She died early this afternoon, after a long night, after a long week, after a very brief period of illness.
It doesn’t seem real. It probably won’t until I go to call her about something. Birthdays and Christmases are about to get very lonely.
We made lists this week, we made plans. We’re six steps ahead on her service because my uncle and I started brainstorming early in the week. But I’ve made 6 or 7 phone calls and don’t want to make any more. I don’t want to go through the house to throw things away and organize what’s left, pull together the stuff people might want. I don’t want to find music for her service. I want to write and run and do almost anything other than confront my biggest fear.
I don’t want to potentially fight over her recipe box. I don’t want to see my mother.
I really, really want this all to be a dream.
Tarra and Troy and I are in a hotel tonight, after spending last night in the hospital, one strewn across a couch, one tucked into a recliner, and one sitting upright on an unforgiving shower chair. The sky pounded and hurled and lit up and Tarra and I slept right through it. Troy powered through, somehow. Grams died on a beautiful, sunny Saturday, with the three of us at her side.
The hospital staff was wonderful. Above and beyond anything I could even begin to hope for, and I’m grateful for their care of her and of us.
It just doesn’t seem real. I don’t know how it can be real.
A friend in a similar situation sent that message above, and it’s surprised me how on the nose she was. This week has been a defense of the dissertation of my life up to now, and while the situation sucks and it’s been hard to keep it together at times, I haven’t crumbled. We are moving forward and are organized and on top of the top priorities.
It’s so validating. And it’s also stupid and terrible.
But the most important thing is that she’s not hurting any longer. The important thing is that she’s reunited with her dad, whom she missed very much, and her mom and uncles. I hope they’re playing a massive game of Spite and Malice, or getting their hands dirty in the garden. I hope she’s happy and light.