Here it is, two months since my last blog post. Not much to tell.
I survived my first (of many) birthdays without the annual birthday calls. First the call the day before, forgetting that my day was the following day, then the call/s on the day. Then the calls thereafter to see if I got my card.
Why was I so hard on her (in my head)? I never let her know how she was driving me crazy with all her calls. But that is the rub, more like a CHAFE, of dealing with someone who had so much emotional baggage: I couldn't tell what was an obsessively sweet gesture, making sure I wasn't forgotten on my birthday, versus someone trying to control me or demand more attention from me.
I'm trying to do in death what I was unable to do in life, and try to sort it out, try to be the adult, and try to remember the good.
Also, had I known with any certitude whether she had some cognitive deficiency, or some known pathological issue or mental illness, I don't know if I would have reacted differently. I just don't know. She's gone and I'm left with all these questions.
Meanwhile, today, a very dear friend is shredding herself for forgetting my birthday. And I'm now sitting at my desk sobbing. I didn't realize it at the time she forgot my day. This has been such a horrible, overwhelming year, it truly is no wonder my friend forgot.
To be honest, I was so distracted with 2020's awfulness, I hadn't noticed I was forgotten. But now I realize in this moment I was forgotten by my friend, and I'm remembering mom's not here, and even as crazy and challenging as our relationship was, we always spoke on our birthdays--though her telephone fuckery with her cell phone made that an unnecessary challenge. At least I know that mom's final birthday was a good day--she even left a cheerful voicemail to that effect. A voicemail I managed to save--as well as a few others, from Christmas 2019, right on through until April 9th when she let me know everyone was alerted that COVID19 was in her nursing home. Needless to say, I've freely forgiven my friend--she's truly beating herself up over it--and I feel awful about it. There is so much more going on in the world for me to be angry and upset about.
Had Trump been elected, that would have been awful enough--Dayenu.
Had COVID19 happened--Dayenu.
Had mom died--Dayenu.
Had 190,000+ others died of COVID--Dayenu.
Had 50 Million people lost their jobs--Dayenu.
Had the murder hornets and volcano sharks and fire tornado happened--Dayenu.
Had the entire fucking west coast be ablaze with wildfires--Dayenu.
Had the endless protests regarding police brutality weren't enough--Dayenu.
Children in cages, families separated... the list goes on. Sadly it goes on. Dayenu.
Had just, merely any ONE of these things happened and none of the others--DAYENU... it would have been sufficiently awful enough, but to have a single year where all of these things are happening simultaneously, it is devastating.
And on top of all this, is the knowledge that despite every thing I just typed out, despite the enormous shit-heap that 2020 is, and despite how very unsafe it is to do so, much like having mom's burial in June when we couldn't comfort each other in our grief, or sit down and share a meal and fond remembrances of mom--my cousin hosted a retirement party for mom's sister. There were 30 people there, and no, I did not attend.
How could they all act like nothing happened? The tragedy of mom dying alone and terrified, and neglected by hospice? This plague is still going on, and we will surely see a surge in cases as the weather cools down. I think it was reckless to have a party now.
Sometime this week will be a retirement luncheon for a (now former friend) co-worker. Our agency has a mandate to social distance. And no. I am not attending this party either.
Each social engagement I decline, I am filled with rage, not that I feel I must decline, but filled with rage that people are risking so much for something that can wait.
I know that anger is one of the stages of grief, but I don't have mere anger--I am filled with rage.
Even from a young age, I wanted justice for mom, and even at the age of 12, I stood up to dad's mother on mom's behalf. Justice from her abusive father. Justice from those who humiliated her due to her weight. And as she was on the verge of actively dying, I tried to get justice from the department of health and other agencies/entities, and all they did after the fact was shrug and say, "The facility is in compliance now." Not even an "I'm sorry for your loss" was uttered.
So all that said, I suppose, whatever justice I will get for mom will be second-hand. Perhaps safeguarding myself and my husband could be justice. Staying safe and healthy for as long as I can. Even as she lay in her room motionless and dying once she was loaded with morphine and ativan, the last thing she would have wanted would be for her kids to hold her hand, knowing how very risky it was for all of us. But part of me feels some measure of guilt or shame or responsibility that somehow I should have made that happen. None of that is useful now. And even if I made a valiant attempt, if she had the ability to speak, she would have talked me out of it.
