A Mere Coping.
“The very fact that a general problem has gripped and assimilated the whole of a person is a guarantee that the speaker has really experienced it, and perhaps gained something from his sufferings. He will then reflect the problem for us in his personal life and thereby show us the truth” (Carl Jung)
“Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going, no feeling is final” (Rainer Marie Rilke)
A mere coping mechanism.
I’m trying to take care of myself as best as possible, but there are a few things that I have to get off my chest. I didn’t realize how much chaos I had pent up inside of me until I started writing. I think in order for me to resolve this internal conflict, I’m going to have to start from the beginning of where I think things went wrong. To disentangle it from the source and to not neglect the small details that may inhibit me in the future. Ultimately, to reach my peak potential, and to expose my vulnerability at my own accord. The purpose of this isn’t to blame, but to achieve the inner peace that comes with forgiveness.
I find it easier to reflect if I write to someone. It helps me recollect and to include details as if they were not common knowledge to anyone but myself. So, for the purpose of this task, I will write to you. Someone I’ve always wanted to express these things to, but never got the chance.
Mom,
On the day Dad passed away, you shut down. You said that it wasn’t fair that he left you alone to raise your three daughters. You failed to be a sense of stability and someone dependable. I understand that grief is the purest expression of love and proof that someone’s existence was worth being; however, it caused you to neglect the people who loved you in the present.
Two weeks later, you sent us back to school. I went on with my life and acted as if nothing happened. I spoke to no one, which in turn achieved what I wanted. There were no opportunities for people to question my sabbatical, and things seemed relatively normal. The only difference was that I couldn’t sleep alone at night, and I ate lunch in my calculus teacher’s room.
You forced us to keep living, meanwhile, you couldn’t get out of bed. Our grieving was irrelevant, and I never wanted to cry in front of you.
This went on for too long. You lost a lot of weight and refused to do anything but watch old family videos. I would bring food to your room, hoping that it would be gone by the time I got back, but that was rarely the case.
In December, you called an ambulance for the pressure you felt in your chest. You thought you were having a heart attack and got scared. It wasn’t a bad guess. Edema can be a precursor to heart failure; however, you had pleural effusion. They drained 250ml from your lungs via a syringe through the intercostal space. When you came home, we took care of you. A little while after, you developed a cough. Not because of a common cold, but because of a disease. It progressively sounded worse, and we urged you to get looked at. This went on for months, and by the summer, we had another scare.
Hydrothorax and Hydropericardium. Commonly caused by an increase in hydrostatic pressure, or hypoproteinemia, yours was due to the previous removal of your lymph nodes. The buildup of fluid in these tissues was sampled and sent to a lab to be tested for a relapse.
The results came back positive for the presence of cancer cells. You were diagnosed terminally ill with approximately 2–5 years left. You then accepted a progressive chemo treatment in the form of a pill and hid those details from us.
After I got my license, I would take you to your appointments, but you refused to let me sit in whenever the doctor spoke with you. I didn’t want to stress you out, so even though I respected it, I became suspicious.
I began to fight with you more frequently, and in a particularly heated argument, you revealed that you only had 2 years left to live. I immediately started crying, and you watched me. It was definitely not how I wanted to find out, and I am sure that is not how you wanted to tell me.
We didn’t talk about it after that, and after you finished your will, you told me to put it somewhere safe, so I stuck it under my mattress.
Now, there are several things that I don’t recall, but I think I can describe them sequentially if I reflect on the months, along with the analysis of my brief journal entries at the time.
August
They said that the pill was no longer effective, and they wanted to administer something more intensive. You had to get chemo through an IV every other week, and I would take you. You lost all your hair by the end of the month, and you bought some new headscarves.
I remember when you lost your hair for the first time ~ 11 years ago, and I cried when I saw you.
September
I went to Guelph for school. I lived in a house with 9 other people and started working at a cat cafe downtown. I was constantly running around, and I never had time to relax or visit. You would call me and update me on your wellbeing and I would entertain you with stories about my strange encounters.
