May 15, 2020

Thanks to the pandemic, a huge backlog has been created for funeral homes and crematorium.

Mom died on May 4th; however, her cremation was scheduled for May 15th. I have no knowledge on whether it went according to schedule or not.

I was not in charge of the arrangements. Had I been included or involved, I would have had the remains FedEx'd to me, and we could make arrangements according to our own timetable, and have a proper funeral when it is safe to do so.

Instead, the remains will be sent to the church where dad's remains are interred at the memorial garden there. As soon as the remains are received, there will be a burial with not more than 10 people in attendance. There will be no funeral in the church. Perhaps something religious will be done when we bury the box of remains. 

The idea of a repast afterwards is out of the question as well, as we all will still be social distancing at that point. The virus hasn't just DISAPPEARED. It's still out there lurking for all of us. 

I am hoping that as the date comes closer, and if the weather will allow it, I will buy a bunch of sub sandwiches, and perhaps we can go to a park nearby and have a picnic. But that's a big perhaps.

I believe my mother's death is enough to have fractured my family. I have received condolences from a couple first cousins of mom's; however, none of MY first cousins, my more immediate relations, have bothered to extend condolences. Not one single card has been received from them. Not even a text or an email or a call. 

Maharajah's office sent us a lovely bouquet and a gift certificate for food delivery; and another friend from his office sent us another bouquet; and our dear friends sent us a gift basket of snacks. Whereas my office hasn't done anything. No card. No flowers. A couple people who are close to me called and texted, and two dear friends on their own sent me candies and a gift certificate, but the powers that be at the office have done nothing. So it's all been quite informative. But that's okay--at least the management is consistent.

Even a person with whom I cultivated a friendship with for 17 years, or who I considered a friend, who this time last year let me know she's really not a good friend for saying some shit to me that was oh-so-familiar to me, the type of shit my mother would say. I injured myself very badly, and here it is a year later, and I am still not 100% recovered from it--and it is doubtful I'll ever get back to 100%, she said, "At least your husband took you on vacation." She later on let it be known she's jealous of me, so that was sadly informative too.

This person left a voicemail for me--and of course, if there's one person in the world that I do not feel like being vulnerable around, it's this person. In the body of her voicemail she said something to the effect of, "regardless of what happened, she's still your mother." As if I need someone to police my emotions--I've had a lifetime of that very thing. I sent her a terse text, "Thanks for the call, I don't feel like talking about it."

May 4, 2020 FB Post

Here is what my sister posted to Faceb**k:

So why the hostility towards the end of the post? We have close relatives who are idiots who voted for Trump, who have been boo-hooing about how all this is a hoax and how sheltering in place and wearing masks etc is against their constitutional rights. 

The wildest thing here is, the idea that up until recently, mom rarely even left her room; and she hadn't left the nursing home in almost three years. She didn't have to leave her room to get corona virus, somehow it traveled from China to Europe and somehow ended up on the filthy hands of the people "taking care of her." In fact, she knew the virus would find her.

Despite the estimation of three days, and despite taking in no water or sustenance, somehow she hung on for EIGHT DAYS. 

She died alone and afraid, and before the morphine and ativan cocktail silenced her to sleep, she was screaming for my dad. She might have abused me, but I survived it, and might, quite possibly be thriving in spite of it--but had the pandemic not been part of our new reality, I like to think I would have wanted to be there holding her hand, as they gave her the morphine. But sadly all of those shoulda, woulda, coulda beens are all a moot point.  

May 4, 2020

My sleep has always been problematic. Always a night owl, and for a good lot of my life, I've also endured horrible night terrors. Little did I realize this was a byproduct of abuse and trauma.

The COVID19 pandemic has not helped my sleep at all. I found myself sleeping at odd hours of the day--if I sat still long enough, I'd nod off. I had a hard time staying awake when I wanted to be awake, and I had a hard time falling asleep when I wanted to be asleep. 

So I decided to watch Cracked Up, which is a documentary on Darrell Hammond's abusive childhood--something he is still grappling with as an adult.

No one takes the gold in the olympics when it comes to abuse--it's so subjective and awful for each of us that has to endure it, and as horrible as his experiences were, there were parallels between his upbringing and mine.

And at long last, while watching this documentary, late on a Monday night when I should be asleep, I got to the very core of my anger and rage for the last 51 years. WHAT SPECIFICALLY I've been angry at:

The expectation and demand that I continue to participate in my abuse by remaining silent that it even took place--silent because of fear of reprisals, recriminations, more abuse using shame and scorn. 

