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Jun. 29th, 2010 05:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
person4Three days on and I'm doing as well as can be expected, I guess. I'd been getting myself ready for mom's death ever since she was finally diagnosed last year and I looked up the numbers on her life expectancy. They were very bad numbers; I was glad that she never had a chance to look them up and that I'm pretty sure my brothers never did so I was the only one who had to live with the burden of knowing exactly how bad they were. I'm thinking of her almost all the time, but mostly I'm not losing my calm while doing so.
The bad moments are the ones that hit out of nowhere when I'm not expecting them. Mostly remembering things that I'd planned to do for her before she went that I never got around to in time. Like, I never wear make-up, ever, which always kind of drove her nuts because it's so different from how she's always been, to the point that when I was younger she would actually occasionally pay me to let her make-up my face for an evening. So I'd planned to throw on some lipstick and eyeshadow occasionally to cheer her up, but I never did it. Or, right after she got back home after breaking her arm she told me and my brother's long-term girlfriend that one day we should make an appointment at a bridal salon, just to try things on, because even though neither of us are engaged it would probably be the only chance we'd have (that was the first and only time I ever heard her admit that she knew she'd be dying soon, instead of talking like this was just a temporary thing that she'd get over someday). More than once since then I thought that I should find out a day that would be good for all of us and make an appointment, but I always put it off because I thought we had enough time to let her arm heal more so moving her to the car wouldn't be so painful. And there's the book that I bought her for Christmas that she got almost all the way through before coming home in January only to end up stalled about forty pages from the end ever since, which I'd planned to read to her the rest of the way since she couldn't hold it well with one arm broken, but I never did and now she'll never know the end.
The night she died I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and almost hacked off a foot of my hair because even though I love my hair (my love of my long hair is the only thing super-girly about me, appearance-wise) she always used to talk about how much she liked this short pageboy cut I had when I was about fourteen.
The bad moments are the ones that hit out of nowhere when I'm not expecting them. Mostly remembering things that I'd planned to do for her before she went that I never got around to in time. Like, I never wear make-up, ever, which always kind of drove her nuts because it's so different from how she's always been, to the point that when I was younger she would actually occasionally pay me to let her make-up my face for an evening. So I'd planned to throw on some lipstick and eyeshadow occasionally to cheer her up, but I never did it. Or, right after she got back home after breaking her arm she told me and my brother's long-term girlfriend that one day we should make an appointment at a bridal salon, just to try things on, because even though neither of us are engaged it would probably be the only chance we'd have (that was the first and only time I ever heard her admit that she knew she'd be dying soon, instead of talking like this was just a temporary thing that she'd get over someday). More than once since then I thought that I should find out a day that would be good for all of us and make an appointment, but I always put it off because I thought we had enough time to let her arm heal more so moving her to the car wouldn't be so painful. And there's the book that I bought her for Christmas that she got almost all the way through before coming home in January only to end up stalled about forty pages from the end ever since, which I'd planned to read to her the rest of the way since she couldn't hold it well with one arm broken, but I never did and now she'll never know the end.
The night she died I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and almost hacked off a foot of my hair because even though I love my hair (my love of my long hair is the only thing super-girly about me, appearance-wise) she always used to talk about how much she liked this short pageboy cut I had when I was about fourteen.