Happy Anniversary
My sister and I used to have this ritual where one of us would call the other one up on July 29th and say "Happy Anniversary" as a bittersweet tribute to our mom. She called me this morning to ask for a chiropractor referral and the number to my dentist. And it wasn't until we were well into talking about something else that she said: "Hey, isn't this the day that Mom died?"
This is the first year since July 2000 that I haven't been consumed with counting down to "that date" and to be honest, it still feels a bit inappropriate not be giving it the usual center stage. Or maybe it's just strange for no other reason than what I can only describe here as a delayed reaction to having recently let go of something intangible about that whole experience.
So I know I say these things but it still feels weird. And honestly, it feels weird to say I've let go of something knowing that if I think hard enough on it, that I can still recreate those last few days as a shutter of really bizzare vignettes: the first one being that morning that Todd and I got to the hospital and I saw her in that bed with all the tubes. I also remember that what Todd was wearing at that time were his trademark Chuck Taylors and that he couldn't find any clean socks to put on before we left my apartment. And for some odd reason, I had it stuck in my head that things would be better for me if only he'd worn some socks. And I cringed in advance assuming that my dad would probably give him that disapproving look that he always gives when he expects differently of something. But as much as I worried about it, he acted quite the opposite and ended up welcoming Todd into the fold of our family that day. Even so. What I remember is the socks. And isn't it strange the things you consider important in those critical moments.
I remember that it was my sister who first came up behind me that day at the hospital and we both just stood there in shock as if in a movie and I imagine that we kept waiting there for the soundtrack reel to kick in. They had her on a morphine drip so she was lucid for most of the day. And when I introduced her to Todd for the first time, she saw him as Paulo, my best friend from college who she probably hadn't seen since we were Juniors or Seniors some 10 years before. And whenever the nurse would come in to take her vitals and ask how she was doing, my mom would smile while holding the nurse's hand and say what she always used to say when you asked her how she was doing: "Well, I'm doing just fine. But how are you doing? And is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"
She was only supposed to live 2 hours that day but she held on through the night and I stayed there with her in the hospital until I just couldn't be there anymore. I bit my lip as I said my goodbyes and then Todd drove me home because I didn't want to be there to watch her die. I remember waking up the next morning and leaving Todd in the bed while I went into the living room to lie by myself on the couch ( all the while knowing that she was gone ). I couldn't have been out there more than 15 minutes when the phone rang. It was my dad: "Stace, I'm calling because Mommy's gone. My angel went up to heaven." And that is the only thing I remember him saying.
It took a really long time to get over being consumed with anger about all the things that changed after she died. And it probably took even longer to distance myself from it enough so that I could begin erasing what had happened from my immediate and everyday conscience. There are still days I question if I'll ever be able to completely walk away from it without feeling some trace amount of guilt or anger about how much things changed in our family once she was gone. Or I wonder if I'll ever stop doing that pointless compare and contrast exercise where I keep having a debate with myself about how things would be different: if only she hadn't died.
I write these things while knowing that I had forgotten about an intention I made in February until I started writing this entry. The intention being that I wanted to find a way to effortlessly release the pain and grief I've been holding onto since she got sick and eventually died. And I wanted to figure out a way to do it that honored my memory of her as I worked on restoring that long-forgotten belief that it would be okay to go on without her. There are days where I still feel expected to just keep defaulting back into that same, contrived definition of who I assumed I was supposed to be after she wasn't there anymore. Though what I'm trying to remember in those moments is that moving on doesn't mean I ever have to forget her.