Damn

Damn grief.

I can't believe it's been months since I have posted. 

Months.

A  (Grand)father flew across a vast ocean, crocodile teeth were purchased, zoos were frequented, ice-cream was consumed in copious quantities, wine was drunk, Galliano was scavenged, black pepper crab was dissected, Thanksgiving arrived, a turkey was dressed and carved, family and friends celebrated, concerts were performed, conducted and attended, bird parks were visited, a half marathon was completed, celebratory beers were drunk, pizzas were devoured, goodbyes were said, a tree was decorated with a mom-star atop, glug and egg-nog were imbibed, Christmas dinner was planned, snow fell..... sudsy on the Singapore streets, presents were ravaged, carols were sung, a little boy drunk with Christmas fun passed out in his bed, a new year was toasted, new jobs were acquired, a 40th birthday was celebrated, a Valentine's tea party was had, a Bali break was enjoyed and now here we are.......

Months.

Months compressed into a single paragraph.  It doesn't work.

It's no good. 

Damn Grief.

I am actively restraining myself from hitting the delete button.

This is why I didn't write. 

What started out as cathartic became......well.....anti-cathartic.  Not quite destructive but definitely not helpful either.  Writing was tiresome, loathsome, a chore. 

A person compressed into single paragraphs.  It doesn't work.

My grief compressed into single paragraphs?  It doesn't work.

I see now that at the time I couldn't write.  It all seemed trite or cliche or something that I can't quite articulate.  Yes!  That's it!  Everything in the past few months has been something I can't articulate.

So I was left speechless.

Plus, I was lazy.  Writing means feeling and feeling takes energy.  I was drowning in apathy.....writing apathy.  I mean....did you READ the running record of the last few months?  I completed a half-marathon for God's sake!  So how is it that I could run 13 miles and yet, reflecting deeply about my mom seemed exhausting? 

Damn grief.

Then there's the little problem I have of feeling like she is still alive.  Not in the crazy-she isn't really dead-what body?-it was a hoax-she is living in Chicago-really!-she is out at bunco nite right now-sort of way.  More of a .......I don't get it. 

My brain gets it. 

Of course.

I mean I SAW her body.  I felt liquid oozing from her skin, I wiped fluid from her mouth, I listened to her beep and blip, I hugged her ballooning flesh. 

This is my new strategy......I attempt to remember the most horrible and horrific moments of her death in hopes that the pain will dislodge me from my disillusionment......much like the person who pinches himself awake from a bad dream.  The more pain the quicker the release. 

Right?

It's not working.

Damn grief.

I still feel like she is in "our" kitchen getting dinner prepared, cursing at the expensive oven that would always break down, and sipping a bit of white wine.

I feel that if I picked up the phone and dialed the number right now she would answer.

I did it.  I called.  Of course she didn't answer.  No surprise there.

My brain gets it.

It did ring though.  I actually got excited to hear her double hello.  It was always a statement/question greeting......."Hello.  Hello?"  This prompted much teasing from me but still didn't affect her peculiar (okay mom! eccentric) answering habits.

Then I got the ubiquitous, "Sorry.  The number you have reached has been disconnected or is not in service anymore." 

I'll say!

Damn Grief.

Last week I was sick.  While my physical self was at battle with god knows what, my emotional self decided to take advantage.  It strategically moved all troops to the font lines for some serious purging.

I couldn't stop crying, remembering, "wanting my mommy" for lack of a better expression.

My subconscious was elated with this sudden chip in the armor and decided to bring out the big guns.

Well, if this was war then I'd use my own survival tactics.  I decided to distract myself with a good novel.

I chose one (unbeknownst to me) about boy whose father dies in 9/11.  Damn subconscious.

I finished the novel and chose another.  I wouldn't give in.  This one (unbeknownst to me) was about a mother AND father who die.  Damn subconscious.

Fine.  If my subconscious wants to fight dirty I can fight dirty.  So I take off for a 3 day relaxing get away in Bali.  On the plane I decided to lose myself in a movie.  I chose "The Descendents" which, (lets all say it together now.....unbeknownst to me) was about a woman who is on life support and the consequences that ensue.  Damn!  Damn! Damn subconscious.

***insert note**** I strongly advise the reading of all synopses and the viewing of all trailers before choosing any reading or video material.......especially when grieving. 

I decided I was done with novels and movies for the duration of my get away....... subconscious won THAT battle.  We disembarked, elbowed our way through crowds of over-weight tourists and sketchy touts until we found our transport.  We arrived at our hotel bleary but excited.  The receptionist handed over our key cards and informed us that we would be enjoying our stay in room 318.

Seriously?  318?  As in........ three........eighteen..........?

Damn.