Not Just Another Day

I tried to make it through September 30, 2009, as if it were another workday. I got dressed and fed myself and my cats as usual. I took the commuter bus to work in Sacramento. I had a stack of technical and policy reports to edit. I got my paycheck today and declined to contribute to the state’s United Way campaign because of the furloughs cutting into my pay.

Then my sister Black Woman Blogging sent me and the siblings her blog entry about the 11th anniversary of Mom’s passing.

With apologies to my Christian friends – DAMMIT!

The reminder was like pulling off a scab to reveal a fresh, unguarded wound. One would think that after 11 years it wouldn’t hurt. Correction: One would not be thinking, period. It still hurts. And I don’t know when it will stop hurting.

(P.S. to Black Woman Blogging: I’m not angry. You’re right to express your feelings in writing on this day. I’m just mad at the circumstances.)

My mother had Alzheimer’s disease, but it was the lung cancer that eventually took her life. She didn’t have the ability to communicate her pain and concern for her health. When she fell asleep the night of September 29, she didn’t wake up the next day. That devastated Dad and eventually the rest of us.

I think for me what hurts most is that there were things I wanted to tell her about my life but couldn’t. I wanted to explain why, 20 years ago, I was tearful and upset when Dad and she drove me to Sacramento International Airport for the return flight to Bellingham, Wash., where I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter. (I was dumped by a man who told me, with brutal honesty, “I’m not in love with you.”) I wanted to confide in her about my health problems, but the Alzheimer’s wouldn’t allow her to understand to keep my confidence. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about the times when I was snappish with her. I wanted to tell her that I finally sought chemical and therapeutic treatment for my depression. Finally, I wanted to tell her I found a job in state government that suits my talents as a writer and editor.

But on the Sunday before she passed, I sang to her and told her, “I love you.” She responded, “Thank you, baby.”

She understood. Maybe that’s enough.

In closing, when Mom passed, there was a star in the eastern night sky that I hadn’t seen before. The night before the funeral, I had followed that star in my car all the way to Folsom before I returned to Sacramento. To me, that was Mom. And to this day, whenever I see that star, I say, “Good night, Mom.”

Writing Diva