Caregiving Journal 24

Tomorrow is the first lawyer appointment since Mom died.  Today the Sun will get the obituary right or somebody else will die.  Yesterday my dear cousin, Marc, son of my Aunt Carol, my Mom's sister, called and we talked for a long time.  Yesterday my best friend went, as if going to her execution, to a doctor at UW hospital to see if ANYTHING short of mutilation can ease her years long chronic pain.  Today my husband will go to Silverdale to run some errands and he is very excited to get out, that's how much he's hating this weather.  Yesterday I called Lincare for the third time to ask them to remove the oxygen equipment that Mom used for the 3 days before she died.  Today I am sending my grandson $20 for the birthday I missed.  Today I am sending a birthday card to Marty McLaren for her birthday that I missed (which is hard to do since it's on the same day as mine).  Today I am going to make a thank you card for the people at the ESD, where I used to work, to thank them for giving me a lilac bush in memory of my Mom. Today I am going to wash the dishes and do laundry and make dinner.  Today I am going to watch our three little red squirrels fight over the birdseed.  Today I am going to watch the swallows (either violet greens or tree swallows) swoop in and out of the nest box that is just above and to the right of the patio doors.  Today, if it stops raining for a few minutes, I will start digging the hole for my lilac bush.  Yesterday evening my husband and I went for a walk--I could smell Spring, late as it is.  Today, as I do every day, I will look in amazement at the huge sunflowers my friend, Kay, brought me last week.  Yesterday I emailed my friend, Kay, a dream my Mom had written about and the transcript of the conversation about heaven that we'd had at Northwoods, as preparation for the eulogy she will write.  Today, I might make cookies, though I lack the chocolate chips I want to use. Yesterday my brother called Social Security on his own, without being reminded. Yesterday I washed the sheets and blanket that were on Mom's bed--there were chocolate stains from an ice cream/Ensure shake.  The day before yesterday I cleaned out another of Mom's drawers--her makeup drawer--finding blue, black and brown used up eye liner pencils and bright red lipsticks, tiny perfume samples and sewing kits from various hotels, and many bobby pins.

The days go by.  There are fewer times of crying.  So many times I say to myself, "Mom would have liked that."  Or, "I would have told Mom about that."  There is a sadness that lies underneath.  There is  happiness that I loved my Mom and still love her.