It is hard for me to think about and write about that day. But I think about it every day anyway, even though it makes me feel sick. I read recently that people are at much larger risk of heart attack in the hours immediately following a sudden loss. I remember calling a friend the next morning and she commented on how fast I was breathing, how fast I was talking, that she was afraid I'd collapse. I don't know where that rush comes from. I couldn't stop moving and couldn't stop talking. Oh those wonderful friends - some who sat and sobbed on the phone with me. One who knew my mom for 33 years and who couldn't speak through her crying so I had to hang up and call her back.
But back to the minutes after the phone call...
Ugh. I can't do this. It's not a linear story. It's not a story at all; it's a crushing reality. It's the worst day of my life. The absolute worst. Once upon a time, I remember the worst day being when Owen was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder - which has come to be just part of who he is and not a tragedy at all. This will always be a tragedy - and a travesty. It's so big sometimes that I feel like it has swallowed me.
I know that I called my mom very soon after, probably within 10 minutes. In fact, I could tell you exactly when. Because I have her iPhone. I have listened to that message many times since. After I asked her to call me, that there'd been a mistake, I forgot to hit the end key. There's a four minute recording of crying, static, wailing, I don't even know what. It makes me feel faint when I hear it again, but I can't delete it. I listened to the other messages, those from people who were looking for her that morning.
And part of the reason this is hard to write about is privacy. Clearly, I'm not a private person. I'm a very open person, love it or hate it - it's not for everyone. But lots of people are not, lots of people in my own family. We come from good old-fashioned Midwestern stock. I don't want to tell what other people did, or guess how they felt. Some of the worst nightmares and imaginings have to do with what happened to my mom, and I know that's private to her and not for the world to know.
I called my best friends. I called close relatives. I called distant relatives. Then not-so-close friends. I could not sit still. I sent David out for cigarettes and O'Douls and then I paced, I talked, I smoked and I drank fake beer. For days and days. I'm an information seeker and always have been. I have to know everything, about every situation, all the time. So by that evening, I'd looked up the story on Houston's news websites and seen the first photos. In the morning, I made the first of many, many acquaintances in Houston, some of whom I still talk to. Vehicle crimes - I talked to four different people. Medical Examiner. Houston Fire Department. That was just on the first day. It was just what I had to do. Over the next several weeks and months, I ordered every possible scrap of information I could and was on a first-name basis with people in most of those offices, in addition to Public Safety, probation officers in two counties, and the District Attorneys office. It was a way to stay sane and keep busy for me. Not necessarily a healthy way, because there are things that can't be unseen or unlearned. Part of me felt like someone should know "everything" but really, I don't know if that's right. My mom would have told me not to take in too much about it. Here's an example of what she was like:
Once we were talking about aging; I don't remember the circumstances. I told her if she became unable to care for herself, she could live with me. She looked at me like I'd grown horns and said, "oh my God! Don't you dare!" She told me to put her in a nursing home - a nice one, but a nursing home - and that I'd better not bring her grandchildren there to see her in that state or she'd be furious. So she would say, "don't see me hurt. Don't see me like that. That's not me.." Which makes me cry again. I know what she'd say, but she wasn't there anymore and couldn't know for sure what we needed to let her go, to say goodbye. If I have one regret from the immediate aftermath, it's that I didn't fly to Houston that night and see her, hold her hand. That's no longer necessary, despite what they show on TV. She would have said "don't" - but I know she would have done it had it been one of us. It's really strange because some things from those days and weeks right after are seared into my mind, but I couldn't tell you the first thing about what I might have worn, when or what I might have eaten, even - God-forgive-me - what my kids were doing much of the time. It was like living in a bubble - a big old hell-bubble of a Groundhog Day in which every morning I woke up, not to "I Got You Babe" but to "your mom died in a car wreck this morning."
I used to wonder how people survive tragedy with their sanity intact. I don't thing they do survive as the entirely same people. I've always know bad things can happen. Of course. I've HAD bad things, really bad things, happen. But this was so very, very much worse. Certain things are turned off, maybe for good. Other things grow. But it will never be the same; I will never be the same. I watched Castaway the other night, and thought this quote was appropriate (but I'm changing it a little):
"I'm so sad that I don't have (mom). But I'm so grateful that she was with me... And I know what I have to do now. I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?"
My next post is going to be all about Washington D.C. and the great fun we had there last month.
I posted what I needed to about the case back in September. I've relived in writing the awfulness of the first day. Saying goodbye and seeing her for the last time in Iowa... I'm not ready to share that and might not want to ever. My precious mommy. But for now, I need to put one foot in front of the other and keep breathing. That day is over; it was the worst day, but it was one day. There were thousands of good days with mom. There are good days still to be had.
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