This time of year my mind often wanders into sorrow. I was close to my mother by default. I was her favorite. I was completely devoted to her with a mission to help her find a modicum of peace in life. She died in January 2010 - six weeks after she moved to Monteagle... never moving into the apartment that was being built for her, and attached to my home.

Hindsight, I believe my mother came to the mountain to die. Prior to her arrival, she misled me regarding her health. I describe to people that I prepared for the arrival of a parakeet. I had a cage, newspaper to line the bottom, bird seed, and cuttlebone. But much to my surprise a cat arrived. I wasn't prepared. I had no kitty litter, no cat food, no catnip. Horrors!

****

On a good day my mother was outrageously difficult. She was schizophrenic and her disability grew bigger and uglier with each passing year. Though my mother was a lunatic, she was my lunatic and I loved her. She was my mother.

So, this time of year I get sad. Not because I miss her, you sillies. I miss her every single day. I get sad this time of year because of the heartache that still warbles off-key through and around my heart.

You see... when my mother was sick and I was alone and I was in such peril because my arthritis was tearing into my joints like bingeing piranha... well, it was a tough time. And when my mother's health started to downshift and her doctor gave her pain pills that I handed to her and then she died because he prescribed the wrong medicine... well, life sucked.

All that winter after my mother's death, I sat alone in my home. I would often stare for hours. I sat alone. I didn't open my mail. Utilities started to cancel. I was paralyzed with grief.

A *kissing* aunt and uncle sent a note of condolence and made a donation to the nearby university in honor of my mother. A cousin in NY called. That was the only family I heard from. Not one visit. Not one other call. I sat alone and didn't know what to do. Though my home was quiet, the inside of my head was a frantic cacophony of *what ifs*.

David, my youngest, came for three blessed days right after my mother died. He helped me walk through the sludge of details and then helped me pack up her life. It was all so fast because it had to be so fast. He was my hero... always will be.

(OH YEAH... I did hear from other family - the greedy jackasses that wanted me to hasten disbursement of her tiny estate.)

****

There's nothing quite like losing a parent. It's awful. It's a black hole, suffocating, and it's especially awful when no one cares. My mother was the nut no one liked. No one reached out. It was awful. I miss her every single day.

The good news is that I think my mother died from the very same disease I have... albeit, her doctor unwittingly gave her an assist. I have IPF, which has been misdiagnosed for decades and decades. Each year, more people will die from IPF than from breast cancer - well, and probably a lot of other diseases. Okay, okay - I'm getting to the good news. My mother died at age 83. She ravaged her body up to her last breath with no good habits or discipline. Opening a box of Russell Stover candies was her definition of exercise. But finally, here's the good news... I take care of myself. I exercise. I eat right. My pores sweat positivity. The way I see it, I'm gonna outlive the bunch of ya.

*laughing*

Can I ever thank you enough for listening... especially this time of year when sorrow visits and tugs and pulls and squeezes and pounces on my heart?




Mom & Me




I love this photo of my mother





Mother's Day 2008