October
“Since mom’s got stage 4, her oncologist told her she’d be on chemo for the rest of her life. When I picked her up from her appointment today, she told me that she was going to stop treatment because she feels that she has no quality of life. Now that I think about it, I’m kind of glad Dad’s not here because this probably would have stressed him out. I feel at peace, though. It will be nice seeing her happy and full of life for once. Although I’ve been feeling a little melancholy, I think the timing will be right.”
November
For some reason, you became fixated with the idea of me getting a new car, to which I was easily persuaded. We figured out how much I would have to work each week to afford it, and to have it paid off by the time I completed vet school. Although it took me a while to commit, I can say now that I am glad that I did.
When I came down to pick up the car, I noticed something different in you. It had been a couple of weeks since you stopped the treatment, and there was an extreme change in your energy and overall demeanour. It caught me off guard, and I wrote about it that night:
“Mom’s been off chemo for 2 weeks, and I feel like I never knew her. In all aspects, I would describe her as polar opposite of what she was before. She’s calm, soft-spoken, and slow to anger. She smiles more and jokes around. She actually wants to be around me, and I feel terrible for not seeing this before. For the majority of my life, she has been suffering, and now I finally have the chance to experience the beautiful person Dad fell in love with. It’s going to hurt even more if she passes away in this state because I’ve treated her as though she were highly neurotic without cause and I’ve condemned her for qualities that weren’t even her own…”
December
Christmas came quickly, and I was very excited to come home. It was the 23rd, and I was finishing my last shift at the cafe before the break. I got worried because it started to snow really heavily during the day; however, you still insisted that I drive through the blizzard, which was surprising because it was unlike you to advise such recklessness.
The house smelled so good, and you had several things for me to taste. I guess that’s why you were excited for me to get back. I ate so many “bees’ knees”, and you did not stop baking. Your energy levels had increased, and you started to spend more time downstairs and less time alone.
January
I returned to Guelph.
February
Finishing a Sunday shift at the cafe, you texted me saying you were taken to the Bowmanville hospital by ambulance again. I drove home Monday morning and visited you. I could see the relief in your smile when you saw me, but you were to stay there until Friday.
“She doesn’t look too good. It’s crazy how quickly her health is deteriorating. Her hair is coming back because she’s off chemo now, but her body is retaining copious amounts of fluid. Yesterday, she told me that she doesn’t think she has a lot of time left. She came to the conclusion because she was having trouble swallowing.”
You asked me to pick up your chequebook from the church. You wanted to do some work in the hospital. On my way to visit, I stopped to get it, but the pastor was there. He asked me about you and told me that he was praying. He asked about school, and I told him that I dropped out. It was still a sore spot for me, so I didn’t want to talk about it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to begin with, but he asked me to take a seat, and there was no escape.
I explained that you didn’t have anyone else to visit you and how there were a lot of restrictions due to COVID.
I cried a lot when I thought about losing my scholarship, getting my grant converted to a loan, and not being able to apply to vet school anytime soon. I felt like I was confessing something, or maybe he was the first person to ask.
You always smiled when I entered your room. You asked me to take your dirty laundry home and to change your socks. While I was doing the latter, you questioned what I said to the pastor, and I got scared that he told you I dropped out of school, but instead, you showed me the text that he sent you:
“Sarah was just in. She’s a good girl. You can be proud of her. Praying for you and trusting you will be able to go home soon.”
I was relieved.
When Friday came, I took you home, and we sat in your bed and drank tea. We watched a documentary about Yakutia and a movie called Heidi. It was the first time we had spent quality time together.
“I’ve been so focused on getting my undergrad done while my mom is still living, that I realized I might miss out on her altogether.”
A few days later, you started to cough up blood. Admitted to Oshawa, I visited you daily. You were excited about the big room they gave you because it was private, and I could sit across from you. I changed your socks and watched you eat. After you finished, you told me to go home so that I didn’t have to drive in the dark.
