PYHO: Losing Mom

Linking up to Shell once again this week.

I posted a couple weeks ago about my mom, and was told by a friend I should continue to blog about her, even though I try to keep my blog upbeat and happy.  But today I feel the need again, as she's been on my mind more than usual lately (if that's possible).

I miss bullshitting with her.  I miss telling her stories about my friends -- who all know and love her -- and watching her crack up.  I miss her head tilt and smile when I talked about certain friends she loved so very much.  I miss asking her what she thought about the dress I got for so-and-so's wedding.

I miss the email I'd have everyday when I got to work.  I still have the very last email from work she ever sent me.  I sometimes still pick up the phone to call her at work, when she hasn't worked in nearly two years.

I hate that when I need advice about something with my children, I can't call her, because she can't tell me.  I hate that I've raised my children pretty much without any guidance from her -- not that I always needed it, but before, I would have told her when PJ coughed, or Maggie was fussy, on a daily basis, because we spoke on a daily basis.  Now I just tell her the milestones, usually over email that her caregiver types or when we go visit her.

I hate that we can't go out shopping, or out to lunch.  I hate that she can't watch my kids when John and I want to go out or have something to do.  I hate that she told me she would take them for a week when John and I went on our 5 year anniversary vacation, that she'd take the week off work and they'd do all kinds of fun stuff.

I hate that I hate going to her house, because seeing her this way makes me sick to my stomach.  I hate that I'd rather NOT see her because it's just so terrible to see the woman who was always on the go, so vibrant, so full of life, so loud, boisterous, such a loving woman be confined to whatever spot she was put it, without so much as being able to lift her hand to brush a piece of hair out of her face.

I hate that I want her to die, because her quality of life is nothing, and her life sucks beyond all stretches of the imagination.  I hate that she knows EXACTLY what she is missing out on, because her brain is perfectly fine.

I hate that she will never ever be able to wear the 65 plus pairs of high heels that she loved to wear again.

I hate that she will never be able to wear the dress she wore to our wedding again.

I hate that she will never attend one of my children's birthday parties, school functions, sporting events or anything else they do.

I hate that I will never receive another birthday card that she signed.

I hate that I cannot find the last birthday card she did sign.

I hate that I constantly think about all the plans that will be made when she does die.  I hate that I think about if my stepdad is going to want to move out of the house and give it to us.

I hate that although I know these feelings are normal and expected, I feel like a selfish asshole.

I hate that my mom is physically here, but my MOM is gone.