The day I found out that my mother was dying- not sick, but dying- I went shopping. I bought a sweater and a pair of socks; I drank a soy latte and read the newest issue of ArtForum at a café and then I updated my facebook page. I ignored phone calls from my family. I made the mistake of answering the phone in the morning, when my brother called and he was crying. I’ve never heard him cry before. And then again I answered a call from my dad who was asking me if I would be ok if “they took mom off the machines before you get here, you know, if she codes again.” I told him shut up dad. Shut up dad because mom’s gonna be ok and I hung up on him. And then I cried for ten minutes in an Old Navy dressing room praying to God or Allah or Dharma or whatever other name I could think of that describes something that does not exist. It was hopeless but I would have given my soul to Jesus or whoever else would take it as long as they stopped time for awhile, as long as they kept this from happening.
I took the latest flight I could find and I took my time getting to the airport. It was pouring rain, Joseph was driving, he could barely see and I was silently hoping for a fender-bender, some kind of something that would make me miss my plane. The longest walk I’ve ever walked and the longest time has ever taken was the twelve interconnected hallways that led me to the intensive care unit in the hospital. I could hear the beeping before I could see the machines. I lasted only 30 seconds in the room before I ran. I ran down the twelve halls and into the elevator and then out into the parking lot and I fell to my knees and thought about finding out when the next Greyhound left. I thought about just leaving right then because that person lying up in the hospital bed was not my mom and god, I’m such a fucking coward but I just can’t do this. It took me twelve hours to go back into that room and hold my dying mom’s hand and tell her not to be scared (my knees wouldn’t stop shaking) and that I loved her and that I needed her but I’d be ok if she had to go (the biggest lie I’ve ever told). I’ve never witnessed anyone die before, like watching a heart actually stop and a last breath be taken and a body go limp.
The day my mother died- not dying, but dead-I went shopping again. I went to a Super Walmart. I walked around in circles looking at wrapping paper and turkey cut outs and peanut butter stuffed Oreos in other people’s shopping carts pushed by other people’s moms. I picked out a digital camera for my sister because it was her 14th birthday and I knew that from now on every time she turned over a year she would be thinking of our dead mother, not of life and it made me so indescribably sad that I could feel it in my limbs, like it was crawling around in my blood.
The day after my mother’s funeral me and all of the relatives that were still hanging around piled into two cars and drove to Wyoming to visit my Grammy. Her grave was covered in snow and ice and mud and we had to use our shoes to scrape it all off because the wind was blowing and it was too cold to take our hands out of our pockets. We stood around and said things that I can’t remember because I was thinking about the wind and the cold and my mom and is this it? I mean, is this all there is to it? You die and you’re buried or burned and sometimes, when they think about it, someone who loved you comes to clean off your grave or wipe the dust from your urn? And I thought about how fucking sad it all is and how fucking useless.
It is only now, almost a month later, that I am beginning to realize that all of those thoughts and all of the running is not due to my self-taught existentialism, but fear. I’m terrified of everything and I think everyone I love is dying or will abandon me and what scares me the most is that I’m right.
I guess I’ll stop writing about this when it starts to make sense.
I took the latest flight I could find and I took my time getting to the airport. It was pouring rain, Joseph was driving, he could barely see and I was silently hoping for a fender-bender, some kind of something that would make me miss my plane. The longest walk I’ve ever walked and the longest time has ever taken was the twelve interconnected hallways that led me to the intensive care unit in the hospital. I could hear the beeping before I could see the machines. I lasted only 30 seconds in the room before I ran. I ran down the twelve halls and into the elevator and then out into the parking lot and I fell to my knees and thought about finding out when the next Greyhound left. I thought about just leaving right then because that person lying up in the hospital bed was not my mom and god, I’m such a fucking coward but I just can’t do this. It took me twelve hours to go back into that room and hold my dying mom’s hand and tell her not to be scared (my knees wouldn’t stop shaking) and that I loved her and that I needed her but I’d be ok if she had to go (the biggest lie I’ve ever told). I’ve never witnessed anyone die before, like watching a heart actually stop and a last breath be taken and a body go limp.
The day my mother died- not dying, but dead-I went shopping again. I went to a Super Walmart. I walked around in circles looking at wrapping paper and turkey cut outs and peanut butter stuffed Oreos in other people’s shopping carts pushed by other people’s moms. I picked out a digital camera for my sister because it was her 14th birthday and I knew that from now on every time she turned over a year she would be thinking of our dead mother, not of life and it made me so indescribably sad that I could feel it in my limbs, like it was crawling around in my blood.
The day after my mother’s funeral me and all of the relatives that were still hanging around piled into two cars and drove to Wyoming to visit my Grammy. Her grave was covered in snow and ice and mud and we had to use our shoes to scrape it all off because the wind was blowing and it was too cold to take our hands out of our pockets. We stood around and said things that I can’t remember because I was thinking about the wind and the cold and my mom and is this it? I mean, is this all there is to it? You die and you’re buried or burned and sometimes, when they think about it, someone who loved you comes to clean off your grave or wipe the dust from your urn? And I thought about how fucking sad it all is and how fucking useless.
It is only now, almost a month later, that I am beginning to realize that all of those thoughts and all of the running is not due to my self-taught existentialism, but fear. I’m terrified of everything and I think everyone I love is dying or will abandon me and what scares me the most is that I’m right.
I guess I’ll stop writing about this when it starts to make sense.
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