like retro and vintage, as it pertains to home decor and furniture, but not when it pertains to my life span. How quickly 55 years have vaporized into the past. Ho Hum.
 Anyway, in between watching Hawkeye Pierce and putting 5 lavender blossom smelling pillow cases on my 6 pillows, ..I figured out I was one pillow case short. I headed to the linen closet in my bedroom, opened the bi-fold door, and took a look at the massive stacks of linens. Ahhh, there we go..all of the folded white ones within eye range. I grab the first one, pull it out and open. I'm "Hit" with a lump in my throat a "Hurt" in my chest, and a tear down my face. As I'm looking down through the tear, I see my mom's "not quite finished" embroidered pillowcase. She has had it in her chest of drawer for years. Or as my mom pronounced the word, chester drawers.  I don't know why she never completed it. I turn around behind me to her hope chest. I push open the lock button, lift the lid, gently slip the pillowcase in, and close the lid. Grief is the IT, and it hits, I know not when, and it hurts. And I welcome it, and yet I hate it. Welcomed, because it reminds me of the fact that my mom was real and lived and was loved. And yet I hate it, because it reminds me of the fact that my mom was real, lived, was loved, and is gone.