Today I got a Facebook memory reminder from a year ago – a memory that hit me right in my guts.
My mom came to live with us January of last year…Joe and I packed a tearful, sick, unwilling person into a car with three cats and drove across the country on the worst trip I’ve ever been on. It was a full time job taking care of her – physically, emotionally, mentally. From the minute I got up to the minute I fell asleep – even in my dreams – I was focused on keeping her alive with all my might.
A year ago today, Joe and I took one night to get away. ONE night away from the caretaking abyss during that nightmare year. I worried about her the whole time, while I simultaneously posted triumphant-looking photos on Facebook of a day where we tried to pack in all the activities and leisure we could.
I still remember the constant texts. I was actually grateful for those because it meant mom was alive and coherent. I remember the phone call on the pier I had with her discussing a new symptom, asking her clarifying questions to determine if it was an emergency. I don’t remember the pier at all, other than we were there. I remember the tightness in my chest while I lay in bed in our hotel room. I could hear the ocean and the waves from inside our room. Instead of peace, I imagined the waves would rise up, cross the beach and the parking lot, and engulf me. Maybe back then I just wished they would. So the pain and the worry would stop. I did not sleep well that night. All I could think about was getting back home to the sad, ugly circus that was my life.
And the note you see here…the note that will forever override all memories I have of this trip. At this time last year mom was so un-tethered and confused, she didn’t understand how long I would be gone. Minutes seemed like hours to her, and a whole day was an eternity. So I wrote her this note…so she would know how long she had to hold on until she saw me again. She became like a small child in that way – a small child who watched Fox News. But there was something so comforting about that note to her that she kept it on her mirror and never took it off.
Five months after this trip she would pass away in our home. I didn’t remove that note until April of this year, when I was so overwhelmed with the thought of the grief continuing that I chose to shove it angrily into a box, along with an attempt to shove my feelings in with it.
I am beginning to understand the depths of grief. There is no box in existence that can hold it.