Hormonal

I visit my favorite blog, SquawkRadio, and discover I’m in the throes of a PMS fit. The blog is about mothers. Well, sorta. The blogger talked about her relationship with her mother, and how it’s strengthened over the last few weeks—the discovery of things she didn’t know about her mother. How we’re always amazed our mothers were young women first and had dreams and such like us. And it is always surprising. *LOL* You never think of your mother as someone…like you, with dreams and plans and crushes and silliness. At least I didn’t. My mother was 45 when I was born, and she was not of the Kool-Aid mom variety, which I always wanted as a child. (I wanted the commercial childhood with kool-aid, after school stuff, and sleepovers at my house, which was not some drafty farm house—but a really cool new two story house with central heating and air.)

But in college, I mellowed out a bit; and the year I graduated, I spent the summer at home (as usual)—and I got to spend more time with her. I spent time with her before, naturally, but this time, I was actually paying attention. I listened to her stories. I discovered the little bits of her that made me happy or sad for her, proud of her, awed by her. I discovered her mischievous side. She was the happiest I ever remembered of her.

She died August 20, 1997, that summer. I had just gotten my driver’s license, and I had gone to town to get the picture done. I called home to check on her—I had one of those crazy feelings, for no reason, and I called home—and I was told I needed to come home. She had died while everyone was out of the house—in fact at the moment I called, my sister happened to pick up the phone and thought mom was napping—but then, my niece came into the room and said, she was dead. None of us knew. It was all so sudden.

My friend drove like a bat—and all the way home I chanted and prayed and bargained and denied…and I sprinted up my driveway, crying, panicky, passing emergency people who all had that same blank look on their faces…and I ran into the house—and no one would look at me, my Dad looked shaky, and my sister met my gaze, and she gave the briefest of head shakes, her lip trembling—and I flew back out of the house, running to an empty part of the yard, crying as if my heart was broken. I guess it was. My friend followed me—she stayed with me as much as she could—she was my rock—and I, I was a wreck all during the arrangements. I didn’t eat; I couldn’t sleep—our house is quiet at night, but I swear you could hear people breathe—and I know I could hear Mom’s breathing at night. But that first night was the worst. I couldn’t hear anything. It was the emptiest sound. I turned on Jewell and played “You Were Meant For Me” all night.

For the funeral, I was fine, actually. A little snarky at parts. People say the stupidest shit at a funeral. “Your mother looks so lovely. She looks like she’s sleeping.” To which I replied, rather darkly, “My mother slept on her side, and she snored…it doesn’t look like her at all.”

I miss my mother. She drove me crazy. I rarely understood her. But I miss my mother.