Just so you know *mp* is short for Mom Post. I think you might have to deal with a few of them for a while so the idea is to save you having to read through a blog post about my mom’s death if you don’t want to…

Death you’re a fickle bastard. I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I want to be doing something, to take my mind off the hurt, but I don’t want to be doing anything because it feels disrespectful. I want people near me but I want to be a million miles away. I feel like I should be moving on bravely, as you would want, but I also want to curl up and die, to be with you, because that’s what I want. 

I want someone to ask me how I am or ask me how I’m doing but when they do I smile and softly say “I’m ok” while my inside voice screams “what the dumbfuck kind of a question is that? My mom’s dead! How do you think I’m doing?”

I want to see a psychic or clairvoyant to know my mom is safe and sound and has reached her new home but I also don’t want to hear her ‘from the other side’ because that means she is gone. That she’s really gone and she’s not coming back. 

I want to go through her things, to smell her, to feel her, to maybe hear her but I don’t want to do any of that. I would never go through my mom’s things of she were alive, so to be doing it now, it means once again she’s really gone. 

I’m trying to remember every conversation but my mind isn’t being fair. It’s reminding me of the little arguments we had, the silly disagreements. My mind’s giving me a list of the 101 things I should have said, or done. 

My mom loved me. I know that. I know that because I am a mother and I would die for my children. And I know she knows how much I loved her. But I wonder if she’s thinking I could have done more. I’m wondering if she’s made a mental note of all the times I said I’d pop by and didn’t. Of the times I could have met her for a coffee and a piece of cake. And I didn’t. 

I want to see people and I don’t. I want to slip under my blankets and sleep but I can’t. I wake up feeling ok, for maybe a second and then I remember my mom’s dead. And she’s been dead for 10 days and about three hours. I appreciate the kind words and the messages. So very much. But the ones that mention how proud my mom was of me, those kill me. Because I actually never did very much to make her proud. As much as my world has ended, life carries on and I’m trying to get my head around people saying ‘ok let’s chat in a day or two when you feel better!’ FEEL BETTER? IN A DAY OR TWO? I don’t have diarrhea for fuck’s sake. I have a dead mom. 

We white folk don’t know to deal with death. We don’t know to mourn or celebrate a life. When a person dies we suddenly stop mentioning their name. We avoid any conversations that might include the dead person. And every time we do that we let that person die over and over again. We don’t know what to do or say to the loved ones left behind and so we say nothing. We don’t call. We don’t visit. We ‘give them their space’

I miss my mom. If you want to know how I am send me a message, asking ‘how are you doing today? This minute? Right now?” Ask me if I want to meet up for a cup of coffee. Worst thing I can do is say yes! Don’t whisper my mom’s name. Speak it as you would if she were here with us, in the same room, because she is. 

               

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