Dad used to sing this song that said:
A mother’s love is a blessing,
No matter where you roam.
Keep her while she’s living,
You’ll miss her when she’s gone.
Love her as in childhood,
When feeble, old and grey,
For you’ll never miss a mother’s love
’til she’s buried beneath the clay.
It’s funny how I still remember these lyrics and hear his voice when I read them, but it made me realize what I lost. Only a mother cares if you’re out at night, driving in the dark, or if you get home safe. Why should anyone else bother to ask?
I used to get upset at the incessant nagging, but now I know that if I disappeared, it would be a while before anyone would notice.
“Every time I go to the hospital, I get annoyed. I don’t think it is resentment, but I can’t quite understand where it comes from. However, the moment I enter her room, it always dissipates and changes to sadness. She’s all alone, and she looks terrible. She couldn’t even change her own clothes into the ones I brought. I hate going and I hate seeing her. It’s draining, and it makes my heart beat fast. Every time her monitor changes, she asks, without fail, what her heart rate and blood pressure are, and she looks scared when she asks.”
March
I visited you on my 20th birthday. You said you were tired, so I watched you sleep for a bit. Before I left, you told me you would call me later. You know that I am not attached to my phone, but I kept it beside me the whole day, and you never did.
“I’ve been visiting mom daily, and she’s not looking good. She’s in an isolated room now, and I have to get suited up every time I go in. The gown, gloves, face shield, etc. She looks terrible, and it scares me. All of my problems seem so minute when I look at her. I just want her to come home. I can’t even begin to think about how complicated and painful things will be if she passes. She looks so sad all the time. When I went to drop off some juice boxes for her, she said happy birthday and immediately fell asleep. She was supposed to call me, but she never did. I have a sick feeling, like I’m about to hear bad news. I feel as though I’m already in denial. I couldn’t stop thinking about her for the rest of the day. It’s strange having a birthday without your parents around.”
A few days later, you were brought to the ICU. When I got there, you told me that you blacked out and you briefly lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
I bet you were wondering what we were doing at home. It had been a while since you saw Rebecca or Belle, so when I visited, I would take videos of you to send to them. Something was definitely off because in the last video I took of you, you seemed completely defeated, and I had to remind you to tell them that you loved them.
“Hi girls, see you guys soon, just feeling a little sick, hopefully I get better… Love you guys.”
You stopped texting me. I rarely got an answer, and they told me you weren’t eating. On top of that, things seemed to be getting more infantile. You asked me to change your socks, but you got upset when they were the wrong ones; however, you never specified which ones you wanted.
Last summer, when I was staying at Uncle Norm’s, he said, “once an adult, twice a child” — it made so much sense, but it was happening too quickly for me to handle.
When I got to the hospital, I asked you to eat something, but you refused and got mad at me. I was embarrassed at the presence of someone else in the room, and I asked you what you would prefer to eat. The next day, I brought you grapes and strawberries.
They told me you ate the whole pint, so I prepared more the next day, but when you saw me with them, you said you were sick of strawberries.
Every day I visited you, you slowly got less excited to see me. I would sit and watch you as you stared blankly in front of yourself. I wanted to know what you were thinking, but it started to get more difficult to communicate, especially with the oxygen mask.
I held my breath a lot because I didn’t want to cry in front of you, but the moment I got in the car, the floodgates would open.
One day, I came, and you didn’t say anything to me. I sat down on the chair to your right and gave you some updates on my life, getting my smartserve and learning how to make drinks to maximize my tips, as well as what we’ve been doing at home. I sat there for an hour and a half, and you seemed like you wanted to be left alone, but when I got up to leave, you asked me why.
I promised I’d bring the other two for a visit the following day.
The next day, I ended up fighting with Belle because she didn’t want to come. She was scared, but I was too worn out to have compassion, which is no excuse. Luckily, Rebecca told me to wait in the car, and twenty minutes later, they both came out.
