I have what I think is a signal that the internal work of grieving...
...is proceeding on schedule...well, my schedule, at least.
    I took a nap, yesterday, after talking optimistically to a writing partner about some projects we'd bounced about some months ago, doing some running around, looking at my list of Things That Must Be Done (sooner than later, she says optimistically), setting it aside and trying to distract myself from the Death Thought Work that occupies a significant part of my mind and hamstrings almost everything else I try to do with my brain, at this time. Although I wasn't a carefree or appreciative napper prior to my mother's death, napping is just about the only way I sleep, at the moment, although I'm getting better at extending the night-sleep portion of daily revival. I'm up to five hours at a stretch. That's good news.
    Anyway, I awoke from a day-nap dream yesterday afternoon, most of which I can't remember except the section just before I awoke: Someone, I can't remember who, was about to sit in my mother's rocking chair. I cautioned the person to choose another seat, since my mother would be up, soon, wanting to sit in the chair, then, in the dream, reminded myself, out loud, that, oh, no, she's dead, it's okay for someone else to sit in her chair, she won't be using it.
    I awoke from the dream without trauma...I think because my awake self is fully cognizant of Mom's death/absence. The dream, at least the portion I remembered upon awakening, wasn't traumatic, either. Hmmmm..., I thought. This must be a glimpse into the work my brain is doing to incorporate my mother's death into all areas of my life. I was pleased that the work was proceeding at a pace that I think is "on schedule".
    I also ate two legitimate (for me) meals, yesterday. Although I bought the soup and bread I ate for the last of the meals (the soup was delicious and hearty, made by an in-town restaurant so, no, it wasn't fast food, nor was it left-overs from last week; the bread was fresh, crusty, soft in the middle and fragrant) I assembled a full array of appropriate bowls, a plate and a glass for the repast, which I hadn't been doing up to now. I made a dipping dressing for the bread. I thought about how my mother would have enjoyed this meal, especially the bread dipping part...but wasn't bothered by the acknowledgment.
    Monday had been an unexpectedly hard day. My head was stuck in brain sand. I wasn't able to accomplish any of the after-death business tasks I'd set for myself. Toward the end of the day I compared notes with all three of my sisters and a niece. Monday was also hard on all of them, as well. I spoke with a nephew and mentioned that I almost envied everyone their ability to filter themselves through their careers. He resurrected a quote, a version of a snippet of conversation from the movie Flight of the Phoenix (2004) which has apparently struck a chord throughout the internet community as, when I looked for the source I was deluged by blogs that have versions of it listed as a significant quote. The actual quote is linked to the name of the movie, above. My nephew's version of the quote, which I like, is as follows: "A man needs only one thing in life, someone to love. If you can't give him that then give him hope. If you can't give him that, give him work."
    Thus, yesterday, I worked, although not at those tasks I'd set up for myself on Monday and hadn't accomplished. Did it help? Who knows. Strange, strange country, especially since I'm not sure if I should be "easy" or "hard" on myself, or what an in-between approach might be.
    I do know that I can only keep up a directed pace for a couple of hours before I shut down. I don't seem to have any choice about shutting down; it happens, as a large, thick towel thrown over a cat when it is necessary to perform a physical procedure that will surely upset the cat. Thus, half sorted boxes of documents are scattered throughout my mother's and my bedrooms...when I arrived home from running errands, I left packages in the car that weren't necessary to bring inside...when I took out the garbage last night I didn't collect it as thoroughly as usual.
    I'm forcing myself to watch the BBC news I record from our local PBS station. It seems like they're talking about a planet in another solar system; an interesting planet but distant and applicable only to my promiscuous curiosity, not my life. I haven't been reading the paper, not even the sections I usually perused at breakfast while my mother searched out human interest tidbits. A wonderful local friend of mine last week invited me to see a movie with her this week. At the time it seemed like a good and necessary idea, but I'm discovering, day by day, that this is not the week for that. It's been snowing for about 36 hours and is supposed to continue today and tomorrow. I'm grateful to the weather gods for this. I don't think I could handle bright days, right now. At least, this way, the windows are kept open and I can't help but look out on our Christmas Card neighborhood several times a day and thank my mother for insisting on buying this house in 1997.
    I sense that I'll be "okay", again, because I have "okay" periods in fits and starts and I can't really say that the other periods aren't "okay", just unfamiliar. It's as though I'm concentrating very hard but I have no idea what is the subject of concentration.
    I'm also getting used to Typical Time, again. This surprises me. I thought I would remember, automatically, how to move through Human Agreed Upon Time. I understand, now, why people avoid the level of involvement upon which I insisted when being with my mother...but, I'm not sorry companionated her in the way I did. It's just taking a little more readjustment than I'd anticipated...or, well, I guess, really, since I'd refused to anticipate I unwittingly set myself up for some after-her-death surprises. I'm not sorry about that either, though.
    There is a part of me that also wishes I lived in a culture that not only allowed me to drop to the ground and wail but would expect and encourage me to crawl into the arms of all-encompassing grief and tug at my clothes, scratch at my skin, pull at my hair, ululate at a piercing pitch...I find myself calling up images of this kind of grief expression at frequent intervals. Worldwide Images of Grief. Does such a video exist? If it doesn't, it should.
    Later.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 05:11   email  this post