My lack of blogging recently can be attributed to a lack of inspiration and motivation of recent weeks. I’ve been working my part-time job, searching for full-time work, cleaning house, figuring out how to train kitties, and reading a lot. Almost done with Haunted, a fiction piece, which was undoubtedly needed. Thought eerie and downright freaky, the absurdity of it was a much-needed change of pace.
But here we are, January 11, and we’ve reached a weird time of year for myself. The last vestige of any dependency was torn from me just a mere two years ago. I’ll admit that I was dependent. I was dependent on my mother in the way any 20-year old is dependent on their parent.
I depended on her to be my ears. I depended on her advice because although I was 20-years old, coming into my own as it were, I knew who would have my best interest in heart. I depended on her to watch from afar, to make no judgments, and to be ready with guidance on the fly. I depended on her for the basics. I depended on her to be with a cup of coffee in hand, smoking her menthol lights, and I my light regulars, ready for our heart-to-heart. (Disclaimer: I quit smoking four months before she passed away, when she was diagnosed with acute myocarditis. It would turn out that two parents dying of heart attacks and suffering from other heart ailments was enough to get me to kick the habit. I only wish it were enough for my sisters as well.)
That morning tends to replay itself in my head over and over. It begins with the moment I jumped out of my skin to the sound of my sister crying. Realizing what happened and calling 911. The moment I had determined it was necessary to bring in outside help, that my sister and myself wasn’t enough to bring her back, was one of the scariest moments I’ll ever know.
Hearing from the doctor in the emergency room wasn’t necessarily a scary thing. It was kind of solidifying something I already knew. Paramedics in my house, beeping noises of resuscitating machines, and seeing my mother that way, all kind of prepared me for the worst. At that point, I was still a child and still dealing without my father. It sounds pathetic, but I was only thinking of the worst that morning.
Twenty-years old. I’m reading the draft of her obituary, trying to appease my grandmother who wasn’t happy that I was left as the executor, making phone calls to the trillion and a half people she knew, trying to make arrangements regarding her “estate,” and struggling with the decision of school.
I’m 22 now and my little sister is 20. It was hard for me to grasp the concept of how strong I was back then, I was only doing what needed to be done, but now I see what a feat that was. I couldn’t imagine my little sister having to deal with what I did. It’s all about perspective I suppose.
Sometimes I still feel cheated. Like they had wronged me somehow. All natural feelings I would imagine, and sometimes I feel guilted by it, but I reason with myself because I know that they hadn’t meant for things to go down the way it had. I don’t believe in God, and my notion of faith is quite different from most other people, but I do believe that this happened for a reason. Life is fragile and they never made it seem like they would be around forever. In fact, my mother once told me she felt bad that they would tell us kids in such a matter-of-fact manner, “we won’t be around forever.” Now that they aren’t, I feel like that helped more than it harmed me in life.
Now that I’m supposed to have the time to plan a wedding, I’m finding that the motivation to do so has depleted. It’s hard to want such a ceremonious event when two such prominent figures aren’t there to share it with me. Again, another reasoning that throws me into a fit of guilt, but the feeling is there. I’ve thrown eloping on the table, an instance that would give us a beautiful ceremony without the pressure (and to be fair, the expectancy that they should be there) of family. It sucks because I know I’m being unfair to Mister who wants his parents and grandparents to be present, but I can’t shake my concerns. Thankfully, we weren’t set on a 2013 date.
Clearly, I have some “dealing with” that still needs to happen. Let’s all be thankful that Mister is understanding and caring. When I’m finally out of this anniversary-funkery I’m in (tending to be from Christmas-January 25), I owe him in a big way.
Hopefully, as time passes, my mood lightens and shortens, otherwise I have some expensive grieving practices.
I apologize to any of my readers who went on to get to this part of the post. This was a bit more morose than I like to be but it’s an authentic part of life, as authentic as being happy.
Please, go be happy and enjoy life. If you’re lucky enough to have your family intact and around, make sure you let them know you love them. Sit down with them if you can. Days like today, my only wish would be to be able to sit down, have a cup of coffee, and wait for the advice and wisdom any 22-year old would want from their parents.