I’ve been trying to write about grief and about losing my mother. The words we choose are so strange. Losing. I didn’t LOSE her the way you lose a cardigan when you are too drunk to remember to take it off the back of your chair when you leave the bar. I was there. I saw her go. I know that she is gone. GONE. Another one. Is she GONE? I don’t know. She could be sitting right next to me, but her physical self is no longer here. I can’t hold her hand. I can hope for one more quick smile. When you comfort me… don't say RELIEF… as in IT MUCH BE SUCH A RELIEF. don't say BETTER PLACE. don't say I MEAN AFTER ALL YOU'VE BEEN THROUGH... It robs me of my loss and of my grief. You are trying to make yourself feel better maybe by trying to imagine that her death doesn't hurt as much as you think it might. Your desire to ...
This is the year that my mom dies. I mean, most likely. I’m not hurrying it along but I am aware that it is, realistically, a thing that will occur. It is early January of 2022. She entered hospice care in November of 2021 meaning the medical community thinks that she has less than six months to live. That’s why they let you into hospice. For me hospice means that she has a few extra pairs of eyes on her with the mandate of keeping her comfortable. And it means that I can start thinking about her death in a very real and concrete way. I want to trust the hospice nurses when they tell me that she isn’t in pain and even though I’ve asked them to come on board for their professional opinion, I find I have a hard time believing them. I think it is because I personally am in pain a lot of the time right now. I’m 51. My hips hurt and my back hurts and sometimes my knees hurt and when I’m in pain, I am not always wi...
The link absolutely works. I love seeing the photos and I think the longer version of the piece works too.
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