I'm here at the home of my best friend Daph and my new friend Allison, aka Nice Lady. It is here that I have come to heal through laughter therapy at the end of each day since Wednesday this week.
It's been a tough week. Even tougher than I expected in some ways. I found things out this week. Things that the living never tell. Things that only the belongings of the dead can reveal. If you've ever had to clean out after a death, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. There are things that lie concealed in everyone's past. Some of which are best left concealed.
There are also things found in the belongings of the dead which serve no other purpose than to give us something to do that takes our minds off the grief. Did my mother know that by saving every grocery, drug, and bill receipt from 1962-1983, every Christmas present tag, every letter from every kid off at college, and every shot record and report card from each of us that by sifting through these useless records for at least 8 hours a day for a solid week I'd have a break from the grief of being completely without parents for the first time in 52 years?
What the hell are all these keys for? Are they my mother's keys as well as keys my mother inherited from her mother and was afraid to throw away for fear that whatever they unlocked will show up? I am now the keeper of the keys. I couldn't throw them away either Mom, so I'm going to make a wind chime out of them. Until whatever they unlock shows up, they'll tinkle in the breeze.
I have to say that at 25 years after my mother's death, I didn't expect to find so many of her things in Dad's house. Her entire vanity area was as if she'd only stepped out for a moment. Even her makeup case was still there. The vanity must have been a sort of memorial since my father had placed her final notes to him there, her final scribbled wishes in case anything happened because of the surgery, which it did, and the kind note from her surgeon who seemed genuinely stricken by her passing and wished to let us know that she was unconscious and unaware as she passed away so there was no fear or pain in her final hours.
Then, to stir up the emotions a little more, I found out that my father felt guilty because my mother was terrified of the coming surgery and had asked him to do something simple to comfort her. She'd asked him to crawl into the hospital bed with her and just hold her. My father was so uncomfortable about being seen in bed with his wife, in public, that he would not do that one simple thing. Yet, years later he prominently displayed on his night stand the photo he took of his girlfriend clad only in a flimzy teddy, attempting a pin-up style pose. Perhaps in heaven or wherever, there are large, cast iron frying pans and perhaps the only pain is when dead wives clout their dead husbands with them. We can hope.
Then there is my eldest brother who looks so grief stricken and sorrowful at times that I'd just like to hug him tightly until he cries. I'm sure he has some rather conflicted emotions as well, although probably different than mine. I'd give just about anything to save him the pain he's in.
Thus, with my brain clouded with grief for the father that wasn't, grief for the mother that was, anger at the injustices, guilt over the anger, and worry for my brother, I have stumbled gratefully through the door on Vicksburg St. and into the healing company of women who care and laugh and lighten my heart and spirit.
I am lucky to have three of the most wonderful women in the world as my friends and they are all right here in Baton Rouge. Becky, my absolutely crazed friend that is known for picking up sea shells, shark teeth and missiles on the beaches of Pensacola, Allison my new friend and truly Nice Lady, and Daph my soul friend who lifts my heart even if I simply hear her laughing on the other side of the house. These are the kinds of women that make having women friends such a special experience. I thank all three of them for helping me through this week.
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4 comments:
Just be sure to remind them that if the missile starts to smoke, it's best to drop it and run for the hills. In my personal opinion, of course, but then again, I've never found a missile myself and I can't really say how I'd react.
I've never really had to tidy up in the wake of someone's passing. The only thing I really remember is coming back to his house after he died and finding his "outside shoes" waiting by the door, waiting in vain because he was never coming back. It's probably a pale reflection of what you're feeling, but it's what I've got to work with.
Jean, I'm sorry all this is so complicated and difficult. I fully empathize and I also fully expect to have to deal with the same kind of thing in time.
Here is a post on a friend's journal that she wrote after she and her husband bought an old house in Albuquerque. I thought you might find it helpful:
http://shermanilla.deadjournal.com/72682.html
I totally understand what you have been going through... glad you had some friends around to help you through it.
Jean, I've read your comments on SQ's site all of which were great. That led me to your blog. I lost my Mom two years ago, and although my Dad perserveres still at 81 (he also has a girlfriend he's had for over 30 yrs. Mom knew about it. To say the least, it was an unusual marriage & although I know it's hard to believe, they still loved each other in an oddly platonic sort of way and lived together until the end). Still I know it won't be long before I go through this again with him. He's had heart problems for 20 years. It scares me silly to think about it, to have them both gone. I remember seeing Mom the day before she died and hugging her not realizing it was the last hug I'd give her in this life. She'd been looking frail for a year or so, but her doctor couldn't find anything wrong. Of course, Mom was afraid of doctors and didn't have any extensive tests done for anything she thought might be life-threatening although I'm sure her doctor had advised her to at times; she was 76. Dad called me the next morning at work. Mom went to work, came home and lay down for her daily morning nap. When she didn't get up at her usual time, Dad checked on her. The doctor said she was dead when she hit the floor. I went into her room and saw her glasses lying on the floor with one lens knocked out. I put it back in and held them for a few moments. When she fell down that last time, she fell on her face and broke her glasses. For some reason I will always remember those poor broken glasses. She was buried with them on because she didn't look normal without them. I still haven't gotten over her death. I can't go into the room at Dad's house where she died even though, by the doctor's account, she probably didn't know what happened or feel any pain. It is a hard, hard thing to go through and my thoughts are certainly with you now, Jean.
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