Most of the time, I'm ok, I reckon. I do the things- I life. Work, mom, wife, kiddos, bake some, sleep, hygiene (sorta...). Groceries on occasion, church frequently, music, friends, 'rona stuff, grade papers, lesson plans.
And usually, I smile.
To be fair, actually, Aaron might say I shout sometimes or fuss or grump around, but I try to wear my “everything’s fine” face. Usually.
And then there are the times when my fuse is short, I’m on the edge of sobbing more often than not; the dam only cracks and leaks, and it’s only on the inside.
I can’t release; I’m flat and tear-less. There’s a dirty sweatsock shoved in my “cryer,” like a gargantuan clog, and there ain’t no snake or Drāno gone un-clog it.
I keep wanting to assign my stroke all the blame for my wonkiness. It might be, I guess- I mean it was a grossly significant neurological event. Or the “stroke recovery” meds I have to take for the rest of my life... what role do THEY play in this, my personal yarn?
Or, as KJ says, “riddle me this:”
How do I know if I’m just “really tired“? When it's stress? When it's not "just stress" but almost-crippling anxiety? When I’m in empath-mode? When I’m over-reacting or overthinking? Am I "just" an emotional woman? Maybe I’m just kind and loving and it wears me out. Perhaps I’m just a selfish jerk? Oooh I know, I know - could it be that I’m pre-menopausal? Flirting with nudges and advances from Jerry Atric? Sorting through life during a pandemic?
Maybe all.
Maybe none.
But I’ll say this. For 45 years, I navigated this- all the autobahns and the screeching halts; the question marks and the periods and the dot dot dots; the nail painting and the brownie mixes; the mom-cancer, the babies, camp, wedding bells and divorce signatures; Christmas lights, antique dolls, autism projects, the “yaces” I used to want on my legs; snowflake smiles; car wrecks and hospitals; astronaut ice cream, courtrooms and funerals.... I was able to flounder or flounce through four and a half decades, only because - well Jesus, yes. But also Millicent.
“Sad” isn’t the right word.
The term “grief” doesn’t seem to carry the load it should.
I’ve written about her. But if I came here to unload every time her voice or her silliness or her made-up words swashed through my brain, I wouldn’t be able to maintain a functioning role in my own life.
I started this entry last night. I was talking about my 'cryer' being broken. I pulled raw and real from the core, translated it into clicks on the keyboard, and lamented not being able to lament. Eventually, I got tired, though... sad-tired. Grief-tired. Feeling the gravity of loss, but only experiencing the wispy conception of the salty streaks... it's odd, really. I've said to my best friends and my husband before, "I'm crying, but nothing is happening..."
*(Funny, in a way- Shane (my ex) wouldn't even believe it if I told him "I can't cry." Quivering lips and sob-wracks were such a great tool early on in our relationship; the weeping tricks grew thin, though, and eventually, he was blind to the tears, and I retreated, failed in my attempts to elicit a modicum of empathy)
Anyway, all that blather about not being able to cry...
I stopped typing, nestled myself into Aaron's home-safe-arms, closed my eyes- wanting so desperately to sleep the heavy away ("maybe if I close my eyes, she won't be there anymore")- and somehow, blubbered like a - well, like a grief-stricken woman who hasn't let herself "feel" the loss of someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a mother to me. I believe they call it an "ugly cry," nowadays- except with an "ugly cry," I feel like all inhibitions are completely gone and it's full-bore, loud, mascara-running, wailing... this may have been more of an "ugly sniffle." Regardless, the sweatsock seemed to have at least moved to the side a little, or some of the "clog" slid on out somehow. Catharsis, I suppose, but there was still something in the way. I guess I'll figure that out later.
