July 8, 1938 – October 21, 2007
Only a few days ago, I sat in this very chair, writing about accepting the aging of my mother, about how tough it was to look at her and realize she was suddenly “old”.
Today, I mourn.
The call came right after I got home from the dog park, I hadn’t even cleaned up yet, standing in my bathroom, flip-flop clad feet still dusty, washing the grit and dog slobber off my hands.
I knew something was wrong the instant I answered the phone, Tom (Mom’s husband) was upset. I figured she was back in the hospital.
When he said it was a bad day, a really, really bad day I knew it wasn’t the hospital.
She died sometime during the night – passing away peacefully in her sleep.
And I am bouncing between those extremes of shock and disbelief, and simply falling into pieces.
I don’t know how I am going to tell my kids that Grandma isn’t here anymore.
I talked to her on the phone on Friday. She sounded better, chipper, positive. Things were improving and she was feeling better. I told her I would call again on Sunday.
I make the phone calls I don’t want to make, arrange a flight I don’t want to fly, start thinking about what needs done at work in order for me to take the time off, and a million other pieces of busy work that serve both as constant reminder and distraction.
And the tears flow.
Not tears for her, but tears for my loss, for my children’s loss – and I let them come.