Ceal's blog got me to thinking. I put a picture of my mother next to my bed when I got home from Lubbock. She's smiling in it. I was looking at it last night and actually wished I was able to talk to her again. I just wanted to hear her voice for some reason. I didn't need anything specific . . just to hear her voice. The picture of her seemed to urge me to call a number that is no longer there.
. . . . and then . . . .
Then I close my eyes and see her on that stupid bed in ICU, hear the respirator keeping her alive, see her uncomprehending eyes open, see the monitor slow then finally stop.
At last I am able to cry.
2 comments:
Jackie, I am glad you are able to cry now. Somehow, for me crying makes things more bearable. I am a crybaby though and cry pretty much at the drop of a hat. But, for you, this is good. (IMHO) My dad and I did not talk often and probably part of my tears at his funeral is that I allowed him to die while I was mad at him. Funny isn't it that I say "I allowed" as if I had a say in the matter. But, I still get sad to think that I let time go and didn't use it to the fullest.
A follow-up to Ceal's response ...
It is funny how time heals wounds. Amy, I believe, has still not grieved (cried) about her mother's passing. But as time as passed, we talk more and more about Margaret, but only about the positive things. We speak only sadly, and with no anger, about the other things.
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