The point is: if I say "I miss Millicent," that's not enough. Those aren't the right words, she deserves better, more grand SOMEthing. The void and my ability to translate how that FEELS doesn't work- I can't make the output match the gravity of what's happening in whatever space that is that isn't tangible- my soul? There's no appropriate analogy, there's not the "right phrase" or expression that accurately portrays the gut-heart-sick. There is absolutely not one flipping thing - NOTHING- I can do to change the fact that I'll never hear the voice again. Not ever again will I laugh with her at the silly words she made up- which was a lot. I won't watch smarmy movies with her anymore, I won't get UBER angry when she calls to wake the girls or me up in the middle of the night bc her tummy hurt, and I won't get to decorate her ridiculously gaudy spinning Christmas tree- not ever.
Last night, it occurred to me (since she died in the early stage of restoration in our relationship after about a year of significant tension) that I'm not sure if she had any clue how much I simply loved and needed her. Oh my GOSH, she made me crazy- we had so many words, SO often- we wanted to THROTTLE (her word) each other on bajillion occasions. But above that, or underneath it, or whatever... she was the "always" for me. She was the "been there for every little thing, good and bad" - she was the consistent, the home to which I could always return. And I never really got to tell her. I was in the process of "not hating her anymore" when she got a UTI and had to be admitted; I was to be baking her a peach cobbler that night, actually. I did get to spend the night in the hospital with her, 2 days before she slipped away, and if I were supposed to ever have to "pay for" harsh words I spoke to her in my lifetime (she WAS like a mama, after all...), that night would have been the best (worst?) payment, the most horrific of punishments. Her expression of pain was unbearable, soul-wrenching, and the most sorrowful, piercing sounds came from her that night- I am wracked with guilt even now remembering how some of her noises were even animalistic and comical- KJ and I even laughed a few times (how horrid is THAT?!??) But I did manage a few times to smooth her hair, pray over her, tell her I love her, and share the sickly gross hospital-y space with her. Part of me thought she'd be home in a few days; a very deep, very truthful knowing, though, spoke much more honesty into my spirit and somehow, there was a real sense of the terrible. We were not in a good place. The air was tense and thick around us. We fought, argued, bickered, yelled, and spent days at a time without contact. Our ripped niece-aunt-seam had been mending, though, so that's provided some wee relief over the last year; I just don't know for sure that she had the clear understanding as to how much she was my "person," and that was a serious source of burden for me last night- the "nothing at ALL I can do"-ness of it almost renders me paralyzed.
It also grieves me that I cannot impart unto my children how insanely incredible Millicent was; a bulk of their lives was spent living with and taking care of M, and when I became pregnant with Bonham, all of the care-taking fell to them. In this relationship-dynamic, Millicent is not- nor has she ever been, really- a peach. She was brilliant, kind, compassionate, loved animals, and went out of her way to help others, but she had this fire in her (the fire that kept her going after the had polio and had a lifetime of physical handicaps- she became an attorney and advocate for children and special needs folks) that was more of a destructive flame than it was the warm and cozy s'mores kind. She had a sharp tongue, had passive/ aggressive tendencies, was beyond controlling, and could be downright hateful sometimes- and that's a large part of what the girls saw. Her temper and short fuse got worse as she grew less and less capable, physically- which isn't hard to understand- but over time, the girls saw more and more "mean M" than they saw the "mama M" that I had grown up alongside.
I don't know where I'm going with this. "I miss her" sounds shallow and not enough. But since I don't seem to have any other options, and this is already too long, I'll just say that. I miss her- deeply and more soul-real than I ever knew anyone could possibly feel. I'm grateful I've lived 46 years without experiencing grief to this extent, and I don't ever want to do it again. I doubt I'll be that fortunate, but there we are.
My shelves are stuffed with her books, we have her art on the walls, and my right ring finger holds a jeweled representation of our alma mater, the St. Andrew's onyx. Almost daily, her earrings hang from my lobes, and some of her made-up vocabulary falls out of my mouth.
KJ texted me last night- and I didn't see it until I got up this morning: "she would be really proud of you," and this gaping hole in my everything desperately wants her to be. I was so, so very proud of her, too.
I just pray she knew.
Comments
Post a Comment