Mom's been gone now for 25 days, and I haven't actually grieved. What I've done instead is jumped headlong into reading, writing. Studying things so far over my head, MAKING myself understand what it is I'm piling into my brain, rather than focus on the issues I have to address: Realizing my Mother is truly and permanently gone. No more phone rants. No more hugs. I'll never again hear her cackle at her own jokes, except in my head. The dreams remind me, though, so it's time.
Yesterday was the first I've entered Mom's house in what seems like ages. My aunt has been staying there, though she's currently hospitalized with pneumonia. She wore herself completely down- mind, body and spirit- during Mom's last weeks. We all did, and it's only now my sister and I have begun getting over the flu we all came down with in that hospital room. My oldest son is also staying there while he and his wife are moving. There's so much to get in order.
I went straight to her room, to her closet. I had to smell her clothes. Came very close to having a breakdown, but my son was there. Funny how much easier it is to stay strong for others but when it comes to yourself, well... it's a lot of work. My sister has two teens. She's the same, she confided.
I'm ashamed to admit that my sister Del and I don't really know one another. I'm 12 years her senior, and having moved out at age 16, never got to know her. That's all on me. I was a 'troubled child', and our Mother was right to keep me away. Though I would have never hurt her intentionally, she would have likely been harmed by my mere presence. Del was my heart, and I missed her terribly. She had a good, stable life without my interference- and for that I am grateful.
We saw each other rarely throughout the years, as my Mother and I had a rocky relationship, at best. Mom and Del's father divorced not long after I had gotten married (I already had two children of my own by then) and oddly enough, we had mended our fences somewhat. She adored my sons, but Del was off on her own by that time and they had a bit of their own rollercoaster relationship going. Her dad had remarried, which meant she had a new and rather wild step-sister, which led to Del getting into her own messes. Typical teen/20s experimentation- I'd have likely worried more if she had not had that period in her life. For a while I was actually the "Good Daughter". That lasted about a minute.
After I gave birth to my bi-racial daughter (that being another story for another time), Mom became distant. It took 3 years- right up to the moment my daughter, standing at the door in tears, asked me "Why doesn't grandma love me?" as she watched grandma drive away for a play date with my sons. The relationship came to a screeching halt.
Mom was as racist as they come (which around here- Georgia/South Carolina border- comes quite deep.) She was raised that way, and so was I. Though I managed to un-learn, she had difficulty. We lived through the riots of 1970, virtually in the middle of it, and I don't know what she saw. What I saw as a 4 year old was terrifying. She was 22. There's quite a good piece here by lao hong han~ Augusta GA: The Forgotten Dead Of May, 1970. She lived a very different life than my own. To that degree, I understood. It may take time, but I felt certain she would come around.
Still, I let her know: She had three grandchildren, not two. If she couldn't/wouldn't come to grips with that, I felt she should no longer take my sons with her, for any reason. She was more than welcome to visit- all three. That ultimatum didn't go over well: She took me to court for visitation for the boys. Of course I felt confident that the judge would see my side. I came prepared with a list of reasons why I was denying her 'away' visits. I'd been a Guardian ad Litem- I knew how to present my case. I was wrong. His logic being that since she had an established relationship with my sons, my daughter was irrelevant. She was to get them at 6 each 3rd Friday, until 5 the following Sunday. Justice, Southern-style.
I complied until one Sunday afternoon she brought them back with bruises I recognized- I'd had the same as a child. Then the N word came out of my older son's mouth. He hadn't heard that in our house. I knew: the bruises came from my grandparents. They were fond of flyswatters and switches. My boys had the flyswatter bruises (switches leave scratches.) It's also where the poison word was routinely spoken. I was livid. The following month when she pulled up I went to her car and told her WHY they were not going. Again, I was taken to court, this time for contempt. While the judge said I was indeed guilty of contempt, I did no time, and he admonished my mother for that having happened. Visitation was to continue, barring visits with the grandparents without my express consent. This time, however, she took all three children with her. She was trying.
Things got better, until they were near-normal. Then my oldest left- yet another story- and I moved across the state with my two youngest. I ended up in a very bad car wreck, moved back with my husband, and things snowballed downhill rapidly. We split up, and I took a job across the country, intending to get the kids back as I got settled. That never happened. That was pretty much the end of my family. Family 1: Mom and those I was raised with/around, and Family 2: Husband and kids. I'd had issues since the accident and spent years strung out. It's only been the last 5 years- my clean years- that Mom and I got back together. It seemed more meaningful, we talked more. Really talked, as we'd never been able to do before. It was wonderful.
Still, I didn't really see Del again until Mom got sick. Now she and I are in contact daily, ALWAYS telling one another "love ya" before hanging up or logging off. I had Mom all to myself for 10 years, with a step-father another 2 before she was born, then Mom had a car accident. Among her many serious injuries she had severe brain damage. It was months before she even remembered who we were, and she was never the same. That's the Mom Del grew up knowing. I wasn't with her much after her wreck, shuffled around, running away and the like. At 16 I left, and that was it. Now Del and I have so many stories to tell about our Mom(s). Such different tales they are.
Del and I must inventory all Mom's 'possessions' to distribute and/or sell. An ad has to be run for those she's indebted to so they may be paid. After 8 months, the house must be sold, the one my husband, myself, my son and Del, too, worked so very hard on for her. The kitchen floor was never finished. Typing this with tears in my eyes at the thought: She was so looking forward to her new kitchen. The neighborhood is mostly young families now, as when we moved there in 1978. I hope the new owners make some good memories in that home. Thinking it might not be a bad idea to do a thorough spiritual cleansing before they move in~ even if they don't believe in that type of thing. If those walls could talk the house itself would tell them.
I've decided that grief counseling may be a good thing for me. The hospice offers it, and they've been wonderful throughout this ordeal. The director's name was Ian- same as my middle child- so I'll take that as a sign. I'm seeing signs, hearing them, even smelling them, everywhere. Memories are popping through like flowers, or come out in my dreams as terrors. Same for Del. We really are very much alike. The reading and writing are fine, and I'll continue. I've felt such a warm welcome to the DKos community and I'd like to stick around. Feels like family here.