A Wounded Heart

I'll always remember pulling into the driveway back in July, just before Mom was scheduled to undergo surgery. This was my first time to be in Stilly since September 2005, when I left for Thailand, and though a few buildings had cropped up, everything still looked the same. I remember the drive from the airport. D and E picked me up and gave me a crash course during our long drive home on what to expect. I remember passing stretches of golden farmland and commenting on how pretty it looked contrasted against the setting sun. I remember being a bit nervous as we drove into the driveway, and then, I saw Mom standing in the doorway. She smiled and didn't say anything. As I walked up the drive, I just whispered ‘hey, Mom' and gave her a big hug, which was all that was needed.

Tomorrow, Erin and I will make the drive back to Stillwater from Denver, and though I know Mom's gone, I'll find it difficult not to envision her standing in the doorway, waiting to welcome us home. Though we've had eleven months to prepare, her passing still seems so sudden. We'd been living so long with this day in the future, it's hard to believe that it's now our reality. The permanence is overwhelming.

It's revealing to say, but since Wednesday, I've woken with nightmares, first of Mom's passing, and then, of C's illness. There have been a few nights where I've bolted upright in bed, with arms stretched forward towards C, as if to hold on. I asked E if she had noticed, and she replied, "I was having my own nightmares to notice yours." It's a desperate and absolutely powerless feeling. I wish more than anything that we could reverse course, hit pause like we'd do our old Betamax, and simply breathe. Instead, we must move forward; we must make the drive to Stillwater and close one chapter of a two chaptered book. I'm somewhat terrified of going back; there's finality to heading home. Being in Stillwater means Mom's really gone, and I'm not sure I'm there yet, mentally.

It's hard to get ‘there' given how quickly things have changed. One moment, Mom was on the up and up and was talking to the nurses about being discharged. Then as quickly, things changed. One moment, Mom was leading an Upward Bound summer camp, and then as quickly, things changed. One moment, Mom was traveling around Asia, and then as quickly, things changed. One moment, Mom was with us, and then as quickly, things changed.

And in the midst of all this, there's C. I just took a pause from writing in order to give C his evening chemo. He was mumbling something about guts and tubes, etc. - in other words, he was clearly out of it. He had vomited just a few hours earlier, so we gave him his evening bolis of meds one hour early; hence, the dopiness. We had a nice discussion earlier about Mom, where, for the first time in a while, we cried and reminisced of old times. C tires quickly, so conversations have been hard to come by. Still, despite his own discomfort, he's expressed his wish to be a part of the process, and to grieve Mom personally, and as a family. We're keeping our fingers crossed that his blood levels will be stable enough for him to fly.

It's hard to convey how surreal this feels, and how absolutely difficult all this is. Thankfully, we've been able to call on friends and family for support, without which we'd feel lost. Indeed, we feel overwhelmed by all the love and support we've received these past eleven months, and now is no exception. We deeply, deeply appreciate it. Mom was truly loved, and that shows. It's comforting to know that, though we're leaving Denver with a wounded heart, we're heading home to community of support.

After we lay Mom to rest, I'll likely return to Denver to help C with his process. That's what I promised Mom, and frankly, there's no place I'd rather be. -- J