With only 2 visitors allowed at a time, I dropped them off and drove around the corner so that I didn’t have to pay for parking. While I waited, I decided to return one of Uncle Bill’s calls. I told him what was going on, and he seemed confused. He said that he didn’t think there would be a mortgage on the house because he assumed you guys had life insurance and that everything was taken care of, especially after dad passing and you being sick.
I was no longer fatigued, and I was anxious to talk to you tomorrow. I became scared of losing everything at once, including you.
Two hours later, I went to pick up Rebecca and Belle. On the way home, I noticed Belle crying in my rear-view mirror. I felt bad for forcing her out of the house; it was shocking for her to see you in that state for the first time.
The next day, when I went to visit you, I bombarded you with questions. I didn’t really understand what I was asking you at the time, but I gathered the following from your tired nods and blinks:
- Your will was legally valid
- The house is still under Dad’s name, and his credit cards were not canceled
- I have to pay the mortgage this month
- Tons of debt spread across numerous cards
- No life insurance
It made me realize that we should have moved after Dad passed away, but you didn’t want to give up the life you had, or you were just too sick.
“Dad used to say this to us all the time:
‘When the going gets tough, the tough get going.’
I never knew what it meant, but now I think I have an idea. I just hope I am tough enough.”
This was something I needed to discuss with Rebecca. I got her to stay home from school and explained the situation to the best of my limited knowledge on the subjects, and we began a to-do list. Although it wasn’t a foolproof plan, it was sufficient.
Our next order of business was to obtain the power of attorney. I also wanted to get your passwords so that we could pay the bills, but you couldn’t remember them.
I started to feel calmer, knowing that there was nothing else we could do until we had the power of attorney. I tried to ease up and not stress you out during our visits. It was Wednesday, and we had an appointment to obtain power on Monday.
I always say this, but our last night with dad was so sweet, which made his death even more unexpected. Everyone was in good spirits, he read us a passage out of his bible and said his usual prayer before going to bed.
“A few things that I remember from his prayer:
- “Place a hedge of protection over my girls and keep them safe …”
- “Give them wisdom, strength, and courage…”
- “Thank you for the roof over our heads and warm beds to sleep in.”
- “Pleasant dreams…”
I can say that it is a common theme to have an exceptionally good day before a bad one. The sweetness makes the latter even more bitter, and this is exactly what I experienced with you.
Thursday March 31st
Rebecca and I went to visit you. You were in good spirits, and you asked me to bring you an iced coffee. You were insistent that you were allowed to have one, but you still emphasized that I sneak just in case.
I was happy that you asked for something. That you were looking forward to enjoying something.
When I got back, Rebecca and I told you stories, and you were actively engaged. I started joking about swinging from the handlebars of the machine above me, and you had enough energy to scold me, and that made me feel good.
Knowing that no one else could hear, Rebecca and I had the confidence to sing for you. We sang “In a Week” by Hozier. I did the top harmony, and Rebecca did the bottom. You were smiling.
I have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me
I have never known hunger like these insects that feast on me
A thousand teeth and yours among them, I know
Our hunger’s appeased, our heart beats becoming slow
We’ll lay here for years or for hours
Thrown here or found, to freeze or to thaw
So long, we’d become the flowers
Two corpses we were, two corpses I saw
And they’d find us in a week
When the weather gets hot
After the insects have made their claim
I’d be home with you, I’d be home with you
I have never known sleep like this slumber that creeps to me
I have never known color like this morning reveals to me
And you haven’t moved an inch such that I would not know
If you sleep always like this, the flesh calmly going cold
We’ll lay here for years or for hours
Your hand in my hand, so still and discreet
So long, we’d become the flowers
We’d feed well the land and worry the sheep
And they’d find us in a week
When the cattle’d show fear
After the insects have made their claim
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After the foxes have known our taste
I’d be home with you, I’d be home with you
And they’d find us in a week
When the weather gets hot
And they’d find us in a week
When the cattle’d show fear
And they’d find us in a week
When the buzzards get loud
After the insects have made their claim
After the foxes have known our taste
After the raven has had his say
I’d be home with you, I’d be home with you
It’s crazy how music can allow you to relive an experience. I listened to Hozier on my way to the hospital and back every day. If I listen to it when I write, it helps me recollect and tap into the emotions I was feeling at the time. It gives me a heavy feeling in my chest now.
