You boys are noisy

The days and nights since Mom passed away remain quite busy -- packed full with legitimate tasks related to the bureaucratic minutia of Mom's passing, and random "to do's" that help busy the mind and temper the intensity of our situation. Prescriptions need a fillin'; bills need a payin'; that towel hanging on the rack could be straighter; maybe the cans in the pantry should be alphabetized, too. It hasn't reached such an exaggerated point, but with a cock of the head and squint of the eye, it's easy to see that some of the "to do's" serve as a security blanket from the stark loss of Mom and our general loss of direction. Rightfully so. For me, what waits in stillness is much too overwhelming at the moment. Though the activity that persists (Craig's condition) is worrisome in its own right, at least it provides some distraction. You know things are pretty lousy when your brother's cancer journey distracts you from the loss of your mother. Still, the majority of tasks are real and needed, and reflect the all too familiar feeling that things don't let up even in death and mourning. No matter what fills the day, it only thinly veils reality and the loyal, everyday companionship of sadness and loss.

We've all expressed in a variety of ways a common sense of discombobulation.  Mourning mom -- her presence, her love, who she was, and who she was to the family -- is and will be a hard, long and painful process. On the way home from taking Jill to the airport, Diane and I reflected that what makes the general impossibility of coping with the loss of our mother exponentially more difficult is that she would be the one we'd turn to to cope with Craig's condition (before her own cancer, that is). Dad would turn to her, too. She was the hub of our wheel, the roots of our tree. The changes we've experienced are profound and life-altering on so many levels that it's sometimes a relief to get immersed in the minutia, and/or seek distraction during the few down times that peak through.  

Last night's distraction fell to the wonders of the box office big screen. And, booooy was it distracting. There were only three other boys in the audience to view the Incredible Hulk with Dad, Diane and I. We happened to sit right behind them, and they talked through the movie like they were at a middle school slumber party. The chatter and blatant disregard for others would make more sense if they weren't college aged and should (through some level of maturity) know better. Maybe one of them was blind and needed a running commentary of the movie. Perhaps the incessant laughter was really nervous laughter for fear of the loud booms and oh so very scary monster. Or, maybe they had one too many red bulls and were "detoxing". Whatever the case, they were noisy boys. As I sat growing more vexed with each parroted comment or ill-timed giggle, I could hear Mom saying in her sing-song voice, "you boys are noooii--syyyy".

One night at the hospital only days before her passing, Diane, Jill and I sat on her hospital couch teasing one another and giggling while Mom tried to watch Law and Order. Her strong, sassy voice immediately interrupted our racket and filled the room with one of her endearing stock phrases we grew up hearing but hadn't heard in years, "you girls are noisy". We stopped, stunned not only to hear her speak but at what she said. Her four words catapulted us immediately and precisely to childhood recollections. To me, it reminded me that the girls were always around her even then, and now it had come full circle. There we were in her hospital room keeping her company during one of the hardest nights of her life -- still giggling and 'being noisy' as we had so many times before. It was comforting to be reminded of our continuity of care, presence, devotion, and love for her throughout our lives.

Using her phrase last night would have surely aged me, however. I'm hardly old enough to call folks "boys", yet. Still, I couldn't resist pulling a Mom with a "Can you guys stop talking...please". She was never one to shirk an opportunity to be 'direct'. She would have been proud, silly as it was.

~E