When Mom died August 22 I wasn't prepared to lose my best friend. This is such a cliche that I've felt I'm not allowed to say it. I feel I'm supposed to do x, y, and z and behave as normally as possible
The problem is, without a road map for grief I had no idea what to expect after a week, a month, now seven and a half months. People kept asking if I had a job or an apartment and I felt they only cared if I were continuing to do what is expected of me.
My mother died. Answer: I am not.
Some days I curl up like a snail and hope my shell is strong enough to survive the world. With mourning, I find that words of comfort are more apt to come from strangers. Friends and family seem more concerned with whether or not we've kept our place on the hamster wheel.
I haven't: I've fallen off.
Today I freaked out (again) before having an endoscopy and baled. Mom died without warning or provocation at hospital. Some say otherwise. Message me if you want to read the autopsy.
Because of this I fear hospitals. I fear the medical establishment and its much greater legal prowess than I probably will ever know. I know that if my endoscopy goes wrong, even if I just suffer some fixable complication, the system is designed to protect the doctor.
Mom and I used to talk a lot about our healthcare. She used to say, "Honey, you have to be your own advocate." She was in love with a doctor. She got advice from him. But when it came to the final scene, this fellow had exited Stage Right. Right out of her life. I sometimes say yes, Mom died of a myocardial infarction, a broken heart.
Please quit expecting me to behave normally. I lost the one person I trusted to help steer the way through this maze called life, the gypsy butterfly catcher with the sopranic lilt. My muse. My counselor. My co-creator.
Kathy Leonard, Mary Leonard, Nancy Kammerdiener - many names, one magical woman.
When Mom died August 22 I wasn't prepared to lose my best friend. This is such a cliche that I've felt I'm not allowed to say it. I feel I'm supposed to do x, y, and z and behave as normally as possible
The problem is, without a road map for grief I had no idea what to expect after a week, a month, now seven and a half months. People kept asking if I had a job or an apartment and I felt they only cared if I were continuing to do what is expected of me.
My mother died. Answer: I am not.
Some days I curl up like a snail and hope my shell is strong enough to survive the world. With mourning, I find that words of comfort are more apt to come from strangers. Friends and family seem more concerned with whether or not we've kept our place on the hamster wheel.
I haven't: I've fallen off.
Today I freaked out (again) before having an endoscopy and baled. Mom died without warning or provocation at hospital. Some say otherwise. Message me if you want to read the autopsy.
Because of this I fear hospitals. I fear the medical establishment and its much greater legal prowess than I probably will ever know. I know that if my endoscopy goes wrong, even if I just suffer some fixable complication, the system is designed to protect the doctor.
Mom and I used to talk a lot about our healthcare. She used to say, "Honey, you have to be your own advocate." She was in love with a doctor. She got advice from him. But when it came to the final scene, this fellow had exited Stage Right. Right out of her life. I sometimes say yes, Mom died of a myocardial infarction, a broken heart.
Please quit expecting me to behave normally. I lost the one person I trusted to help steer the way through this maze called life, the gypsy butterfly catcher with the sopranic lilt. My muse. My counselor. My co-creator.
Kathy Leonard, Mary Leonard, Nancy Kammerdiener - many names, one magical woman.
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