I put lotion on your hands and feet, and changed your socks before I gave you a hug and left. I told you I wouldn’t be able to visit tomorrow because I had a full day shift, but we arranged it so that Rebecca and the pastor would come.
After we left, Rebecca and I spontaneously decided to get ramen to boost morale and to discuss our next moves. Things seemed to be getting better, and I felt like I was going to catch a break. It was the first time I didn’t cry on the way home.
Friday April 1st
I went to work in good spirits. The shift went by quickly, and I started mopping up before closing. I don’t keep my phone on me, so after Rebecca couldn’t get a hold of me, she ended up calling the restaurant. She told me that I should meet her at the hospital immediately. She didn’t have much information, and I didn’t want to leave because I was scared.
About 10 min later, she called me again and said that you coded and she gave the doctor permission to intubate. I met Rebecca in the parking lot of the hospital around 11pm. Her friend drove her, and the pastor and his wife were there. We waited downstairs to be let in.
When we were admitted, they told us we could go in, after getting suited up, to spend some time with you. I wasn’t listening very well, but the nurse told us that just before you coded, you said you felt like you were in the Philippines because of a program on the television. It was comforting to know that you were calm and peaceful.
However, I was already numb, and I wasn’t very interested in staying. I didn’t like how your neck was crooked with the tube coming out of your mouth. Your body only moved with the ventilator. Rebecca knelt by your side and held your hand, but I didn’t want to touch you. I turned around, and Belle was crying so hard she started to convulse. That freaked me out, so I started to gravitate towards the door and eventually ended up outside. Belle followed me, and we stood in the freezing parking lot together.
They told us we could go back up to spend time with you in your final moments, but I didn’t want to, and instead, we were told we would receive a call when you were gone.
I hope you don’t think that I’m cold and reptilian for not staying with you. I’ve experienced this before, but I’m old enough now to know what I want. I did what I was told in the past, but this time I didn’t want the imagery to haunt me. There are certain things you do to protect yourself, not naively or in a sheltered way, but to maximize your stability for those around you, and this time it seemed necessary. Also, I wanted to remember you differently.
On the way home, I got in a fight with Belle over something stupid. It was because she slammed my car door. The anger was all displaced, but she ended up switching seats with Rebecca so that she didn’t have to sit beside me. She then slammed the door even harder as she got into the back. That was definitely premeditated, but I decided to just speed home instead.
When we got in, we parted ways and left every single light in the house on. You always hated that.
Somehow, waiting for the call, we all ended up sitting on my room floor crying, and if we accidentally made eye contact with each other, we would burst out laughing. Laughing at our contorted faces and how pathetic we were. At how strong the emotions we felt were. We were delirious.
April 2nd
The call came after midnight, and we each went to our rooms.
I stared at the ceiling, like I did the night Dad passed away. However, this time my stomach wasn’t nauseous, and the room appeared still.
When the sun came up, it was a beautiful day. The breeze was crisp and warm. I convinced Belle to leave the house with me. It was the first time she came willingly. We went to Courtice Shores to sit on the cliffs and cry, fully exposed to God and nature.
It came in spells. We were crying and laughing.
I ended up lying down after a while because I was tired and my eyes were sore. The moment I closed them, I entered a trance. I immediately fell asleep to the sound of the water, the cool breeze, and the sun drying my tear-ridden face. It was the first good sleep I’ve had in three months. Peaceful and devoid of random heart palpitations.
While I was asleep, Belle wandered off down the path. I guess it was kind of dangerous to be lying at the end of an eroding cliff, but don’t worry, we’re still alive and well.
