I've been flooded with memories of the week of her death.
In my mind, I see what her shins sticking out from her nightgown; how skinny they had become. I see her swollen arm infected, mottled with red and purple marks. I see her bald head, with a little fuzz starting to grow back, because she hadn't been able to have chemo since the infection in her arm set in. I see her eyes gazing out the window. I see her chin quivering when she couldn't move anything except her face, but was so sad, and trying to express her feelings. I see the tears in her eyes as I told her how much I love her, how lucky I was to have her for a mother, how she was leaving a legacy through us and our children, how we would never forget her.
I feel her cold shoulder, as I lay in bed snuggling up to her when she was in a coma. I feel her soft hands as I was holding her hand throughout the week. I feel the hot pavement as I lay in the driveway after I collapsed with grief. I feel the dried grass, as I lay in the yard, collapsed again, yelling at the top of my lungs, banging my forehead on the dry earth. I feel her brow beneath my fingers, as I try to smooth away the wrinkles brought on by pain. I feel her soft, fuzzy head, as I held my lips against it, as if she were my newborn baby, the love of my life.
I hear her trying to talk, but only being able to make little groans. I hear her lips smacking together, twitching as she had seizure after seizure the last day of her awareness. I hear my sister telling me on the phone that they've given Mom 10 days to live. I hear my own sobs reverberating in my head as if they were coming from someone else. I hear the doctor asking us if we want to take her home on hospice or let her die in the hospital. I hear my raspy breath, seemingly barely able to keep me alive, as the pain in my chest tears me apart. I hear Mom struggling for each breath, as her breathing becomes more and more shallow. I hear my voice, choked up with tears, singing her lullabies in the one hour ride in the hospital van to take her home for the last time.
The memories. They flood me. They make me wonder if I can make it through. If I will live. If I want to live without Mom. If life is possible without Mom. I don't want to think that I've already lived for a year without Mom.
My heart overflows with love. The love of a daughter. I have no one to give this to. What am I supposed to do with it? She wasn't supposed to die so early. I'm not supposed to be an orphan. I don't know if I will live through this. The pain is tearing me apart.
catgirl