Today was the first semi-normal day I’ve had since October. I slept 16 hours in the last 24 and realized how exhausted I was. My mom recently passed away. I’d been taking her to doctor’s appointments since mid-November, but she wasn’t really much better. The day after Thanksgiving, she dialed 911 and I accompanied her to the hospital. Since then, it’s been a whirlwind, filled with procedures and tests and diagnoses and medicines.
There have been no two days
that were the same.
Caring for my mom for five weeks was a blessing. I was able to do for her in a short period of time what she did for me for a lifetime. She was my safety-net I didn’t know existed. Now, I was hers. She tucked me in at night, prayed over me and for me. She intervened for me in every circumstance – now it was my turn. Praise God for this blessing!
It went by so fast.
Like a freight train but you
didn’t know where the caboose was.
We had mom’s funeral mass and life celebration on Saturday – and then I slept. I slept like never before. This morning, I felt like a new woman. I began to put my own sadly neglected house back in order. I changed sheets that hadn’t been changed in three weeks – with countless guests sleeping on them. I laundered towels. I started to pack away all that is Christmas.
It wasn’t until I began to make dinner for my children that I felt it. I got new pots and pans for Christmas – a gift I asked for J As I took the pot out of the drawer, I looked up and said, “Hey Mom, I’m using my new stuff. It works great.” And I started to weep. Two months ago, I’d have called her to tell her about it. And then we’d have talked for a half hour about this and that (all while she half listened while playing solitaire on the computer).
She’s in everything I do. She’s in the way I load the dishwasher and fold sheets and make chili. She’s in the way I raise my children, set priorities, and love my neighbor. She crafted me into the woman and mother I’ve become. I miss her. I miss the everyday of her.
I know she’s in a better place. I know she can breathe easily. I know she can sing – she loved to sing. I envision her singing When Irish Eyes are Smiling. I love you, Momma.