It is not until I am lying naked atop the unfolded sofa-bed in my mother’s apartment, in the dark, that I let myself cry.
And only briefly at that.
An hour or so ago, I was sitting in a hospital room talking to her. This morning, I was getting onto a plane in Seattle. I’m stressed and tired and worried and did I mention I’m tired and should go to bed because she’s having minor surgery tomorrow morning and wants to see me before then.
Three weeks ago she fell and couldn’t get up, and went to the hospital. She’s been lying in a bed being prodded and poked. She’s quite coherent and in pretty good spirits all things considered.
That, it seems, was the first time she’d left the apartment in six months due to her slowly growing mobility issues and the three steep steps between her and the car. I only found out the “six months” part over the phone a couple days ago, when talking to Jennie, who heard it from my mom’s friend Ellen. My mom has been getting increasingly stir-crazy and lonely due to this.
I’m mostly hopeful that she’s got a lot of time left. She’s pushing for physical therapy and such to get her moving again once some other more pressing things are resolved. She still gives a fuck about living, which is important in these kinds of situations.
But I’m pretty much a giant bag of raw nerves right now, and I should close this computer, and curl up with my plush t-rex and sleep. And maybe cry. I probably need to do that, a lot.
I’ve really never been at all good at crying when I need to.