A Process, Like So Much Else

I haven’t really felt strong emotions over Mom’s death, though just saying “Mom’s death” is still a bit jarring.

It was hard to see her in such a compromised state, reduced to uttering stroke-induced gibberish, vulnerable to “caregivers” who may have been doing triage in their heads and figuring, due to her age and condition, that she was not really a priority in the bigger scheme of things. It was hard to see her struggling with obvious discomfort and pain toward the end.

I guess my grief works itself out over time, as it often does—like when I think I should be giving her a call and then realize that she’s no longer with us. Or when I think about what it means to no longer be able to ask her questions about her life, or someone else in the family she’d likely know something about.

I think this is the aspect of her loss that hits home with added impact—the realization that the generations rise and pass away before us, and we lose a connection with the past. We lose a resource, a voice, and now in some ways we assume her role, take on her mantle. Maybe people will be turning to us with their questions, but some questions from here on out will either go unanswered or we must become sleuths who have to do more research than we used to.

There’s also the realization, in a gallows humor sort of way, that we’re next. Doesn’t seem like it took all that long to get here.