My Mom died again today, just a few hours ago. Let me explain, please. She actually died, that is, the official date of her death: May 20, 2022. What I mean is that today she died again, because today, as has happened so very many times in the last almost-six months, I forgot, just for a moment. I thought of her for some inconsequential thing that she would “get a kick out of,” and I knew she would, so I reached for my phone to call her…and then I remembered. Re-remembered. So, yes, my Mom died again today, as she has, thousands upon thousands of times over the last almost-six-months.
For those of you who are fortunate enough to have no idea what I am talking about (and here I mean the lucky ones who still have two living parents and zero dead ones) what it is to lose a parent–let alone two–is that the immensity of it is simply so MUCH that it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t makes sense, makes sense for a minute, then doesn’t make sense again. This is what grief IS. Or, at least, this is what my grief is, at least today, at least this time, at least in this minute. Too big. Not making sense. She is still dead. In the last several hours, for me this means that, yes, she died again today.
Realizing that one’s mother is dead (and here I use “one” euphemistically, because if I say “one” instead of my, it is a momentary respite from the most important fact here.) The fact that my Mom is dead, is so much easier to stomach, if it’s someone else’s Mom, not me, mine, etc. You understand. So, when “one” realizes their mother is dead, it is not a simple, easy, or uncomplicated task. It is, also, certainly not a fast process. At all.
As I was saying, at 11:23, May 20, 2022, the hardest thing that has ever happened thus far in my life happened. My Mom died. Her time of death was declared, officially, a little while later. The hospital/death certificate can’t record the time that we know she actually died, because the nurses have to record the “official” time as the time where they have checked her pulse (none) and her breathing (never again.) My brother and I know different. 11:23 p.m. Her last breath had happened, and she was capital D dead. Fuck.
To be fair to the nurses, they can’t record just any ole thing, so protocol, etc. must be followed. Protocol was followed. It’s official: my mother is dead.
Her death happened again, today, when I was struck by my urge to call her, talk to her about something (or nothing in particular would have been fine, too)…and then I remembered. She is, still, again, capital D.
It is a strange sensation. It is disorienting. I just saw her, or, well, I “just” saw her almost six months ago. Sure, she was in the hospital, surrounded by her kids and grand-kids, and, not to be forgotten, her husband of 42 years, my step-dad. So, yeah, I “just” saw her, in the hospital. Then the family all went home and came back, and then we saw her again for a second day, too. Then, on the third day, we all went home again, except, of course, my Mom, who, apparently is never going to go home (or anywhere) again. Weird.
A friend of mine, who lost her mother too, and then tragically also her sister within a short time of her Mom’s death, said it’s “confusing.” It’s the perfect word. It IS confusing. How could it not be? Your Mom, your rock, the only person who has known you your entire friggin’ life, who has carried you (probably), loved you (hopefully) and taught you absolutely everything you know about life and who you are and who you “should” be and who you could be is dead. Gone. Dead and gone. Huh? So, yes, confusing is the perfect word, really, as well as the understatement of the century. The world no longer makes sense, because the world has been turned upside down, and you with it. Me with it.
So, yes, after 5 months and three weeks, my Mom remains dead, and she died yet again today. I suspect she will live to die another day. Again.