What You Don’t Get To Say
Today’s Brew: All the coffee
Wednesday’s my day to blog, but I’ll be at work before many of you wake up tomorrow morning, so I’ll posting tonight.
November 26 is a hard day for me. It’s the third anniversary of my mom’s passing. I had been her caretaker. She’d had cancer and survived, but she never quite was back to one hundred percent. But after watching another friend go through almost the exact same thing with losing a parent, I know now without a doubt the cancer treatment was too much for her. It shut her body down. Things were good until one day everything changed. She spent thirty seven days in medical ICU, and I was there for all of them. I made decisions I never thought I’d be capable of during that time.
My mom was an English teacher, she loved watching cooking shows even when it was just Julia Child on PBS. She used to take us to concerts before I could drive, and always opened our home to my friends when they needed a safe place to be. She liked Will Ferrell movies, politics, and animals.
But I never told her I’d started writing again. It was too new when she got sick, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. Once I realized it might be important, it was too late. But she loved that Julie and I used to sit in the middle of the living room floor, watching Headbangers Ball, passing a notebook back and forth writing the most ridiculous stories. She supported me when I announced that I was moving to Las Vegas because I had this dream I wanted to write a book about. It took me eleven years from that moment, but I fucking did it.
The more I wrote, the more I realized it helped me figure things out. I didn’t have an easy transition into orphanhood, I had to move out of the apartment I shared with my mom because I couldn’t afford it. I wasn’t able to work for a couple months, and had no paystubs. I bounced around a bit before I found this apartment, because I wasn’t able to make a decision. I wasn’t ready. And it didn’t matter what catastrophe I was facing, I just couldn’t do it.
Some of this might sound awfully familiar to you if you’ve just read Silent Night. Silent Night is my story. Some parts of it are pure fiction, of course. But a lot of it is not. And I am still waiting for Aidan to show up. But the feeling completely fucking lost at the holidays, that’s all me. I might be a little quiet on these big days. A lot of things have got easier, but the days that are all about family are ones that I haven’t figured out how to deal with yet.