I’ve been in strange moods lately and my family is being so incredibly kind to me, especially Jason. The kids go out of their way to be helpful, but Jason goes out of his way to be comforting. He combs his fingers through my hair while I read or sit, and brings me little sweets before I can ask. When I say I don’t want to do anything, he makes nothing as pleasant as possible: blankets, hugs, quiet conversation. When I finally wanted to do something, he was totally onboard. He got the kids all ready so we could go look at model homes (the kids, though, really: so easy, so sweet) (they know what’s going on in the background as much as they can know and are extra accommodating). I like model homes. They’re free, they’re interesting. They’re possibility. Nothing really grabbed us, but it was nice to look. It was a welcome distraction, really. Then we went to Bond Park and walked around near the water for a bit, and the sky was super blue and the weather was just on the brisk side of warm, and we were surrounded by other families out for walks and runs and bike rides, and that was good too, just wholly good, to be part of the world and the sunshine for a little while.

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Don’t feel like talking tonight.


I always want to know what it feels like, what everything feels like: want to ask, want to know: how does it feel. I wish I could ask myself how it will feel After, because this is how it feels right Before: a deep sharp hurt in my chest, an open wound that aches, every second, every day; something so raw and hopeless I barely recognize it. I feel angry all the time and weepy and lost. I don’t know what to do. The fabric of my world is unraveling. I want her here forever. I find bits of her everywhere: her pirate ship drawing on Addie’s wall brought me to hot messy tears yesterday. I want to see her. I don’t want to see her. I wonder if I should be there, to just be beside her, to watch her. I wonder if I want those memories of her. Memories of this stage, when she is only the skeleton of my mother.

My most defining trait is that I always know the answer. I always know what should be done. I am always right. Just ask me. And usually, most of the time, I am: usually, most of the time, the best course of action seems as clear to me as ink on a page. I have no idea what to do anymore. I laid in bed tonight and just turned different situations over in my mind, because it’s all guesswork now. The future. What I will regret. What I will need. How it will feel.

I lay in bed and think about her, her hands, her long legs, her smile, her expression of concern or sadness or that little bright twinkle in her eye before she laughed. Her things. Her jewelry boxes, perfume bottles, gray heathered sweatshirts and romance novels. I worry I wasn’t good enough for her. That she was disappointed in me, that I never made her proud. I worry that I never showed her how important she was to me. I panic that she’s scared and hurting and I can’t fix it. I think about her voice on the end of the phone line and how she can’t even talk anymore, and how someday I will dial her number and she won’t be there. I look at the text messages on my phone now. Read by her, but unanswered. These are the things that will kill me, I know: her name on my cell phone screen. Recently called: Mom.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

I just fucking HATE this, I HATE THIS, and I don’t even know how to find words. I feel like there needs to be something else besides sorrow and grief, some new letters strung together, something that captures the salty bittersweetness of this, this twilight, this pre-loss, this world of doctors and whispers and planning, a word for how it feels to hold someone’s hand and rub your thumb over the veins beneath their skin and feel your life and theirs, pulsing: how to memorize that moment so you can come back to it: this is your blood, my blood, our blood. The need to live in that forever: I am you and we are Together.

That squeeze of her hand. The softness of her palm. The eternity of it, the blink of an eye. There is no word for that. That is how it feels: that word that was never created, that word too heavy for the human tongue.


So, today, oh man, today was just crazy busy and I think I thrive on that. I’m miserable standing still. Also I ate wayyy too much, like what is going on with me? I told Michelle that I’m starting to eat my feelings. This has never happened before: like, typically when I’m upset, every hunger instinct shuts off and I get skinny. Skinny Becca is usually Turmoil Becca. Chubby Becca is Happy Becca. So I don’t even know what’s happening there.

Okay, backtrack. Woke up early-early because my dog is awful and needs to go to the bathroom at 2 AM every day, WHY LOLA. Why. Back to bed for a couple hours. Bed feels gross. Why is everything so sweaty. These sheets are like three days old and bleh already. Mental note to wash sheets. Pass out. Wake Eli up. Elias is stretched out in his bed, blankets kicked mostly off, one boy-arm thrown over a pillow, his hair all ruffled. He opens an eye. Groggy. Twenty more minutes, okay? he croaks. Then he rolls over.

Lay back down in bed. Put alarm on for twenty minutes. Instead listen to Lola snoring and think about how gross these sheets are. Read On…