lace curtains

My mum saved everything. She saved every curtain we ever owned. Today, I decided to change up the living room, and needed new curtains. The dark brown curtains she had made for me, last year seemed too dark for summer. I really am trying to brighten things up. Only a month ago, I washed, folded and put away at least twenty pairs of curtains. As I pulled out the curtain bin, and began to choose, I found the curtains she made me for the house in Springvale nearly 8 years ago. They had a tan background with large bundles of red, pink and white roses on them. I picked them up and held them for what seemed like hours, as a million memories flooded my brain. I could see the happiness on her face at my complete joy over my new drapes. She worked hard on them, and it showed. They were absolutely perfect. These curtains reminded me of a time of contentment, a time free of disease and pain, grief and strife. Although the memory was fleeting, I do remember at one time I did smile. I could not use the Victorian rose curtains, not yet. Instead, I chose the cream lace curtains. They did make the room lighter. It is amazing how something as simple as window coverings can provoke such strong emotions.

Topic of Cancer Culture: vanityfair.com

Topic of Cancer Culture: vanityfair.com

The garden

Every year mum and I would plant Zinnias in the front garden area. This year there will be no Zinnias. There is no life anywhere in this house. No matter how hard I try to find some joy, there seems to be none. The weeds have taken over the small garden we used to love so much.

Hospice

I feel that the organization of Hospice is no more than a group of paid assassins. When people hear the word Hospice, their thoughts turn to compassion. There is nothing compassionate about Hospice! The way in which they kill is cruel. Yes, they give Morphine and Ativan to suppress the victim's pain. However, they still feel the pain of dehydration. Dehydration part of their preferred method of murder; they with-hold all fluids Dehydration is painful. The whole time my mum was dying, and dehydrating, she kept smacking her lips. She could not cry out for help because of the drug cocktail they gave her, but I could tell she was uncomfortable.

Mum was on many different life-saving medications. Had they taken away any one of her heart medicines, this alone would have killed her, so why they felt the need to dehydrate her is still a mystery to me. When she died, her tongue and lips were all shriveled, and split. Hospice is not an easy death, nor is it compassionate.

Let me just say for arguments sake a baby was born with horrific deformities, unable to see, hear, feel, or ever eat on its own, and retarded. In other words, completely dependent on life saving methods/support for the rest of its life. Had Hospice stepped in and dehydrated this child to death in the same manner they did my mother, can you imagine the public outrage? Hospice would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law: how dare they murder an innocent child. However, as we all know Hospice would not be allowed near this child; tax payers would be made to pay for this child's health care forever. My point being: because my mother was old and cancer stricken, and considered by society to be of no further use, she was allowed, even coerced to chose Hospice and to be be exterminated. So, even though this made up infant would be a drag on society, take up millions possibly billions of dollars in health care, and never contribute to society where as my mother had enriched society her entire life, but because it is a child it is deemed immoral and unethical to end its life. Am I the only one who sees this as discrimination?

Tonight, I wait.

Tonight, I wait for something. What am I waiting for? Nothing and anything that will make everything all right. However, there is nothing with the power to do this. There is nothing that will take away the silence left by mum's death and absence. Only she can fill that space, and she is gone forever. I wait for something to make me smile again. However, there is nothing that can ignite my mood that would cause my lack of affect to become a grin. Only she had that ability, and she is gone forever. So I wait for nothing, and nothing is what I get and I expect nothing else.

Day 33

As the days go slowly by, I don't find myself missing my mother less; I find I am missing her more. The shock of her death has now worn off and I am left with only the bitter reality that she is gone, and never coming back. Not only am I left with her memory, but also the cruelness of having to see her name on the mail that still comes for her, that she will never get to open. She loved the junk mailings, the catalogs, and the free return address stickers various organizations would send. As I pull her mail out of the post box, I smile sometimes; thinking how much she would have loved the stickers sent by Disabled American Veterans.
In a couple of the bins I cleaned out, I found unfinished knitting projects she had started and became too sick to finish. She never taught me how to knit, and I never wanted to learn, but I think I will, just to finish the hat and blanket she started.
The dogs, all six of them, are also feeling the effects of her loss. All of them were obese due to the three peanut butter sandwiches and massive amounts of dog food she gave them. They are all slimming down a bit. Now, they get a peanut butter bone in the morning and at night, no more table scraps or sandwiches.

Sleeping issues

Today I went to work looking like a zombie, no makeup, wet hair; I looked like hell. I am not sleeping well. In fact, I get to sleep just as my alarm to wake up goes off. There just doesn't seem to be enough hours in the day to fit in sleep.
Everyone today, since I live smack dab in the buckle of the bible belt, told me if I would just believe in god, all my troubles would go away. If there was a god, he would have healed my mother.
I just got done cleaning and dusting the living room; as soon as I went into the bathroom to give it a fast wipe down, my grandson informed me that he decorated the coffee table with all the stickers from his sticker book-great. He stays with me at night because he is still grieving and his parents can't deal with his sadness; he is 4 years old. My mother and I raised him because my daughter had him when she was too young and she had a lousy ob gyn who severed both her uterine arteries and nicked her bowel during her c section; she then contracted MRSA, and had to have most of her abdomen removed. She never was able or well enough to hold him until he was around 5 months old. The bond between mother and child never formed. Technically, when he lost his great grandmother, it was as if he lost a mother because she did raise him.
Time to try to sleep.