Just when I get used to the new “normal,” the rug is ripped out from under me again. I've written an update on Mom here.
This weekend marks one year from her move into the nursing home.
What do I do with this ulcer of sadness? I know it’s not honoring Mom to be mopey and depressed, waiting for people to ask what’s wrong and how she’s doing, polishing the rocks of worry and grief, carrying a rain cloud over my head like an umbrella.
Bloom where I’m planted, that’s what she’d tell me.
Smile.
Love the people around me.
Let the experience shape me, make me emotionally deeper (like hose water in the sand box, when we used to build sand castles with moats).
Be kind. That's what she'd do.
I don’t know if I’m sadder for Mom or Dad or Olivia or Ian or Alex or Elliot. Or myself.
I miss Mom. Our friendship is a memory; what’s left is surface level and prescriptive. Friendship still provides context for our interactions, but we can’t share what we used to, like girlfriends. I miss that. I miss her input. I miss her insight. I miss her perspective. I miss her jokes.
I feel the sadness in my sinuses: pressure in hollow places. My head aches. I remind myself to exhale big breaths. I need another good cry.
Is this what a brain tumor feels like?
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