Taking care of the details

I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Soon I will be able to think about something else besides the queen mum. Yes, she is still running the show. So many details go with the death of a loved one. Friends and family to contact, some by phone (that is the hardest) some by social network (that is easier but so impersonal). I found out my dearest friend had committed suicide by an email. That was hard, the news coming that way. Is there a good way to find out about someone you love death? There is no good way.
Every day details. The newspaper, TV guide, dish, telephone, magazine subscriptions, dental insurance, AARP
insurance, give 30 day notice at apartment, send out memorial cards, put in an obit in the newspaper, change address, notify bank, credit cards, send back dish box, find a home for pet, go through all her papers, cards, pictures, she never threw away anything that belonged to her dead husband, have an petite estate sale, go through kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, closet, storage. Throwing away stuff, stuff and more stuff. Giving back the hearing aid she had just bought, returning the birthday and Christmas gifts she never saw or got to use. Donating to local charities, changing titles on car, cancelling her life. I’m almost done.
This is good, as I need to think about something else for a while. I need to forget and remember, to come back to the present, to brush my hair and wipe the sleep out of my eyes, to get out the big eye mirror and check for long black hairs that show up overnight on my chin. I want to be able to read a book, magazine, look someone in the eye without crying, and get my shoulders out of my ears. I want to feel it’s ok to take time to go swimming, take a yoga class, be nice to myself without feeling like I need to finish something first, enjoy my food instead of forgetting to eat and then eating too fast because I’m not paying attention to the food but the list that is going on inside my head.
Oh I’m not saying I’m almost finished, I still have boxes and garbage bags full of medical supplies and medicine and photos and cards to got through but I will do them at my pace not dealing with a deadline.
And when I’m back in my body in the here and now I am going to do something about our local nursing home.

My Town?

I have lived in mum’s gentrified, adorable, PNW town for six years. Besides being her caregiver, I have had jobs working at a hotel, cleaning houses, and pet sitting. I haven’t met a lot of people but I took some creative writing classes and swam at the local pool (lap swimmers are very unfriendly). I was hurt when mum died and the only people who called to offer sympathy were two of her old local friends. I am grateful that my old friends called from around the country. No one that I had met in this quaint, almost all white bread, politically correct, GMO sensitive town felt the need to call. They are so aware here, they are too correct.
Here is one example of my limited exchange with “my” community.
For almost four years I have known a couple in town that I once worked for as their housekeeper, I have babysat their animal, I have the keys to their house even though I no longer houseclean for them, I have the keys because they have been known to call me up to check on house, animal whatever. I have had Thanksgiving dinner with them, the wife and I have girl dinners together. I am a Facebook friends with both of them so they could read about what I am up too. The husband calls me up to ask me for some help (they always pay generous) and during our conversation after I assure him I would be happy to take care of his concerns he says to me “I hear your mom died, were you close?” My heart skipped a beat and I’m sure my face turned bright red (good thing we were talking on the phone) as I replied “Yes we were, I’ve been her caregiver for the last six years, that is why I moved here.” With no hesitation he goes back to talking about his problems. My town. Am I concerned he might see this? Not really, I doubt he would even think I was talking about him.

Full Moon

I always have a hard time sleeping when there is a full moon. I don’t know why that is. I know a woman who says her hair gets weird during the full moon. And emotional, I get emotional during the full moon, maybe because of a lack of sleep. One time my sister, mother and I went outside when the moon was full and the three of us howled. That’s a good memory. I’d like to dance by the light of the moon. Soon, this weight will lighten and I’ll be there.

What is

Should I tell people the truth when they ask ” Did she suffer,I hope she didn’t suffer?” I know they want me to say “No, she didn’t suffer, she went peacefully.” But that is not the truth. I tried my best to give her a “good death.” Now I don’t even know if that is possible unless you go quickly. What difference does it make now if she suffered or not, if she was here I think she would say, “Everything is fine.” She was good at saying what she thought you wanted to hear. She knew how to keep secrets. I didn’t learn that from her, I don’t know how to say what I think you want to hear. I don’t know how to keep secrets.

Blue can mean so many different things.

