ONE MOON

Tears still grace my cheeks almost daily even though it has been a month since my mother made the transition to the next existence. Sometimes it is only sniffles but other times I sob. Noise still agitates me so my door remains mostly closed at work. I shifted the deadbolt to the extended position so the door remains ajar by a half an inch. I live-stream the Sidney Public Radio classical orchestra Australian music station since their overnight show is usually mellow.

Sleeping a bit better. I occasionally procure a 5-6 hour rest but still plagued by insomnia. It’s pitiful to be tired when I am supposed to be waking up and then falling asleep at my desk at work. I have used some sick time due to exhaustion in the afternoon. I make certain that the vital tasks are completed and then venture home. I nap on the couch with the cats frequently. People have been observing that I appear “worn out.” Sorrow is brutal.

Friends are checking in less frequently. Sporadically receiving a belated condolence card. I am up to seventeen now. I have sent in the donations to Alzheimer’s Association and direct it towards research only. I don’t want the money going to other programming or administrative costs. Utilized the other funds toward gas costs. I spend about $30 for each trip to my parent’s home.

Apprehensively returned to my Dad’s home five weeks after Mum died. Cried as I passed the cemetery, filled with dread. Strange to state Dad’s house, I am accustomed to saying Mom & Dad. They were always an inseparable unit. Singular is an uncomfortable expression. Dad hated going to the doctor so Mom always feared that he would die at a young age. His family has longevity since his fraternal aunt lived to 105, mom to 97, and siblings are still alive at 99 and 97.

Arrived in the afternoon. Dad invited Betty over for supper. We looked over some of Mom’s notebooks. It was apparent that she realized that she was having memory problems nine or ten years ago. She would write over and over the names of the kids, grand-kids, and great-grandkids. She kept notes on all types of things. She always wrote a synopsis of sermons but stopped in January 2011. The arthritis in her back would hurt more during winter so she didn’t like going out in the cold. By the time she returned to church, she stopped taking notes.

Dad was very sad when he came across an envelope marked “music for my funeral.” We only sang one song Mom wanted, “How Great Thou Art.” I wish that the service would have been taped and then the version given to the family could have contained her desired songs with a montage of photos. He had diligently planned his funeral but never bothered to ask her what she wanted. Too late now.

To be continued.

Funeral plans are good.
Copyright © 2013 by Ima B. Musing; All rights reserved