My mom is dying.
I’m trying to carry on with the parts of my life which absolutely must be carried on with — getting Only Daughter to school, getting my crown started on my cracked tooth, stuff like that; the rest of the time I spend crying in the bathtub or curled up in a ball on the bed while Husband rubs my back.
I keep starting posts — tributes, poems, diatribes, odes — but I can’t find the “voice” and I can’t sustain attention for long enough so instead I cancel appointments and order raspberry plants and composer statues for deserving piano students and curl up in a ball on the bed while Husband rubs my back.
First Son is off looking for apartments, driving his new car that has payments starting 2 weeks before his first paycheck from his first real job that we both hope he likes and likes him; Second Son doesn’t like that they keep asking him to dishes at his new (summer) job and the expression on his face when he complains about it to me makes me wonder if he can keep his job for the whole summer and what will happen to his college plans and whether I can stand to put up with him for an entire summer if he’s not working; and Only Daughter’s gymnastics coaches are verbally if not physically abusive and the owner of the gym can’t be bothered to return my phone calls; and my mother is dying and all I really want to do is curl up in a ball on the bed while Husband rubs my back.
I went to a yoga class today. The only time during it that I didn’t feel like crying was when I was working so hard I was just trying with all my strength not to fall over.
I don’t think I was in a very yogic place.
Still not, probably.
I find suddenly that every woman I know within twenty years of my age is now being categorized (by me) as to whether their mom is still living or not.
And I find that most of the rest of it, other than that my mom is dying, doesn’t really seem to matter that much.
This is her in her teens. My oldest sister looks exactly like her.
Nice legs, eh?