The Sigh

I've really been missing my mom lately. Yesterday I got a thing in the mail from hospice and among other things, it had a page with symptoms of Grief. I capitalize Grief because Grief has become an almost living being in my life. Having lost a son, I'm not exactly a stranger with Grief, but I'll take any pointers or help that I can get. Grief seems to have a mind of its own, a shape-shifter if you will. Anyway, I've noticed lately that I have the patience of a gnat, which is evidently a symptom of Grief.

Yesterday I had to go to the DMV to register my old Jeep. I had let the registration lapse and was actually planning on donating it to charity, but ended up having to drive it again for a brief stint while the Honda was in the shop. Anway, I started to think about Mom and let out this audible sigh; not just the kind where the air makes a lot of noise as it escapes your lungs but I let a sound escape from my vocal chords as well. I almost clapped my hand over my mouth as the sound escaped, realizing what I'd done. "The guy next to me is going to think I'm a total nutcase," I thought to myself. But sometimes something will get me to thinking and I JUST MISS MY MOM.

In yesterday's case, I was thinking about all the reasons why I kept the Jeep, which was to cart Mom around with her walker and then later, her wheelchair. I thought about what a strong spirit she had and how she fought so hard to live, and wondered if I'd let her down by letting the doctor's convince me to make her a hospice patient and sign DNR (do not resuscitate) paperwork for her. But Mom had been fighting with her body for most of her life, and defying pretty much everything along the way. Her indomitable spirit is what kept her going. It had reached a point where that persistence was making her life so hard, so miserable, yet she kept plugging away because that's what she knew best. And I sighed. A big, hard, audible sigh. A sigh that held so much within it and yet nobody around me had any idea what a big, meaningful, sigh it was. The sigh was Grief, rearing its sad head once again.

I miss Mom. I don't miss her hospital bed, her wheelchair, her walker. I miss the Mom that laughed and danced in her kitchen with my daughter. I miss the Mom that I used to call every day on my way home from work and would lose cell contact with when I passed the cemetery. I just miss talking to her. Oddly, I missed that when she was was living with me because by then, there wasn't much talking. Or listening. Mostly it was just a squeeze of the hand, a delicate hug because I was afraid I'd break her because her osteoporosis was so severe. I have so many things I wish I'd said. I wish I'd talked to her about dying on the day she died, but instead we just acted like it was understood.

And now, well, I just miss her. Yes, I do snap a lot. I don't have much patience. And I miss my mom.