It's Mother's Day, and while people around the world are celebrating their moms, I'll be bottling up my emotions and putting on the game face.
For Mother’s Day 2017, I’m at Fuck It–Level: Expert. I don’t want to hear another word about it. I mute the radio in the car when Mother’s Day ads come on. I see people posting on social media about Mother’s Day, and I keep scrolling. My own kids haven’t even asked about it.
Probably because this is my first motherless Mother’s Day. They don’t know how I’ll react–or Youngest has heard me mutter, “Fuck Mother’s Day,” under my breath and spread the word.
My sister is going out of town, too. How do I even call my dad and say, “Oh, by the way, it’s Mother’s Day and I don’t want you to be alone because my mom was fucking awesome?” Sure, I can do that. But not without tears welling in my eyes. And my dad will know. I’m the empath in the family. All the painful things make me sad and it takes me a very long time to get past them. It takes me a long time to not be angry, too.
I mean, not that I haven’t been alternately (and concurrently) angry and sad since January 12th–but I try to stuff it down when I’m with the family. They don’t need to know how bad it really is.
And, let’s be honest here. The entire situation fucking sucks.
She wasn’t sick. She’d babysat my great nephew the day before–all day. Correction: she had a cold that wasn’t going away, but had an appointment for January 12th in the morning. She died peacefully in her sleep–or at least that’s what they tell us. My mom seemed to be in good health, good spirits. I’d seen her the weekend prior.
I’m the introvert in the family, too. Even with family, I’m not comfortable in large groups. And, when we are all together, it is a large group. I can’t put my teacher face on because it’s not who I am. So, I watch and make sarcastic comments every time I have the opportunity. I am a lot like my mom was.
And, even though I thought I had ‘written it out’, I really hadn’t. ICYMI, here’s that post from January: Life Happens. But, much like there is a circle of life, there is a circle of grief, too. And, oh–that is one bitch of a ride.
I went back to teaching. I figured I needed something else to occupy my time consistently, apparently. What I think really happened in my brain was I couldn’t face being home all day with my thoughts. It’s a dark place in there sometimes, folks. And…*surprise* I don’t make friends easily because *gasp* I’m an introvert. I had a ready-made friend base who I’d see every day, Monday through Friday, if I went back to work.
And, it appealed to me.
My closest IRL friend helped with the flowers for Oldest’s wedding. I let her into that part of my life. She met my mom during the craziness that was the wedding weekend. She checks in with me every day at work and trusts my family to take care of me on weekends. I didn’t realize how much I missed her until this whole turn of events. We have a shared prep period, and I’ll oftentimes be found sitting in her room with her, working on stuff I have to get done. It’s…nice.
Here’s the thing: I’m far from okay. I have rheumatoid arthritis and a doctor that isn’t treating it aggressively enough. I’ve been fighting for a referral to University of Michigan rheumatology for over a month now–hopefully, we’ll receive word this coming week as to when I can *finally* head down there to receive more aggressive treatment. My mom had RA, too. She told me not to go to the rheumatologist I had an appointment with because she didn’t like him. I’m backing her on that, 100%, now. What sucks the most is that I’d always call my mom after my doctor’s appointments and tell her what was going on. When I went in March, I got in my car and pulled out my phone. Had her contact info up and everything before I remembered. Then, I sat there and cried. Because when a moron doctor tells you that you have fibromyalgia from poking and prodding my body when the areas he poked and prodded are in close proximity to the joints that bother me fucking all the time, I call bullshit. I wanted someone to be pissy with me, and that was one of the many things my mom did well–that indignation over being treated poorly. I returned to work after that, all a hot mess, and managed to teach another class before going home and crawling into bed–and not getting out until the next morning. And that was only because I had to go to work–or I would’ve stayed there for days.
I miss my mom every fucking day, and I’m in that weird-ass anger/bone-deep-sadness pit. I can’t multi-task like I used to, and it sucks. The Internet is shiny and sparkly, and a great distraction from what I should be doing. And, I didn’t realize that my mom was such an integral part of my writing. She used to ask what my stories were about, how far I’d gotten, and she loved the covers Kris Norris made–especially Distilled. I think she’d love the one for WTF as well.
So, why am I blogging about the shittiest Mother’s Day ever?
Because sometimes people just need to know where you really are–and when one is an introvert, saying it doesn’t work. Also, if I drop off the face of the Internet for a couple days? Now you know why.
In case you’re wondering why I put my NaNoWriMo winner banner up, it’s because I was really proud of that accomplishment–and my mom was proud of me for it, too. I guess I just need a reminder sometimes.