Trigger warning: this post discusses my mother’s homegoing in detail, as well as my sometimes-nonsensical grief reactions. Read with care.

Not listening to anything today but the birds. Hubby is tending to the playlist for my mother’s funeral, so I think I’ll leave the music to him for now.

We lost my mom. She was ready; we were ready to see an end to her suffering. It’s an honor to sit with someone through those final hours, even when it hurts so much you want to climb out of your own skin.

It’s funny how the petty things drop away at times like these, and you wish you’d known love could feel this clean and uncomplicated.

I’m tired of crying. Tired of my throat aching. Tired of being angry. Tired of thanking kind, well-meaning people when I have no bandwidth.

The day before she passed, I took half a Benadryl. Then another. Then told my husband I could either be grumpy with him or mean to the public. He said, “Kill them all,” and meant it—metaphorically, of course.

I tried one of those meditation videos full of soothing profanity: “Eff Everything,” I think it was called. Spoiler: not mean enough. There are no words strong enough when your grief brain is chewing mourning pills.

Then I tried a regular meditation. When the honey-voiced guide said, “Breathe deeply,” I whispered, “Like my poor mother can’t?,” and had to shut it off. I knew I’d make it through the emotional wave, but I also thought I might need help swimming.

That night, while watching some idiotic movie, I told Barry it was either another Benadryl or a beer. He rushed to the fridge. Word Raccoon, my writing companion on my shoulders, has claws when she talks grief unfiltered, though she always regrets it afterwards.

Earlier, at lunch, the street corn arrived. I had asked about it, but the server brought one ear and handed it to Barry. He wanted some elote too, but I was the one inquiring, and without hesitating, I said, “My mother is dying. I’m taking the corn,” and I did, with a flourish. Barry got his ear later.

I wore a Mama shirt I normally loathe to the care facility—Midwestern cotton tragedy, gifted to me for a review and never before seen outside the house. But it felt right. “Mama” printed four times across my chest in varying patterns and shade, like I was cheering her on from the sidelines.

It didn’t help. I was furious that all my will and love couldn’t stop what was happening. I kept imagining grabbing her and sprinting down the tunnel back toward life. Like the end was negotiable.

A friend and I have met at my writing café a few times to discuss the construction of screenplays. I came up with an idea that he absolutely thinks I (maybe we) should run with it: you get so many people whose deaths you can veto, and you have to decide who to use them on.

I wish I had that veto power right now.

At Mom’s bedside, I dipped a toothette (sponge on a stick) into Coke Zero and stuck it in her mouth. She sucked on it like it was communion wine. A holy moment. She was so dry it hurt to watch. I apologized that it wasn’t Diet Pepsi — her favorite.

After a while, we went home to rest for a bit. Then came the call: death was likely a couple of hours away. We returned to be with her.

There are no comfortable chairs in a care facility. Just bad options. The recliner reeked. Who uses cloth furniture in a place like that? I brought pumpkin cinnamon Febreze, and suddenly it smelled like pumpkin cinnamon rolls. (Is that a thing? It should be.)

There was humor bedside. Music. Tears. Not enough air. Too much. Minor irritations. Bigger ones you swallowed because it wasn’t about you and everyone was just doing their best.

I rubbed lotion on her hand, knowing she was minutes from leaving us, and pulled her arm closer, as if I could keep her. I couldn’t bear to break physical contact.

Watching her breath slow was brutal. The spaces between stretched longer and longer. But I thought about her hours of labor to bring us children into the world, and I told her she was doing a good job. That she was almost finished.

We told her Dad had waited for her long enough on the other side. That we wouldn’t ask her to stay for us. (Hospice teaches you this. Sometimes your loved ones need permission.)

I called her “Mommy.” I called him “Daddy.” Like I was little again. I didn’t think about it until later. That’s the line I almost can’t write because it hurts. It was a big thing once in a World Lit class discussion I attended on Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons where the son calls his father Daddy and some of the students objected. It was a large class, so I didn’t speak up and say that’s the Southern way. I only lapse into it sometimes, but during something like this? For sure I use the diminutives.

After it all, we waited while they cleaned her up. Then, another goodbye. Then the funeral home came not in a hearse, but an SUV. Because “hearses upset people.” What nonsense. Death is not optional. It’s part of the deal. Ugly, inconvenient, and real.

Another goodbye as they took her away. I drifted towards our vehicle insisting I needed a sugary, icy Sprite. I rarely drink Sprite and the one I ended up with (it was past midnight, I think, or near) was no good but so what? Nothing was going to be any good right then and I knew it.

Earlier that day, I’d yelled to Barry that death is a design flaw. That we’re handed these luminous, improbable chances to live, only to have them crumble on some arbitrary Sunday. Like our lives are leases and we only get so many miles before we’re repo’ed.

I used my concert hall voice, not my indoors voice and I regret nothing. I wasn’t yelling at him, just yelling in general.

Then I yelled about a mysterious old man crotch smell in the house. It was probably the ripening bananas, and it wasn’t so bad; I just needed to scream at something.

When we’d first heard she was worsening a week ago, I said no thank you. I just did this with Tammy. I’m not doing it again. Pass.

Obviously, you don’t get to pass.

People ask what I need. I don’t know. Minute to minute, it changes. Yesterday, after a long nap, I asked Barry if he needed anything. That was new. It felt good to offer something back to someone who’d given me so much support in the days before.

Now, I want stillness. Solitude.

We have nearly a week ahead of smiling, nodding, hosting, thanking. I’m grateful for those who care. I am.

But I also intend to escape to the coffeehouse and sit on the porch as much as possible. Not to be fixed. Just heard. Or not. Just sipping. I find the most comfort in those who know how to be quiet with me. You ever notice that some people’s stillness is better than a conversation?

Or, better, if someone offers you something, anything, to think about besides your grief.

I want Sunday to come, the day after the funeral is scheduled, and Barry’s band to fill the house with noise so I can flee it guilt-free knowing he will be cared for in a way that heals him. I will find whatever bright corner to write in that I can in a town that rolls up its sidewalks on Sundays. (Cliché, don’t care.)

A parting thought: I’ve found that when death comes, the jagged edges drop away. What remains is just love. Just grace. The skewer comes out clean.

So here I am. Writing. Hurting. Healing. Doing what I do.
If it’s self-indulgent, I hope you’ll understand. It’s how I process. I know it takes time.

Word Raccoon has been at my side. We have written poetry throughout; with one freakish one today called “Sphincter Circus” about circuitous relationships because that gal doesn’t know how to leave a tender moment alone.

Love your people. Let go of anything you can. Humaning can be messy, but it can also be beautiful. I just mean that in general. Witnessing death is a good time to consider how you want to live. (I think I’ve earned those somewhat sappy but sincere lines. Hey, I gave you old man crotch smell above to balance it out.)

And as I saw on a card once:
Don’t hold onto a grudge. You know how slimy they are.

Word.