Does Anyone Ever Look At the Clock On the Anniversary

[orleans]

i seem to do it every month, on "the date"
and i begin this crazy countdown in my head

10:00 a.m. and i am in her room at the nursing home where she had been for six days, trying to build up a little strength in her legs so i could bring her home for hospice. but she seemed to only be growing weaker. i arranged for a hospice nurse to meet my mom, have a look at her and give me her opinion. all we had gotten was "hospice is for patients with six months or less and your mom would probably be a candidate for that"

the nurse came into the room. it was a couple minutes after ten. she met my mom, looked at her, looked at her legs, her knees, anything else i don't recall. she asked me to talk to her out in the hall.

10:06 a.m. and the hospice nurse is asking what my plans are: "to bring her home next monday--on my birthday." the woman touches my arm/my shoulder. "monday seems like such a long way off" she said. and i knew what she meant. finally a professional opinion that let me know my mother was dying...soon.

11:30 i am on the phone, trying to tell my daughter to leave work and come home today, now, rather than wait until sunday which was the plan. i'm trying to stress the importance of this, the urgency of it, without upsetting her to the point that she won't be able to make the two hour drive.

12:15 i have to go into work for a short period of time. my mother is dying and i'm wondering what the hell i'm doing here.

2:00 i am back with my mom. i tell her my daughter is coming home to say goodbye. she didn't want her granddaughter to see her like this, but i explain that it's really important to her and my mom is okay with that. i can't believe what we're talking about! goodbye? omg! how surreal is this?

4:20 i am on my way home to give our dog her medicine and let her out, hoping to meet my daughter there and take her to the nursing home.

4:22 i call my daughter. she left late. she won't be at the house at 4:30. more like 5:30. i start to turn around, can't figure out what to do--can't think clearly, can't make a fucking decision. then i turn back to go home for the dog. my daughter wants me to wait at the house for her, she doesn't understand why i won't. she doesn't know where the nursing home is. i'm trying to give her directions and not tell her how bad my mom really is.

4:30 i call my neighbor/friend. she will watch for my daughter and drive her up to the nursing home as soon as my kid gets to our house. "she'll want to rest after the drive, she'll piss around, and there is no time--and she doesn't know that she has to hurry."

4:50 i am almost back with my mom. she is waiting for me. i tell her everything is going to be okay. that i'll be okay, my daughter will be okay. i tell her she will be okay. and that it's okay for her to let go. "i'll find you again, mommy--i don't know know how i will but i will find you again." "you really think so?" "oh yes. i really do."

5:50 my daughter comes into the room with us. she leans over my mother, looks at her face. my daughter is crying. and smiling at her grandmother. my mother smiles back at my daughter, at her pretty face. it was my mother's last smile.

6:30 i am speaking to a nurse in the hall. my daughter comes to the doorway, "she's calling for you." i go back to her, sit in the chair next to her bed. my daughter sits on the bed next to my mom. my daughter holds my mom's hand. i have my hand over both of theirs.

the silence is interjected with "it's okay to let go, mom. i love you. and i know you love me too." parting words. my mom can't hasn't spoken for awhile.

7:10 there is a long pause between breaths. the room has been quiet for sometime now. my daughter and i look at each other. i look at the clock. my mother takes another breath. but she is leaving, she has probably already left.

7:15 and her passing is completed. in the quiet. in the silence. with the closeness of her daughter and granddaughter. the three of us together as we had been for so long. and then just two.

7:25 i am telling the nurse i don't want to go in the office and sit down. i have to go outside. i'm going outside. i feel i am going to scream--i want to scream and collapse in a heap and flail my arms and scream and scream.

7:30 i am outside. in the dark. in the night. in the rain. and i can't scream. i can't seem to do anything but cry. the rain mingles with my tears. my daughter is under a canopy, making a call on her phone. and it rains and rains and rains.

[ceveritt]

1. the clock

I could not, cannot do it.

It hurts enough as it is. If I did that, I'd simply have to put a .45 hollow-point through the roof of my mouth.

As it is, I wake up every gxddamn day and remember she's gone, and how it happened. That is bad enough.

My sympathy to you, for what little that might be worth.

CE

[Paper Roses]

2. Every day, not just the anniversary.

Today I drove down a street that I have not had occasion to travel since my husband died. It was his shortcut to a spot we used to go. It hit me like a ton of bricks.

[DollyM]

3. the first anniversary is especially awful . . .

Many years ago I worked as a hospice bereavement counselor. I loved my job because I felt very priviledged to be a part of this circle of life process. I learned to appreciate the little things in life so much more. I also learned that the first year is the hardest, the second year you remember how bad you hurt the first year and relive the heart, by year three, it seems a little easier. I have a blessing though with the date of my son's death. He was born on Jan 30 and died on a May 30th (he was 19)so the 30th gives me bittersweet feelings. The day I actually had a harder time with was June 4th, the day we laid him to rest. That day will always stick in my mind as the finality of his physical body being really gone. Mother's day was also really hard and probably will continue to be so.