It’s been six months since my mom passed away. The distance of time gives a broader perspective, perhaps; but I have not been able to consolidate the events of that time into a consistent, coherent narrative.
The week I spent with Mom before she died, I knew she was sick, but I didn’t know it was going to be her last illness. I guess no one did. So, taking her to the hospital, and then visiting her everyday, was part of the regular schedule. I felt bad that she was hurting so much, with the broken collarbone, and I didn’t understand why she couldn’t swallow. But matters were progressing and she was getting good care in the hospital. But as for me: I was happy. I was worried, I was concerned, but I was there and I felt like I was helping by being there. On the way to the hospital, and on the way back, I got to listen to the radio stations from Galax and Mt. Airy. The days were long and I could explore around the area when I would go out for lunch or dinner. When I left on Sunday, I felt sure I’d be back at the end of the week, Mom would be either still in the hospital or in a rehab facility, and we’d progress to the next phase. I wanted her not to hurt so badly anymore… but I just wasn’t ready for her to be gone, so quickly and so finally.
Now when I think about going back to Eden (where the hospital is), something inside me gets cold chills.