Marvin looked in the mirror and thought, “I’m old”. He had been looking at his face for seventy-five years. He barely recognized himself. His face had sunken in and his skin was pasty. He stared at his swollen nose and bushy eyebrows through lifeless eyes.
He was old and ready to die. His wife had died. The dog he got to keep him company died. His friends were gone. Even the neighbors had moved or died.
It was time. He knew it. He felt it. Wearing this attitude he crossed the street without looking in either direction.
When he bumped into the VW bug at the STOP sign he fell to the ground.
Marvin lay on his side, eyes closed. He knew he wasn’t seriously hurt, definitely not dead. He had banged his head. He felt the pounding behind his eyes. “Are you alright?” he heard her yell. He decided to open his eyes even thought he didn’t want to. It was so bright he thought maybe he had died after all, and was in heaven.
“Color,” he screamed. “I can see color.” Tears filled his eyes making the colors blend. Everything was beautiful.
Marvin let the girl help him up. “What color are your eyes?” he asked her. “Why blue, my eyes are blue,” she replied.
“Blue, beautiful blue, “ he cried. All his life he had been colorblind. Everything the same color, just in different shades. “Thank you so much,” he whispered.
Suddenly he didn’t feel old anymore. Smiling, he stared at the blue sky and crossed the street. A truck hit him. Hard.

I love looking at stats, who knew?

I used to be a disc jockey on the radio; I usually did the all night shift on weekends or early morning fill in. I wasn’t a serious jock, I was there by accident (nepotism) and I loved music. I enjoyed playing good music that the audience might be hearing for the first time or play a set that drew a picture or put together a segue which made you think it was one long piece of music.

The thing I liked was I saw this as instant art, done and then blown into the cosmos, having been told that radio waves just keep going.

When I started writing this blog this current time I just needed an outlet for my emotions, a way of breathing out the pain. I wanted to relate to others who have gone through the same thing; I just didn’t want a hug. I could do this with Facebook and a blog. I didn’t write the whole thing out on fb because I don’t feel it’s the right avenue for such talk and I figured if anyone wanted to know more they would go to my blog page, and they did. It felt good. But what really felt good is when I started looking at the stat page and saw that there were people in other countries looking at my page, for some reason this made me really happy. I guess it’s the idea of relating somewhere other then where you are. I live in a small town.

If you have looked at my blog you have maybe noticed I have no idea what I am doing. I only know how to print in one size, put a picture in the middle or the top, can’t figure out tags, so it is very basic. I haven’t been editing or revising my writing, just throwing it on the wall, like spaghetti. Somebody from Italy read one of my pieces, ITALY. How cool is that?

What to say

I realize I have too many people that don’t know that the queen mum has passed. She has gotten all these birthday and Christmas cards that need to be responded too. I am overwhelmed at the thought of having to call or write them at this moment. I ask my warrior sister if she will write an obituary and she agrees and says she will send me her version and I can fill in.

This reminds me of a short piece I wrote a few years ago about Grace and obits. Here it is.

I  knock on mum’s apartment door,  then use my key to enter; she is horizontal on her yellow and blue couch, the pillows barely propping her up. Her body is angled to the couches edge, I’ve stopped asking her to sit up or lay straight.

“What do you think of this?” she asks as she hands me an obituary she has cut out of the paper? Mom reads the paper everyday and the first thing she reads is the obituaries.

I take the obit, find my glasses and start to read.

On October 13, 2009, Denise Hackin passed away peacefully at home after successfully beating mad cow disease only to be eaten by a polar bear. The obit has a picture of Denise.

“Can you believe that picture?” my mother asks. “What is with that outfit?”

I don’t know how to answer this question I’m still imaging what it would be like to be eaten by a polar bear.

“What would you like your obit to say?” I ask as she goes back to her newspaper.

“Forget it, she replies, ‘all the good ones have been taken.”

Humor and heartache

When the queen mum fell down on her way to the cafe for her birthday dinner, I think we both knew there would be no happy ending.  I ran into the restaurant and asked them to call 911 and then went back to her. There she was on the ground in the dark parking lot, when only minutes before we had been laughing and talking about what we wanted to order. The waitress and owner came out to see if there was anything they could do to help and mum looked up at the waitress and asked “what are your specials tonight?” So the waitress bent down and read them to her. 

When the ambulance came and got her on the stretcher she looked at me (with that look) and said very stern like “no selfies.” I kept my promise, but it was hard because of course I wanted just one more image to cherish.