My spirits were lifted that day, and I think I caught a glimpse of Eden. I’ve always thought that there was beauty in suffering, but the context I used to refer to was in the ability to make a sacrifice and to work hard at your commitments. This was different. I saw the beauty in sorrow when I looked at Belle because she shared my grief. The beauty of sharing it with my sisters, who know the exact magnitude of what I am feeling. It made it tolerable, and it made us close.
Screaming the name of a foreigner’s God is the purest expression of grief (Hozier)
I think it speaks to the idea that in your life, you lose sight of the divine, and it is only in your deepest moments of sorrow that you are called back and reminded to seek something transcendent. A natural cry that pulls you out of hopelessness, but it’s foreign because it is something that you’ve ignored and suppressed within. It’s inherent, and when you are desperate, it comes out regardless of the relationship you have cultivated with it in the past.
Our next task was funeral planning.
A few months prior to your passing, you came to my room and sat in my desk chair to show me this song. You asked me to play it at your funeral, but I thought you were being dramatic, and I didn’t want to think about that, so even though I listened to it with you and told you I would, I purposefully neglected to catch the title.
I ended up playing Marriage D’amour instead because it was the only thing I could remember you liked. Also, I was surprised that you asked me instead of Rebecca. You know that I rarely touch the piano anymore, and your funeral was the first time I actually practiced in a few years.
The pastor came for a visit and said that the church would pay for the funeral.
Post Funeral
So many things were thrown at us at once, and it was hard not to feel abandoned in a highly unstable state. There were too many loose ends to pick up, leaving gaps that were open to interpretation.
While everything seemed to be spiralling around us, there was a song that we frequently cried to. It was called 23 by Cleo Sol.
Didn’t have no one, sacrificed your goals
Didn’t trust yourself, don’t need to lie
I know you can survive
But it feels like sometimes you need to cry
Oh, mama, why?
The little stars and the locked up dreams
The missing pieces, they’re in me
I know that you’re strong, but you must stop fighting
And live your song in harmony
Buried secrets deep, now they overflow
Crystal clear to me, God, let it be
Pass the burden on
Sweep the troubled life
Drink the hurt away
I know the pain
’Cause you nearly broke me down, mama
I was hurt for a whilе, hurt for a while, I was hurting inside
Ain’t no time to cry
I’ll fix what’s brokеn and live my life authentically
It’s not far away
The road to peace happens when I pray, I’m not asleep
There’s bigger dreams that didn’t fit for you, but will fit for me
Do you believe?
Mama, please, stop acting twenty-three
You’ve got responsibilities
Are you still stuck in your teens?
You nearly broke me down, mama
Ooh, oh, mama, oh, mama
You nearly, you nearly broke me down, mama
Oh, mama why, the little stars and the locked up dreams
The missing pieces, they’re in me
Oh, mama why, the little stars and the locked up dreams
The missing pieces, they’re in me
I never know how to describe my feelings during this time. I’m never overbearingly sad or angry. I feel desensitized to strong emotions, but I felt something when I thought about you. I was upset at the mess you left us in because everything could have been prevented. I felt like you didn’t bother to take care of us.
I always made excuses for you because you were sick, but you completely gave up, even though you had three daughters who loved you. You would get upset at depressive tendencies exhibited by Belle or Rebecca. The lack of motivation or will to live, or even struggling to get out of bed, meanwhile they were just reflecting their primary example.
Even when you were capable of moving, you would ignore us. Were we not enough? Enough for you to be motivated to exist? You mourned dad to a point where it was not only debilitating for you, but also for everyone around you.
In a sense, we lost both of you simultaneously because you were never the same, your smile became downturned, and you refused to let us move on. I never cried in front of you because you always disregarded our feelings and never validated the fact that we lost something too.
You would get angry at us for moving things that he last touched, but you failed to recognize that we were just trying to cope.
I couldn’t even handle it when he would go on business trips for a couple of days, let alone a week. We didn’t know how to deal with the lost presence.
