The comfort of routine

I had a friend ask me recently why I collected so many books, or I think to be more exact, if I was building a library. I found it interesting that I never really stopped to consider why I was doing it, although I knew I had some basic reasons. I find comfort in them, regardless if I pick them up to read or not. I find and value a sense of wisdom that comes before the idea of being 'politically correct,' and I like to think that I am protecting memories or ideas from disappearing.

The truth of the matter is I wanted to share them with my mother. Of course all the other reasons are valid, but the motivation was to sit and talk about them with her.

I continue to do it and I am sure that somewhere it's just because my nature is to spend money (not your average jew) but it's also a routine now. A routine I continue because it gives me comfort... because I was doing it to share with someone else.

Something is missing and I notice it every time I look in the mirror. My eyes don't look alive anymore, there is a void and darkness that is physically obvious.

I don't even think I know how to grieve openly. It's been so long since I allowed myself to do that. I believe strength is required to survive and the ability to overcome any obstacle and move forward, without delay, is necessary to avoid falling prey to pain.

You certainly can't think straight, support others, or maintain your focus when you're weak and lost in despair.

I cannot even cry and I want to. I feel it, but nothing comes out. I try and remember her voice and it is like a whisper now.... it hasn't even been that long. If people could hear me repeating the things she said to me, so often, in my mind - over and over - they would think I was truly psychotic.

I am so afraid I'll forget.

I daydream of taking my mother places and doing things with her that I knew she would enjoy. Things that she didn't have the chance to enjoy for so long. I daydream of helping her, of watching her regain her sense of self and value... of her being who she was before it was lost.

It doesn't last for long and then I see her lying on the floor barely conscious... I imagine her fear as she hears the paramedics and is rushed into the hospital. I imagine the pain and stress on her body as her heart fails and as she is brought 'back to life.'

I sense the pain in being unable to speak, or move. I can feel trapped myself, as if I was there. I can imagine her screaming in her mind...trying so hard to speak....as she hears the doctors, the crying, the voices all announcing her departure.

Most of all, I can feel her heart breaking as they sat the phone next to her so she could possibly hear me on the speaker .. telling her that I was driving, as fast as I could, to get there and to just hold on. I would do something to make it better.

I lost something at 10:47am on April 24th....I feel the void that it left every moment of every day.

It is not a void that time, kind words, beautiful cliches, or happy memories will fix or fill.

When my mother's heart failed, for the last time, mine left to find her.