Healing...one day at a time

My mother passed away at 9:18 PM on Monday, October 25, 2021. To even look at those words typed out doesn't make any sense to me. I knew her health was failing, I knew that none of us make it out of here alive, and yet. Having a parent leave her body creates an unfathomable and unexpected abyss...or shall we say lacuna?

I am struggling with so many things. I just erased that sentence and then typed it again. Because it's important to document the reality of this, not the sugar-coated version of myself that I usually present to the world. The strong one, the grounded one, the centered one. Fuck it. I don't want to be that person right now.

For starters, there's COVID. I don't know how to grieve, to be with my dad, sister, and nephew without insisting we all wear masks and sanitize incessantly. Is this my belief? Is it my husband's? Is it Anthony Fauci's? I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE. I don't know who I am, what I want, or how to move through life right now. Sure, numbers are low, but people are still getting sick, breakthrough infections are still occurring, people are still dying. That hasn't gone away, even though my mother has. It's unfair.

There's my non-profit which I have been struggling with since its inception. Is this my dream? Someone else's? How did I get stuck doing the work I'm doing? Did I volunteer? Did I feel coerced? Do I love it? Do I despise it? I DON'T KNOW.

And I bet that's part of the whole grieving process. When I'm not in a fog, mindlessly watching Sex and the City reruns (which I highly recommend), I'm mentally beating myself up: get yourself together, girl! What's wrong with you?

This is weird. It's unlike anything I've ever been through before. It's unlike my cancer journey, it's unlike 9/11, it's unlike the first year of the pandemic.

There are people in my life (you know who you are) who have been absolutely amazing. Patiently sending me little messages of love and joy, holding the door wide open for when I'm ready to connect. There are other people in my life who are uncomfortable, I think. They don't know what to do, so they are not doing anything at all. If pressed, they will say they're "giving me space". And I have bursts of white hot anger at them, empathy for them, compassion for myself. There's a lot going on.

Writing has always been my balm. Unless of course I feel like I HAVE to write, then it's another obligation. But right now, I think it may serve a purpose. I'm not on social media anymore, so I don't have to subject myself to the vapid platitudes of light and love and "I'm sorry for your loss." Anyone who reads this will be people I invite to read it. Old school, circa 2008 before Facebook became the dangerous abyss (lacuna?) that it is today.

Drop a line if you want to, pick up the phone and call, text, send me an email. Or better yet, write a letter. I'm feeling a strong desire to become as analog as possible in this day and age.