At least not small

Rollercoaster of a week. Scared. Shocked. Hopeful. Terrified. Dancing. Sad. Laughing. Utter despair. The umbilical cord tying me to my mom’s human form, severed. We began to float above the earth somehow, without our gravity. Phone calls, paperwork, decisions. I got to writing a speech for the funeral, since I don’t really know how I feel until I write about it.

Her funeral was just as quirky and irreverent as she taught us to be. We drank margaritas on Cinco de Mayo and told stories about her life while laughing and crying with some of the best people in the whole world. People who loved her and people who loved us. Mom’s dad had always told her she’d be late for her own funeral, so when the second speech began, my brother entered stage left with a massive framed picture of my mom, yelling, “Wait, wait, she’s here now!”

Mom, laughing and drinking margaritas on my couch, very much alive, and then gone.

It may have been the most horrendous eight days of my life, but I wouldn’t change it. Instead of finding Mom dead, say, alone in her house, and never having been able to say goodbye or know why, or have a chance to do anything about it—we were able to experience this rollercoaster of the death process. Diagnosis, shock, fear, hope, fighting, decisions, failing, anger, terror, heartsickness, despair. It felt like we did everything we could to save her. We got to say goodbye. We got to tell her we love her, over and over. So many people don’t get that—their person, just gone in one breath. Other people have to spend months and years watching their loved one slowly and painfully die. If I had to choose between all of the worst ways to lose my mom, I believe I would’ve chosen a small window like this to be able to be a part of it.

Morbid, I know, but that’s me. Touched by loss. Mom’s lap dog. A clearly, well-loved child. An emotional being who loathes and loves how much she feels. Over-sharer extraordinaire! Always shouting, “I’m here! Look at me! I’m in pain! Laugh with me! I love love! I love YOU!” Too much, but at least not small.

Dead Mommy’s proud.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s