It has been quiet here of late.
Not in an old spaghetti western sense.
Quiet with the sense of impending action.
Though if you could have listened close enough you would have heard the soft click of the keyboard more than a time or two.
For the last couple weeks I have done a lot of thinking.
I have likely started a dozen posts, mostly poems, and deleted them all.
The words just did not want to flow.
Incoherent babble, all of it.
I suppose I could just tell a story and be done with it, but it seems more like I am fishing for sympathy than simply trying to understand this all myself. It’s been years and it all still rolls around in my poor empty head.
Hell, it’s not like this post will survive the delete button any more than the others.
If it does, feel free to mark as read and stroll on past.
With any tale I suppose I should start at the beginning, but what really is the beginning of my story?
How far back would you have to go to really get to the beginning?
Somewhere between the time the Earth cooled and the time this mornings coffee did the same while I sat typing I suppose.
I could go back to the 7th of May in 2002, the day the cancer finally took my dad, That might be a beginning.
I could look eight months to the day later when the cancer took my stepfather as well, maybe thats where it all started.
While losing both of the men in her life in such short order led up to this tale I don’t think they were the beginning I am looking for.
I think I will start it on the winter’s day in November of ’03 when mom came to live with us.
She had taken a bad fall, and with her declining health she simply could no longer live on her own.
We had a choice. Put her in a nursing home, or bring her into our home and care for her there.
In my mind it wasn’t even a choice. She cared for me for decades as I grew up. Cleaned up after my messes, stayed up with me at night when I had nightmares. Held my hand when I was scared, and my hair when I threw up.
Without fail she was always there for me when I needed her.
How could I do any less? We were family.
For the next three and a half years my family and I put our lives on hold to care for her. Lets just say that as things slowly worsened life became more and more difficult for all of us and leave it at that. Details are not needed here, If you have ever done the same you know what I am talking about. If not you would never understand.
Many times in those years Mom had to go into the hospital. Sometimes over night, sometimes for a week at a time. Those were times of worry, and yet times of respite for us. It stayed that way for years.
Then came a day in June of ’07, the 19th to be exact. The day she went into the hospital and never came home.
The day my Mom died.
The day that happened I was (as you might imagine) a complete babbling train wreck.
I am not sure what was worse actually, the sense of loss that came with her passing or the guilt I felt.
Guilty for the sense of release that washed over me as the strain of the last few years fell away like a millstone from my shoulders.
Knowing that I would no longer be under the strain of never being wrong. Never making a mistake with her meds. No longer keeping a logbook of everything that happened, no matter how small.
Guilty for feeling free to just be me again, and not doctor Brad.
That has been what has been on my mind of late. The reason I have been so quiet.
Last monday was her birthday and I was trying (in vain as it turned out) to write her something. Something beautiful and moving and eloquent. I don’t know why, but I felt the need.
I tried, but I failed.
I suppose in the absence of something eloquent and moving this post will have to do.
I miss you Mom,