Then the call came through at 12:30 a.m. (Tuesday morning) that mom took her final breath at 11:30. 

May 1, 2020: Meditation

As the lilacs started to bloom, I thought to myself of how they always are in full bloom and most aromatic by Mother's Day. 

We have a family story--one I won't share. It's very specific; however, I always think upon lilacs and mothers day as a result of that story.

I meditated, but not upon the outcome, but of an end of her suffering. Whether that meant she lives and finally gets the care she needs, or her physical body dies and she's released from the prison her body had become. 

Ever since this great silence with mom started, I wondered if I'd know an answer of how this all sorts itself out by Mother's Day. Should I send a card? What if she wakes up and there's no card? I held off a bit. As of this time, I still had the three spare cards I bought a couple years back, as I always found Mother's Day cards to be the most complicated cards to buy as I never wanted to perpetuate her delusions of what kind of mother she was, yet, I still wanted to send a card. Like I said, complicated.

The lilacs were beautiful this year.

April 30, 2020: Three Days Later

Evening of April 30, 2020, I hadn’t received the next dreadful update, informing me mom died--especially since I was given a dreadful estimate of three days.

At 11 p.m. I called the nurses station at Shady Pines to inquire about mom’s status. I said I knew mom was receiving hospice care and was receiving morphine. I knew she had a DNR and a DNH, and no feeding tube, but asked if she was receiving fluids. The nurse told me she gets fluids when she eats. I was surprised, “I thought she was asleep for the past three days—are you telling me she was awake?” The nurse said mom was “alert” and they were trying to get her to eat when she woke up.

Alert? Awake? I avoided calling her thinking she was borked out of her mind on morphine. The person who told me this is an idiot. Just because her eyes opened when they said her name—that doesn’t mean she was awake and engaging in the world around her--and it certainly doesn't mean she's engaged enough with the world to take in sustenance and fluids.

I was told to try to call the nurses station the next day to have an aide go to mom’s room to get mom’s phone handy so I could call. If she was awake and afraid, I didn’t want her feeling alone and abandoned.

I called the next day and did as I was told. I waited a while before calling mom’s cell phone. And unlike all the times before where it would ring and then the voicemail would kick on and I couldn’t leave a voicemail because she refused to empty the voicemail box—this time the phone didn’t ring, and went directly to voicemail—her aides weren’t keeping the phone charged up for her. It makes me wonder what the hell the aides were doing at all for her--given there were only TWO. And when I spoke to mom on the 10th, she said she was eating, and given there were only two aides, she was given the choice of bed time--either 3 p.m. or 11 p.m. If she was lucky, it appears, she'd see an aide ONCE during their 8 hour shift.

Little did I know, several days before, my sister broke her year long silence and called mom. And mom picked back up right where they left off in March 2019 as if there wasn’t a year of silence in the interim. There was no discussion. There was no teary reconciliation. It was back to the routine as it had always been for mom--phone call after phone call. Mom called her every day several times a day, anxious and confused and afraid. 

My sister took every call until the day when the calls stopped—and mom stopped answering her phone.

April 27, 2020: The Beginning of the End

April 27, 2020 I received this text from my sister:

“Mom is going to receive hospice care and will be dead in three days.”

April 24, 2020: My Last Phone Call With Mom

Sometime on/about/after April 10th, mom was diagnosed with corona virus, only because the woman in the next room, and across the hall, as well as her roommate, all died from the virus.

During the conversation the week before, mom was fearful and felt like a sitting duck, and knew the virus was coming for her.

During the brief conversation on April 24th, obviously sick and struggling to breathe, she said she was starting to feel a little better. I now know she was saying this to make me feel better. By this time, her liver was shutting down and pneumonia had settled into one of her lungs.

When I’d speak to her, I’d end our calls with an I love you, even though I felt the words were hollow. It was easier than awkward silence. Perhaps I viewed it as a kindness. In hindsight I don’t regret this, whether I felt it or not, at least she believed the words, and I guess that is what mattered--that she FELT loved. 

I've been in the process of trying to figure out or understand LOVE. It has always been conditional in my life, especially with mom. And due to the abuse and her stubbornness, what I felt, if I had to sum it up in one word would be resentment, rather than love; however, for all the abuse I've endured, no one deserves corona virus--well maybe those assholes protesting to open the states up, or the ones who refuse to social distance or who refuse to wear a mask or wash their hands. 

But at least my last words to her were, "I love you."