Hi Mom, It has been 2100 days since you died, and since I have been counting this number for over five years, I think it is worth the time to recognize that I have reached another number that feels like a milestone worthy of comment.
And so, here we are.
I was going to do more with this post than I am, but now, two days late, I decided just to make this post a reprint and to NOT push it to social media as I usually do.
2100 days feels like a long time ago, and it has been a long time. However, in some ways, it feels like you just died, too.
My life has become learning to live with the reality of your death, Mom. I have been somewhat successful at that work. I am okay. I know I miss you, Mom, but the pit in my stomach, the anxiety, the "pain" is gone. Or it's gone most of the time. I still feel it, but it's less raw and more a fact of life.
Here's the reprint.
Hey, Mom! Talking to My Mother #98 - 100 days and Learning to Die
Hey, Mom! Talking to My Mother #98 - 100 days and Learning to Die
Hi Mom,
You died 100 days ago.
This feels like a mile stone, a marker of passage, and yet I cannot fully the effect of the rite of passage.
The time seems to have passed quickly.
The time seems to have passed very slowly.
I might not be counting days if not for this blog.
If not for this blog, I might not be aware that you died 100 days ago.
I am not sure how I feel about this mile marker.
And then Dad sent me this photo. Just randomly. He did not know one hundred days had passed.
And yet the photo seems perfect for today's blog.
I labeled the photo as you contemplating death as you are staring at the grave stone for your family in New Lothrop, and yet, I doubt you were actually thinking about death.
I know you thought of death from time to time; you discussed it with Dad.
I contemplated what it would be like when you died from time to time as well. But I could not anticipate how surreal it feels, how NOT NORMAL and yet normal, as I am surrounded by normal, and I am adjusting to change, and yet I am still in denial and in disbelief.
It's very much like quantum physics.
Liesel gave me this article a few weeks ago. This author and I, like another friend of mine, and Sarah Silverman, and my wife and so many others are all part of the "our mothers are dead" club. For this author, her mother died four years ago (2011, which was when this picture featured up top was taken) and yet her mother's death was ongoing as the author learned what deaths means as she comes to grip with her own ill-conceived assumptions. She closes the article with "I thought she would live forever."
LINK TO LEARNING TO DIE ARTICLE
I did not think you would live forever, Mom. I knew we were on borrowed time ever since the meningitis in 2000. And yet, I tricked myself into thinking there would be more time. You would live into your 80s, maybe even your 90s, I said many times. After all, you came back from death's door with the meningitis. You had many close calls after that, and yet, you proved yourself so strong. You kept hanging on. Your will to live seemed insuperable. Even when we learned you had the degenerative palsy, I still tricked myself. You were on a plateau. You might stay on that plateau for a long time. As I watched you decline, I knew the borrowed time was growing shorter, and yet I still bargained. I thought you would live on for a long time, not forever but longer than most doctors believed possible. And you did. It was just not long enough. I want more time.
And now one hundred days have ticked off since you crossed over into the beyond and your body was taken away and we said goodbye with loved ones and I have been writing and writing and hearing your voice and feeling you and talking to you and still, it's not enough, but it is what is. It's all there is. It sustains.
And I miss you, Mom, but no more than I did 100 days ago in that first glimpse of your corpse that was no longer drawing breath. I miss you a great deal Mom. The feeling moves in and out like the tide, sometimes it's stronger, sometimes I am distracted by other things, and so it seems less (though it's not), and yet, unlike the days, the feeling of missing you is not growing.
Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you.
Talk to you tomorrow, Mom.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
- Days ago = 100 days ago
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1510.12 - 20:43
and finally 1510.13 - 11:34
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Reflect and connect.
Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you, Mom.
I miss you so very much, Mom.
