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Blorft: Part III



My mom is home. They released her Saturday and want her to follow up with Dr. Miracle this week. We were in good spirits on the drive home, though she said she wanted to call the bank and finally make an effort to refinance the house so Better Half and I aren't homeless if she dies. It's a good idea, and one that we've talked about for a while.

And now I'm sitting here at 2:27 AM on Monday, not having gone to bed yet. My mother seemed deflated all day Sunday. "I just don't feel like me," she said. It wasn't depression. It felt like a quiet acceptance of her own mortality.

This brought on a whole new level of panic attack - a world where both my dad and mom are gone. Yeah, I know...everyone goes through this. But we couldn't have kids. When mom goes, it's just the two of us, and then it will be just one someday. We don't have friends nearby. The past seven years culled our social circle, and I have no desire to rekindle friendships with people that didn't seem to care that we were going through a lot or couldn't even send a sympathy card when dad died.

Despite that, I can't shake the painful realization that my mom won't live forever. A small bit of me is incredibly angry; my mother pushes people away and seems to prefer solitude. Another small bit of me mourns the loss of a talented writer and teacher; theatre was her life as well as the thing that bonded dad and her together. She was an incredible teacher back in the day. More tiny bits float to the surface of my mind. I could have been a better daughter to her; I want to spend more time with her because I won't have that opportunity five years from now. We don't even know how long we'll be together with her. 

My mind keeps reaching back to Saturday. We dropped off her prescriptions and, rather than wait in the car, she offered to buy me coffee. There wasn't anyplace to go thanks to COVID, so I suggested a hot fudge sundae from McDonald's. We parked at Walgreens and ate them. Politics came up but I pushed my own opinion aside. This was the first time in ages that we were able to just sit down and be a mother and daughter.

And now I'm sitting here at 2:35 AM on Monday, not having gone to bed yet.The house is quiet. I hope we can refinance. We have to refinance because we don't want to be homeless, and that future would only happen because my mom would be gone. This house was the place where mom and dad lived.

"You can always sell it and buy a one-story," she had said on Saturday.

I don't want to sell it. When I said goodbye to my dad, he was in the living room, tucked into a hospital bed. Sometimes I like to go there in the early morning. He was always up early. I flop down on the floor with the dog and watch the sun slowly filter in through the windows to cast a warm glow on the ceiling. This was the last thing he would have seen on his final morning.

The one year anniversary of his death is coming up. 

"We have to do Thanksgiving and Christmas," I told Better Half earlier. "These could be mom's last."

And now I'm sitting here at 2:40 AM on Monday, not having gone to bed yet. I don't want my mom to die. No matter how much we annoy each other, she has always been there for us, for me. When Nutmeg needed surgery, she talked dad into paying for it. When we needed a car, they loaned us theirs since dad had the van from work. When we needed something fixed, they came through. When Better Half was being an asshole, she held me. When I had an audition, she worked with me on my vocals. When a roommate fucked me over, she threatened to take Rhonda's "HiFi". When I shaved my head, she didn't laugh. When all seemed lost, she would pray. I want to scream at the wind, "Don't take her!"

Don't you take my mom, God. Not now. Not so close to my dad's final day. Don't be a bastard.

It's 2:47 AM and I have to drive mom to her PC in a few hours. Better Half is already asleep. I'm crying my eyes out and blogging. I don't care if there are typos and misspelled words. The dogs want to go pee. I'll sleep after that, and then put on my blorft face later on.  

Everything is fine, Mom! We'll get through this together. I love you. My heart is breaking.

 

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Irony: one of my tweeps replied to a tweet from Tim Tebow. I noticed right before I closed the tab.


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