Even though I’m expressing this, I’m always met with an internal conflict. Something inside me always pleads your case. I know that you were learning too, on top of chemotherapy, and the stress of three teenagers.
It’s easy to pinpoint your insufficiencies. I guess the same is true with any relationship. It’s vulnerable because those closest to you can hurt you the most. We know each other’s weak spots and insecurities, and we easily become the masters of low blows.
I only focused on your faults for a while to ease the pain and to convince myself that I didn’t miss you, and it worked.
At Dad’s funeral, we played the music that he loved to listen to. We did the same for you, including this song that you would listen to on repeat after he passed away. It was called Basang Basa sa ulan. You would sit on the couch and play it on his speaker. Music is definitely the universal coping mechanism for existence. It made me cry when I read the lyrics for the first time.
Heto ako ngayon, nag-iisa
Naglalakbay sa gitna ng dilim
Lagi na lang akong nadarapa
Ngunit heto, bumabangon pa rin
Heto ako, basang-basa sa ulan
Walang masisilungan, walang malalapitan
Sana’y may luha pa akong mailuluha
At nang mabawasan ang aking kalungkutan
Heto ako, basang-basa sa ulan
Walang masisilungan, walang malalapitan
Sana’y may luha pa, akong mailuluha
At nang mabawasan ang aking kalungkutan
Ang aking kalungkutan, ang aking kalungkutan
Ang aking kalungkutan…
Here I am right now, alone
Journeying amidst the darkness
I always fall down
But see, I always stand up again
Here I am, horribly wet from the rain
With no shelter, no one to seek help from
I hope I still have some tears left to cry
So that the sadness will lessen
Dirt and mud on my body
The wind and the silence
Every drop of rain and the cold
Seems to command me to lose the love
My Sadness, my sadness, my sadness
I went back to work a week after the funeral. Opening at 11:00, I usually didn’t get home until midnight. I had asked for the long hours, though, and my body got used to the routine.
In the morning, I would wake Belle up to eat breakfast with me. She would come down, and I would be sitting outside, feeling the sun before an entire day indoors. It shouldn’t surprise you that she still fears the sun and refuses to synthesize the vitamin D that she needs. She’d rather swallow a pill in the dark than expose her skin to a ball of fire. She’d squat down in the shade and watch me eat.
By the time I was ready to leave, she would plant herself on the couch and stare at the wall. 12–13 hours later, I would come home, and she would still be in the same spot. I’d sit across from her, and we’d have a quick chat.
The only thing going on in her life at the time was the cats, so she’d exchange some animated house tales for a few restaurant stories before we would both agree that it was time for bed.
One evening when I got home from work, Rebecca was home as well, and we decided to rearrange the entire living room. It was that midnight energy we tapped into, and it only heightened as we began to see more potential in our living space. A change of scenery to motivate and alleviate the negative feedback loop we were desperately trying to crawl out of.
It was the first time the house looked different since Dad, and it was beautiful.
May
Soon enough, it was Mother’s Day again, and I offered to work for the time-and-a-half pay. A few of my coworkers questioned me because they thought I would want to spend the day with you, but I said we were going to celebrate later.
I feel like such a psychopath whenever I speak about you in the present. It’s a practice I’ve been doing since Dad, but only to avoid unwanted conversations or unnecessary awkward silence. I’ve slipped up before, and I’ve always regretted it.
Even though it makes it easier for me to maintain my composure, I find it difficult to get close to new people because I feel like I’m just lying to everyone, and no one wants to start a relationship like that. I end up avoiding them altogether.
At the end of the shift, we got to split the leftover flowers to bring to our moms. I brought them to the grave the next day. I don’t know what compelled me to, but it was something you always did for dad, and something I saw him do in Newfoundland for his parents.
You probably find it hypocritical because I used to give you such a hard time about visiting the cemetery. I guess I’ve had a change of heart, possibly guilt, but it was peaceful to think about a resting place.
