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Things I did and thought upon learning of of my mother’s death

Things I did and thought upon learning of of my mother’s death
My Mom and My Child. It's what happiness looks like. And sadness, too.

*Yesterday, a childhood friend asked me to call her. I did. She let me know that my mother died on January 14. Because I’ve been no-contact with my mother and her side of the family for almost 20 years, I was not told immediately. What follows is a list of things I did and thought in the immediate aftermath of learning my mother is gone. I took to writing on my phone, in the Notes app, because writing helps me process but also because it felt as if I wasn’t experiencing this in real time. I am sharing this in its unedited form although all names except my husband’s have been removed.

  • Told my child. Andrew learned when I did but I didn’t want our child to hear it for the first time when I informed my sister.
  • Called my sister. She did not pick up. Left an actual voicemail. Painful.
  • Texted my sister telling her to pick up right now. It’s important.
  • Read her reply. She’s logging out of work.
  • Stared at the screen. Should I call her back.
  • Answer her call.
  • Told her about our mom in a voice that says, “this is serious,” but also “fuck I care?”.
  • Stares blankly at the phone.
  • Ended call. I need to smoke a joint.
  • Ate three slices of pizza, instead.
  • Immediately regret eating three slices of pizza.
  • Contemplate eating a forth slice.
  • Finally smoke a joint after not smoking for three weeks. Indica-hybrid, I think.
  • Watch 3/4 of an episode of Love is Blind with Andrew, discussing the deceptive editing practices done to shape the narrative.
  • Rage quit Turn it off; too much whining. Don’t they know my mother is dead.
  • Decide to relocate upstairs to play the Sims 4 but not before realizing I had 3 near-death Sims events over the last two weeks.
  • Mercury is the planet of change.
  • Change mind about going upstairs.
  • Admit to Andrew I knew something was going to happen.
  • I’d been feeling the transformation brewing taking hold and blanketing me in uncertainty. I knew but I didn’t know.
  • Trusting he understands.
  • Bask in his understanding. Appreciating the beauty in the onslaught of coming pain.
  • I need to text [REDACTED]. She understands.
  • Shift on sofa, prepare to stand. Andrew helps me up and asks if I’m ready…
  • Collapse into a heap of tears against him. Sink into the cleansing of those tears as I chant my gospel.
  • “God, I wasn’t ready.”
  • “I am not ready.” 
  • I will be OK. I will be OK.
  • Gasp for air. Again.
  • Again. 
  • Take controlled exhalation. Slower inhales.
  • Faster.
  • And faster. 
  • “I’m not ready.”`
  • Lean into my husband’s body.He has the flu but still holds on to me with strong and empathetic arms. ((We will be OK))
  • I relax into my support and cry some more.
  • I thought I was ready.
  • I am not ready.
  • Oh god, I am not ready.
  • Sob. ((I got you Sweets I got you. Let it go. Let it go. It’s ok. ))
  • Let go. As much as I can in the moment. 
  • I’m an orphan. Again.
  • I will never get justice, revenge, confrontation, vindication, restitution. No apology.
  • I am not ready.
  • And she’s dead so she will never love me. Or think I’m good enough to deserve happiness.
  • Everyone will think me ungrateful for all the things she promised never delivered.
  • Was there a charm school lesson on this?
  • What is the protocol?
  • Do I unblock [REDACTED], send a condolences text, then block her again?
  • Do we duel over truth?
  • Oh and I must text [REDACTED] to let her know because she is not answering her phone and I left another message. But telling her via text is necessary.
  • It’s been 5 days. They waited this long to tell me?
  • My mother is dead.
  • I have to tell [REDACTED] now. It cannot wait until tomorrow morning because if [REDACTED] doesn’t know then [REDACTED] and I are the only two carrying the weight of this shock tonight.
  • And I wasn’t ready.
  • I am not ready.
  • But I will be OK.
  • It’s ok because I will be OK.
  • We will be OK.
  • “I am not OK.”
  • I am not.
  • Ok. I am.
  • Not ok.
  • I’m a communicator. Communicate.
  • My mother is dead. I text everyone.
  • I’m processing.
  • I am relieved. I am sad. And processing.
  • I was not. Am not.Ready.
  • I thought I was ready. 
  • I need to say it to someone who’s doesn’t hold expectations. Someone who is not searching for emotion, or a sign that I am going to break.
  • I am broken.
  • I am not ready.