My mother died on January 6.
There really isn’t any way to soften that news.
I could go into detail about her health: the repeated hospital visits, her last emergency and decline. I could reassure that she didn’t suffer, that she went out on her own terms, that it was peaceful.
But I’ve told so many people the same details over the past two weeks that it’s become just a story I repeat to convey information. I’ve been sleepwalking between relative normalcy punctuated by reminders and realizations that hit like a slap to the face. And in some sense it’s amazing and unjust that the world keeps going on, as though this thing hasn’t happened at all.
The good memories are perhaps hardest of all, because they remind me that she won’t make any more. She doesn’t see the days getting longer, and won’t see spring start. She won’t get to vote against Trump.
This latter point was on her mind in her last days. She asked me to write something about how important it is to vote against Trump, and to vote in general—and I will, once I have something that I think does her last wishes justice.
The memorial service was just the end of the beginning of this new normal. There’s so much administrative stuff that follows a death: credit cards to be closed, mail to be stopped, so many entities that have to be told and managed and dealt with. I’ve never sold a house before. Going through her things is going to pick emotional scabs that haven’t even formed yet.
My family and friends have been wonderful and supportive throughout it all. But it’s still hard, and weird, and wrong-feeling.
I’m still so stunned I don’t think I can even write her a proper tribute, and besides, I can’t top what my sister wrote for her obituary. Yes, it’s humorous, Mom would have wanted it that way. Mom liked to laugh, and she was more patient and accepting than I realized or deserved. And I miss her terribly.