Two weeks ago I lost my Mother. Not lost really; she died. Passed away, lost, no longer with us; all nice ways to say a terrible thing: she is gone, suddenly, without any warning. Gone.
Usually writing has a cathartic effect on me. But I can’t even write about this. Not this. It’s too soon, too awful, too raw.
Two days ago, I cut my hand. One of those deep, jagged kind of cuts that just won’t stop bleeding. Then I thought this is how it is with my Mother. People want to give me advice or encouragement to help me cope, or heal. But I can’t do that. Like my cut, I cannot begin to tend to the wound, until it stops bleeding. Something I have no control over. It’s not ready. I can only apply pressure, but it continues to bleed. Each morning when I wake, I think “could it be…?” No, then I remember: it’s not a dream; it is real.
The bleeding finally stops in my cut and I began to tend to it, change the dressing twice daily. Wash it gently, apply peroxide, a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, a clean bandage, and then wrap securely. It starts to look better. The healing begins. Over time it will mend, leaving a jagged mark in its wake. A cut like that never repairs itself invisibly. The scar is forever. Just like my Mom. I’ll never be the same.
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