Take A Look at Me Now July 16, 2010

The Mister and I returned to Minneapolis on Wednesday night.  During my stay in Bismarck there were many times when I had dangled the carrot of home for myself as one way to keep going when hospice care got especially tough.  For those nights when I looked at my reflection in the mirror and had to steel myself for whatever was coming, it was good to think of going back to “normal”.  (I’m using quotes for that because “normal” is just a concept and no one actually has experienced it.  When they do I’m sure that TLC will put it on a reality show and we’ll be riveted as we watch it fall apart.)

As we neared Minneapolis I did not get excited.  Instead I felt dread.  I already missed my sister, the Bear and Dad.  After two months of caring for Mom I didn’t feel ready to stop doing.  Pulling up in front of our house and walking inside I started to feel overwhelmed by sadness.  When that happened I didn’t understand it.  I know that The Mister didn’t but he’s used to me feeling ways that defy explanation.  So for him, we were already at “normal”.  Now I can look back and tell you what I think it was.  I was finally starting to mourn.  There had been tears during Mom’s illness and even during the planning of her funeral.  I’d cried writing an entry or two here.  What I hadn’t done is let the fact that Mom is gone sink in.  As I lay on our couch that night staring at nothing I realized that I don’t get to hug her again.  Her memory will always be with me but she won’t.  Ouch.

No longer did I have the buffer.  The noise of being busy was gone and the business of grieving had to finally start.  That first night home was rough and I wasn’t sure how I was going to be able to keep getting out of bed in the morning if it was just because it was what I was supposed to do and not because my family needed me to.  But I did.  And that sad, sappy scene from Sleepless in Seattle keeps coming to mind.  I can hear Tom Hanks describing how he got through his wife’s death and how he spoke of getting out of bed every morning and breathing in.  How he knew that the hurt would lessen if he just kept putting one foot in front of the other.  As I haven’t had that much experience with death, I’ve been finding that all I have to compare it to are scenes in movies.  Oh, and Genesis.  Phil Collins is singing to me when he wails “Against All Odds”, you know?

I’m getting off track here.  What I wanted to share was that I’m home.  I’m adjusting to it and I’m letting my heart break when it needs to.  While I hated that Mom had to live with ovarian cancer for five years and all that entails, that time really prepared me for this day.  Well, not this day specifically… but a day when she would be gone.  I feel support coming at me from every angle so I’m just going to keep moving because eventually it will get better.  And then some days it will be much, much worse but we’re not going to talk about that now.  Tom Hanks would frown and I think that Mom would, too.

Good night.

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