Two and a half years ago, I wrote this.

April 14, 2008

When mom died, a lot of people told me that I was lucky, that she was lucky, because it had happened so fast and she didn't suffer much. I generally agreed with that sentiment at the time, but the more I think about it, the more I want to say, what about all the things I was supposed to learn from her? What about all those family stories I needed to be told about one more time? What about the things I was supposed to teach my own children? What about that one dish that you always made that I loved - how did that go again? What about those things that only mothers know about their own children? Will anyone know those things about me again? What? What? Why? WHY?

An exercise in futility and frustration.

The last time I saw my mom alive, it was right before dad was going to drive me to the airport to go back to Boston. It was early morning and she was sitting up in her hospital room looking out the window. I remember thinking how sad she looked, and if she was surveying her life.

When I flew home to say my goodbyes, I accidentally caught the middle knuckle of my right hand on something and caused a small nick. The scar is still there today. Sometimes I look at it and imagine that it is the cause of all my misfortunes.

I saw and I felt so much in those few days. Mostly things I did not want to see or feel. We laughed, we cried, we cried so hard we had to laugh, we laughed so hard we had to cry. We questioned, we accepted, we murmured, we graciously accepted condolences. We yelled, we screamed, I begged God, I became pious, I renounced God. We ate, we slept, we pissed, we shat, we were normal. And still, she died.

Man is born, Man lives, Man dies.

I was recently reading "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close" by Jonathan Safran Foer and one of the characters said something that resonated with me.

"That night I told her what I had seen. She made me promise never to speak a word about it. I promised her. She said, Why should I believe you?
I wanted to tell her, Because what I saw would no longer be mine if I talked about it."

I saw so many things I would never wish for anyone else to see or experience and now its inside of me, festering, eating away at me, preying on my sanity, my own mental cancer. It's mine. And I need to get it out. I have so much I want to say, so much I want to share, but I find myself unable.

I'm trying. I'm trying to get it all out. Put it down on paper, put it in cyberspace. This is real. This happened. Deal with it. So I write on here. God knows who reads it. Getting the phrases "When my mom died," "My mom died," "My mother is dead." into my head, into my mouth, rolling off of my tongue. Guess why, Michelle. It happened.

I listen to music, I cry, I ride public transportation, I write, I deal, I think, I ruminate, I stew.

I tell myself: It will be OK.

Will it?

Yes, Michelle, it will.

You will be OK.

Will I?