I am crocheting and thinking. I crochet a dish cloth for my sister once every three or four years. This one is a reddish pinkish color. I contemplate whether it is a tomato or real red while my mother lies dying in her hospital bed. All I have done the last three days is think. I stare and think.
Someone said to me the other day when they found out that my mother was dying,
“Well, we all have to go through it don’t we?”
“No, “we” don’t”, I thought, “You have know idea how I am feeling. My mother isn’t like yours. She is amazing, smart, funny, interesting. She makes you feel like you are the only one in the world that matters.”
I’ve been like this all week. Anything someone says I take it as a personal affront. Everything is just trivial now. Bills, work, going the speed limit, laundry.
Does everyone feel like this when their mother dies? I had no idea. I was always sympathetic, but I had no idea it was so debilitating emotionally. The sadness is almost overwhelming.
All those “never agains” just keep piling up in the back of my mind.
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