Talk to you soon, Mom.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
- Days ago = 2100 days ago
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 2104.02 - 10:10
NEW (written 1708.27 and 1907.04) NOTE on time: I am now in the same time zone as Google! So, when I post at 10:10 a.m. PDT to coincide with the time of your death, Mom, I am now actually posting late, so it's really 1:10 p.m. EDT. But I will continue to use the time stamp of 10:10 a.m. to remember the time of your death, Mom. I know this only matters to me, and to you, Mom. Dropped "Talk to you tomorrow, Mom" in the sign off on 1907.04. Should have done it sooner as this feature is no longer daily.
Hey, Mom! Talking to My Mother #98 - 100 days and Learning to Die
 |
| Mom contemplating death Her family's grave marker May 11, 2011 |
Hi Mom,
You died 100 days ago.
This feels like a mile stone, a marker of passage, and yet I cannot fully the effect of the rite of passage.
The time seems to have passed quickly.
The time seems to have passed very slowly.
I might not be counting days if not for this blog.
If not for this blog, I might not be aware that you died 100 days ago.
I am not sure how I feel about this mile marker.
And then Dad sent me this photo. Just randomly. He did not know one hundred days had passed.
And yet the photo seems perfect for today's blog.
I labeled the photo as you contemplating death as you are staring at the grave stone for your family in New Lothrop, and yet, I doubt you were actually thinking about death.
I know you thought of death from time to time; you discussed it with Dad.
I contemplated what it would be like when you died from time to time as well. But I could not anticipate how surreal it feels, how NOT NORMAL and yet normal, as I am surrounded by normal, and I am adjusting to change, and yet I am still in denial and in disbelief.
It's very much like quantum physics.
Liesel gave me this article a few weeks ago. This author and I, like another friend of mine, and Sarah Silverman, and my wife and so many others are all part of the "our mothers are dead" club. For this author, her mother died four years ago (2011, which was when this picture featured up top was taken) and yet her mother's death was ongoing as the author learned what deaths means as she comes to grip with her own ill-conceived assumptions. She closes the article with "I thought she would live forever."
LINK TO LEARNING TO DIE ARTICLE
I did not think you would live forever, Mom. I knew we were on borrowed time ever since the meningitis in 2000. And yet, I tricked myself into thinking there would be more time. You would live into your 80s, maybe even your 90s, I said many times. After all, you came back from death's door with the meningitis. You had many close calls after that, and yet, you proved yourself so strong. You kept hanging on. Your will to live seemed insuperable. Even when we learned you had the degenerative palsy, I still tricked myself. You were on a plateau. You might stay on that plateau for a long time. As I watched you decline, I knew the borrowed time was growing shorter, and yet I still bargained. I thought you would live on for a long time, not forever but longer than most doctors believed possible. And you did. It was just not long enough. I want more time.
And now one hundred days have ticked off since you crossed over into the beyond and your body was taken away and we said goodbye with loved ones and I have been writing and writing and hearing your voice and feeling you and talking to you and still, it's not enough, but it is what is. It's all there is. It sustains.
And I miss you, Mom, but no more than I did 100 days ago in that first glimpse of your corpse that was no longer drawing breath. I miss you a great deal Mom. The feeling moves in and out like the tide, sometimes it's stronger, sometimes I am distracted by other things, and so it seems less (though it's not), and yet, unlike the days, the feeling of missing you is not growing.
Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you.
Talk to you tomorrow, Mom.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
- Days ago = 100 days ago
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1510.12 - 20:43
and finally 1510.13 - 11:34
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Reflect and connect.
Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you, Mom.
I miss you so very much, Mom.
Talk to you soon, Mom.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
- Days ago = 2100 days ago
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 2104.02 - 10:10
NEW (written 1708.27 and 1907.04) NOTE on time: I am now in the same time zone as Google! So, when I post at 10:10 a.m. PDT to coincide with the time of your death, Mom, I am now actually posting late, so it's really 1:10 p.m. EDT. But I will continue to use the time stamp of 10:10 a.m. to remember the time of your death, Mom. I know this only matters to me, and to you, Mom. Dropped "Talk to you tomorrow, Mom" in the sign off on 1907.04. Should have done it sooner as this feature is no longer daily.
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