a month later

It happens in the strangest places at the strangest times. This morning, for instance, I was in the shower when I thought about it: Oma's last breaths.

For the most part, I'm really OK with everything. She was 88. She lived a long life. She loved her life when she was a small child. She loved her family more than anything. She lived through hell many times over. She survived so many revolting obstacles. And she did it all with a smile on her face. Almost always.

So really, I'm OK she's gone. Because she wasn't living at the end. She was just a pile of skin and bones. Literally. It was so incredibly difficult to see her there at the end. I spent the first part of this year with a headache nearly every single day because thinking about seeing her like that or actually seeing her like that, made me ill. I prayed for her death. And I'm not a pray-er. But I prayed and I asked you to pray.

So for that I'm really OK she's gone.

But then. Every once in a while I get this wave of sadness. Debilitating sadness. Like a tidal wave crushing me. It doesn't last too long, but it's there. In that moment it's there and for that moment I feel like I can't breathe. I feel like I have to remind myself that she's the one who is gone and I need to keep breathing.



"Are you excited to see Grandma on Saturday?" I asked Lovie this morning as we talked about how today is Thursday and tomorrow, Friday, is when she can bring something to school for show-and-tell, and then it will be Saturday when Grandma will come over for a baby shower I'm hosting.

"Yeah and Oma too?"

"No, baby. Only Grandma."



Mother's Day is going to be a bit rough I suspect. As will her birthday (end of May). But I know it all will get a bit easier. I won't ever forget. If I'm lucky, Lovie won't either. But it will get easier. The crushing sensation will subside. I suspect.