Unraveling

Words from my journal as I wait for my mom to die

(top) Mom & Dad on wedding day 1967; (bottom) Dad’s 70th birthday celebration 2013

Losing a parent is hard. Tomorrow will be a week since my mom took her last breath, and I find myself unraveling, processing the pain and the lessons and the hurt I feel, along with the crazy amount of love I have in my heart. There are lessons even in her absence. She is in me as I remain in her. That’s how life works.

I re-read my journal from two days before her final breath. Unedited. These were my thoughts.

“It seems awful to want her to go and I wonder if I’m being selfish, feeling sorry for myself.
I just want to honor her. I want to know that I’m taking care of her as I should be. I don’t want her to be in any more pain. She wants to go. God must not be ready to take her yet though.
I never imagined it would be like this. I thought it would go more quickly. At least these last days. Or maybe it is going quickly. It’s the weirdest thing. So I sit here.
Waiting.
Waiting for my mom to die.
Waiting for a life of almost seventy years to be over.
She seems peaceful right now. I hear her breathe and then not breathe.
She’s here but not here at all.
I don’t know how and why I’m not crying. I don’t know how I’ll be when it’s all over. I’m scared for that.
Today.
One breath at a time.
One slow breath at a time.”

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