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Mar. 22nd, 2005 12:06 amSometimes I get so angry that she's gone.
If she hadn't been so pig-headed about taking time off from work for her health, that the cancer would have been found much sooner then it actually had. If she had taken better care of herself. If she hadn't been so goddamn stubborn. If she had listened to me about going to see the doctor.
About a month or so ago, I was very ill. A particularly nasty virus swept through my office and laid quite a few of us low for a handful of days. With my compromised immune system, I was hit first and hardest. Out for three days, vomiting and weak, I could do nothing but lie in bed, wanting my mother to come take care of me.
She didn't come into my room to lay a cool hand across my forehead. She didn't sing me little songs to help me sleep. She didn't bring me cold ginger ale and cauliflower with cheese sauce (one of the only things I'll eat when I'm sick). She didn't brush my hair or bring me a damp washcloth for my face.
My mother wasn't there.
I laid in bed and shook violently with a fever, crying almost constantly because I wanted nothing more in this world then for her to be there. Right then was when the reality I had been fighting since November washed over me: my mother was never coming back.
And that was the first time I actually felt abandoned since she died.
In my heart, I know it wasn't really her fault. Some things can't be helped and if it wasn't that one thing, it would have been another. My family isn't terribly long-lived, after all. But it doesn't change that nasty little whispering voice inside of me.
She left you here and she's never coming back.
I know that this is also part and parcel of the grieving process, but I just want it to be over. I don't want to forgot, not that I think I ever could, but I just want this pain to stop. Going through my days, I can almost forget that it happened.
I wake up, I go to work, I fuck around. I endlessly drive my car and deal with its quirks. I feed the animals. I brush my hair. I bring home innumerable shiny things. I discover new and throw away old. I smoke pot, I drink wine. I squabble with complete strangers online and I laugh hysterically with my friends. I grow, I change, I learn.
But every once in a while, something will coyly creep up behind me and remind me of what's missing. Some integral piece of the puzzle has fallen on the floor and gotten kicked under the table for the cats to bat around in the wee hours of the night.
And that sucks.
If she hadn't been so pig-headed about taking time off from work for her health, that the cancer would have been found much sooner then it actually had. If she had taken better care of herself. If she hadn't been so goddamn stubborn. If she had listened to me about going to see the doctor.
About a month or so ago, I was very ill. A particularly nasty virus swept through my office and laid quite a few of us low for a handful of days. With my compromised immune system, I was hit first and hardest. Out for three days, vomiting and weak, I could do nothing but lie in bed, wanting my mother to come take care of me.
She didn't come into my room to lay a cool hand across my forehead. She didn't sing me little songs to help me sleep. She didn't bring me cold ginger ale and cauliflower with cheese sauce (one of the only things I'll eat when I'm sick). She didn't brush my hair or bring me a damp washcloth for my face.
My mother wasn't there.
I laid in bed and shook violently with a fever, crying almost constantly because I wanted nothing more in this world then for her to be there. Right then was when the reality I had been fighting since November washed over me: my mother was never coming back.
And that was the first time I actually felt abandoned since she died.
In my heart, I know it wasn't really her fault. Some things can't be helped and if it wasn't that one thing, it would have been another. My family isn't terribly long-lived, after all. But it doesn't change that nasty little whispering voice inside of me.
She left you here and she's never coming back.
I know that this is also part and parcel of the grieving process, but I just want it to be over. I don't want to forgot, not that I think I ever could, but I just want this pain to stop. Going through my days, I can almost forget that it happened.
I wake up, I go to work, I fuck around. I endlessly drive my car and deal with its quirks. I feed the animals. I brush my hair. I bring home innumerable shiny things. I discover new and throw away old. I smoke pot, I drink wine. I squabble with complete strangers online and I laugh hysterically with my friends. I grow, I change, I learn.
But every once in a while, something will coyly creep up behind me and remind me of what's missing. Some integral piece of the puzzle has fallen on the floor and gotten kicked under the table for the cats to bat around in the wee hours of the night.
And that sucks.
