OK/terrible

This is what I tell people when they ask how I am.

I mean, if I don't immediately start crying. Or if we are texting.

I say this verbatim, because it's true: OK/terrible.

Both are true, back to back, simultaneously, moment to moment. I'm OK and I'm terrible.

When my dad died, I still thought I needed to tell people I was fine. To try and act like I was fine.

I mean, we were still lying about suicide back then.

Now I know I don't have to pretend. 

This is the absolute most painful thing that has ever happened to me. This is the loss that I have been terrified of, the one I didn't imagine I could survive.

(Reader, she survives.)

Some friends have said they know that absolutely nothing will make this hurt less, but they want me to know they're here.

Friends who have lost their moms have said they know this astoundingly painful chasm of grief. They feel me and they see me. 

This is the most brutal IYKYK ever. They know. They really know. 

They? We. I know. We know.

Some friends have said they don't know what to say, but they're sending love.

This is all perfect. There are no right words. There's only kindness. 

Kindness is love, and love is everything.

Monday marked a week since my mom left us.

Last Tuesday, the day after my mom died, we gave the kids the option to stay home or go to school. Jordan chose to stay home. India wanted to go to school, as she had a science showcase she was very proud of.

I encouraged her to go, to not feel guilty about crying or not crying. To seek normalcy in activities if that felt OK.

And I said that of course I really wanted to see her showcase. I would be there.

On my way, I saw the school crossing guard, who we've now known for years.

She asked if I was OK. (This is how it starts. In case you run into me.)

And I burst into tears and said my mom passed away last night. She knew my mom, because she sometimes walked with the kids to school.

She pulled me into a huge hug. And then a woman who was leading a bunch of teenage kids in matching school shirts walked by, and then turned around and hugged the two of us.

Unclear if she even knew the crossing guard or not.

I cry everywhere. Everywhere.

The thing about losing my mom (the thing, ha) is that she lived with us. So last week, Jordan and I kept visiting her space and hugging and crying.

I still go up there and nap. I sit on her sofa. I flop face first onto her bed.

The first two nights, India and I slept in her bed. The kids had slept with her with some regularity, and I'd slept in her other room during big fights with Nick.

But never in her room.

And her bed is so comfortable. Her room is so friendly, so cozy.

It makes me happy to know she had such an inviting space here.

I open her dresser drawers, the ones with her sweaters, because they smell like her. I don't open them wide, just enough to stick my face in. Because I don't want scent of my mom to dissipate quickly.

When I was growing up, she wore an armful of gold bangles. Not both arms, like Indian women, just one.

I could locate her with her jingle. And I loved how she smelled.

She stopped wearing Arpege when my dad died. But she still smelled like Mama.

I've been wearing her clothes. Some of her clothes were mine in the first place, because the ones that were particularly soft she tended to appropriate.

Which was easy, as she did most of the laundry.

Laundry makes me cry.

Everything makes me cry.

I know Nick, and I know he is an action person. He wants to DO something that will make me feel better.

I've told him there's nothing he can do to make this hurt less. It's just going to hurt terribly until it hurts a little less, and a little less.

He's keeping our family moving forward. This is how he shows love. He does kindnesses like bring me morning tea and not make me get up. He makes things run.

After my mom had been in the hospital a few days, and it was clear her kidneys were very unhappy post-surgery, and things were more complicated than just getting her into acute rehab for her hip, I sat my family down.

I said, "You people need to take care of things, and you need to take care of yourselves and each other. I am going to be at the hospital, and I cannot do it. I can't think about Wanda and if she needs to be walked. You need to do it. I can't do laundry. You need to do it."

My dad used to You People us when he was frustrated. Shit is serious when you're at the You People stage.

And I said to Nick, "This is good practice for you. Because I'm going to fall completely the fuck apart when my mom dies."

I meant, like, after she came home from rehab and we got used to the new normal of her recovering from a broken hip.

Maybe in a couple years, or 10 if we were lucky.

I didn't know we were so unlucky.

I didn't mean already. I didn't mean last Monday.

Recently I told him that I'm scared he's going to get sick of my grief. Other people's grief gets  inconvenient and tedious. He's being so lovely and caretaker-y but he's going to hit a point and he's going to be fed up.

He promises he's not. Or if he gets to that point, he won't tell me.

He's grieving, too. It just comes out differently.

I've been looking for signs from my mom. My Russian Orthodox friend said that days 7, 9, and 40 are important, and to pay special attention, to look for messages from Betty.

On day 7 I looked, and didn't find any. But Nick pointed out that maybe she's really busy, because she's with so many loved ones she missed for so very long.

I hope this is the case.

On Tuesday I saw a couple roses in our very old rose bushes in front of our house. They were there when we moved in, and my mom always tended them.

So I thought I'd take these roses as a sign. I can't say they're the first of the season, because I think maybe we had some earlier when I wasn't paying attention.

Her wisteria is blooming up on the back stairs, where she twined it up the railing.

The poppies in the park are out in full glory.

This beauty I cannot share with her makes me cry. 

Everything makes me cry. I bought coconut water and those little hydration packets to add to water. I've had to become vigilant because otherwise I get insanely dehydrated.

I cry alone, on the phone, at the gym, in the street.

Sometimes a friend calls and all I do is wail.

Pretty sure I've cried at or on just about everyone in a four-block radius of my house. 

Although there may still be a couple unscathed shopkeepers around the corner.

Might get to them later in the week.