Thanksgiving yesterday, my first here at home without you.
Last year Gramma asked everyone to come, so we did. When I walked in, I didn't recognize her. She had deteriorated so much. But she said she was feeling so much better; she planned to see this year, too. One year ago today. She was gone not even two weeks later.
I worked to get Christmas things up earlier this year. Today was just my poinsettia arrangements and the Treepee. I've stayed busy, moving, distracting myself. And yesterday was chaotic, noisy, and amazing. Matthew & Kensey, Michael and you were missing, but everyone else was here, and here most of the day. No time to think.
But in the quiet moments, I find myself remembering. Grateful for you, and missing you terribly.
Here we are again.
Friday into Saturday.
101 times since that night, your last night here, your first day in heaven.
Tomorrow I will go to your grave and decorate it for Christmas. I can't tell you how much I wish I was still choosing Christmas presents for you, juggling medication and nursing schedules. How strange it sometimes still seems to not be, and how painful the realization that those don't seem quite real anymore. They fade, almost like a dream. And then I'm hit with the gut punch agin.
I miss you, and I miss Gramma.
I don't even have words for it.
A friend who also recently lost her mother put this up:
I was reasonably prepared for you to die.
I was not prepared for you to be gone.
And I think that's it. You dying was painful beyond words I have. Excruciating, gut wrenching, heart breaking to the point that every breath physically hurt. But there were things to do and tasks to perform, so amid the tears (and wails and gasping sobs), I did them.
So I'm limping forward, wearing my mask, and even doing pretty well most of the time.
But Friday into Saturday . . .
November into December . . .
Thanksgiving into Christmas . . . . . . .
I love you. I miss you.
Love,
Mama
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