shrapnel

[ysobelle]

I had a lunchtime appointment with my therapist today. We threaded our way through my professional insecurities, my ambivalence about sex, my ill-fated longings for things I can't seem to have, and my deep-seated need to take over the world, constantly thwarted by my passion for naps. All according to plan. All the usual, progressive path. But at the end of our fifty-minute hour, as I was reaching for my phone scheduler to plug in our next appointment, something unexpected happened. There was a knock at the door. Now, even those not in therapy, I've always thought, respect the closed door as sacrosanct, guarded as it is by the "Do Not Disturb" and the white-noise machine. So Robin looked at me, and I looked at her, and she went to open the door. And a bomb went off in the hall-- a fireball of anguish and pain I've felt explode in my own heart, but rarely seen from the outside.

I stood in the middle of the room as Robin went out into the tiny hall. It was a young woman, and I could hear in her avalanche of sobs that her mother had died. As I stood there, eyes widening, she gasped out, "I told her it was okay, I told her she could go!"

I felt like my heart was a bucket in a well, and each word was a stone. I felt like I was a soldier in a field, watching a comrade step on a land mine right beside me.

My parents are somewhere in the middle of the ocean on a luxury liner. They left Wednesday morning, flying to Florida to meet the ship which would take them south, through the Carribean, and further down, at last, through the Panama Canal-- a long-time dream of my Dad's, and a birthday present to him last Spring from my Mom. Maybe it's just me, but there's always that small, nasty voice in the back of my head, when someone travels, saying, "What if something happens? What if they don't come back? What will you do?"

But it's not just now I'm hearing that horrible monologue, I have to be honest. As I come more to terms with the fact that I'm an adult, and wrestle with how I'm going to spend the rest of this life I have, and fight with the issues of mating, procreating, nesting, there's the rising knowledge that my time with my parents is limited. They won't always be here to listen, to bicker, to support, to let me down and lift me up. One day, it'll be me on the floor, sobbing, "I told her she could go." And while Robin called back later to check on me, and assure me that woman would be fine, and was in a cab on the way home, I can't stop thinking, "What will I do when it's my turn?"

I don't think I've ever wanted to talk to my Mommy more in my life.

Comments

I can identifyish

[fondor.livejournal.com]

When my father was dying, no doubt about it, his liver had given up and several other organs had begun the slide down the slope, one of my friends had stopped by to say hello. As my family had been in the hospital since around 5am, he offered to take me to lunch. My sister and brotherinlaw had already done the food thing (they had littleuns to feed). We walked the block to Burger King, ordered and ate. Anyone who has ever seen me eat a meal of some sort from a fast food place can attest that about 6 seconds after I've opened the bag, the meal is consumed and I'm looking for another drink. Shortly after this we walked back to find my father had passed while we were at lunch. Seeing the stricken look in my mom's eyes didn't really prepare me for this. The reality didn't sink in until a few days later at the service. My parents had professed to be catholic during my childhood, though both had lapsed. During the service, my mom is leaning on me and as we are making one of the interminable kneels and risings to our feet, I make the remark "Look, medieval calisthenics". Mom suppresses a giggle and says that she is glad a little of my father will live on in me. We all touch so many folks and imbue our qualities in them that when we are dead, we are never truly gone, just diluted. To this day I still have moments when I'd like to call him and talk something over with him. All I can say is you will always remember the qualities your parents gave to you during your life. You'll regret their passing, but never forget them.

[silverstah.livejournal.com]

*hugs*

I know what you mean - it hit me like a brick when my dad had his stroke last weekend.

They're not always going to be there. And that scares the living daylights out of me. I'm almost 30, and I'm not nearly ready to be an adult yet.

[ysobelle.livejournal.com]

I still want to send your Dad a postcard. To where shall I send it? I understand your brick-feeling: many years ago, a business associate of my Dad's had a stroke in the office. He called across the office to my Dad to help him, and when Dad was telling me what had happened, he imitated the slurred speech he heard when he picked up the phone. Part of me flipped out, and I remember telling my Dad, "Don't EVER do that again!"

Re: I can identifyish

[ysobelle.livejournal.com]

I know. But you know the Woody Allen quote: "Some people want to live on through their work. I'd prefer to live on by not dying."

It's an overwhelming fear sometimes. I don't feel like I'm ready. But does anyone? Ever?

What will you do?

[foxglove-8778.livejournal.com]

You will be comforted by the people that love you. We will listen to you and hug you.

You do the same for us.

[caitriona27.livejournal.com]

You will do what the rest of us who have lost parents (and some younger than others, you will get support from your friends and go on with your life.

I won't tell you that it's easy, but it's a fact of life and it's at that point you can make two choices. You can adversely let it affect your life and let it cripple you or you can choose to remember them and move on and cherish the time you have left...

[smileitsme.livejournal.com]

When that time comes, your friends can't take away the pain, and there will be pain, but we'll be here to hold you.

Enjoy your parents now. Today, it's been 21 years since my dad died. I was 21 at the time. Too young to lose my dad. But I survived. My mom is in a nursing home without her memory. At times she doesn't know who I am.

You have the knowledge they won't live forever. So enjoy them NOW. Have dinner with them - for no reason at all. Deal with their weirdness (all parents are weird! LOL). Go to the movies with them. Have pizza. Sit & listen to their stories.

Here's a hint, write things down that they tell you. Video tape a conversation one day, just because. Take lots of pictures. Love them.