I wanted to write but I’m not quite sure what to say. The long days merge into one another in an attempt to deal with the issues of death. For the most part, we try and keep Mom on an even keel, knowing the waters of grief are waiting to snatch her under. She’s doing pretty well, considering that Dad was her entire life and reason for living.
I seem to be on delayed-reaction but have not given any introspective thoughts to figure out why. I stay busy being the practical one, handling items of death like I’m moving through my grocery list—sort through and dispose of Dad’s meager possessions—a bag for Goodwill, a bag to be thrown out—check. My son and Marc move the dreaded hospital bed from the living room to the shop after I remove the bedding which she doesn’t want to touch—check. Drive to Goodwill to donate the bag—check. Drive Mom to Veteran’s Services to see what benefits may be available to her—check. Next week, his ashes and death certificate can be picked up, then we will visit the Social Security office and DMV—check. Call the union pension plan to see when her benefits end, will they last the month?—check. A meeting set up with an attorney to discuss the real estate issues—check. Try and squeeze in my mammogram—check.
Try and find our smiles again—check.
