10ish Things I Hate About You

This time of year is always a little hard for me. I have been on the road pretty much non-stop since July 26th. Since then, I have spent a total of 5 nights in my own bed with little time to do the things that normally help relieve stress. Things like working out, snuggling my dog, or going to therapy.

In fact, my last appointment was on July 22 and boy, was it a doozey. I literally sat down with tears streaming down my face and didn’t stop ugly crying for the full 63 minutes I was there. We talked about a lot of things; how life is full of disappointments, how some people will never change – no matter how amazing their social media accounts look, and that it’s OK to ask for help when you need it.

We also spent a lot of time diving into what triggers are causing my anxiety, my restlessness, and the severe exhaustion that leaves me too tired to stay awake at work (sorry Ashley) or while driving. It’s the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and makes your body ache and your head foggy. And here is what I realized.

I am really effing tired.

I’m tired of trying to act stronger than I feel.

I’m tired of hiding my grief just because it makes people feel uncomfortable.

I’m tired of constantly being disappointed by people, but not being strong enough to tell them so.

And I am really tired of feeling so ANGRY.

There are days when I feel calm, the depression muted and the sadness lying dormant until one single little thing sets me off and my rage is so intense that I want to scream. I want to scream because I am still mad.

So, so mad.

The realization I came to during that last session is that I’m not angry with God or the universe or mom’s team of doctors or modern medicine. Disappointed? Yes. But not angry.

The most painful, ah-ha moment I had that rainy July evening was when it occurred to me that the person I am most angry with is mom.

As with every session, I was given a homework assignment. This time it was to “dig deeper into that anger, figure out what is at the root of it, and then write about it.”

Easier said than done lady. A writing assignment? No problem.

Acknowledging to myself (and the like 12 people who read this blog) that I am MAD at my beautiful, selfless, loving, cancer ridden, dead mom is gut-wrenchingly painful and slightly embarrassing to even admit.

I’ve barley started to process the fact that she even got cancer, so dealing with the fact that she died seems damn near impossible. It’s easier to feel angry because any alternative hurts too damn much.

So that’s where I am…angry.

I am beyond angry that she knew something was wrong but waited SO long to go to the doctor… brushing it off like it was nothing. I can’t help but wonder if those two or three months would have made a difference.

I will never forgive her for the promise she made me the day she called to confirm my worst fear – that the biopsy results showed cancer. She promised me that it was no big deal, an easy fix… and that she wasn’t going ANYWHERE.

I am mad at her for every single time she made me swear that I would always make sure her clothes were stylish and her hair and makeup were done…even when she was to old and senile to remember who I was anymore.

I hate her for not leaving me a note… a simple letter or card telling me how much she loved me. Telling me that she knew how much this all sucked, but that I would be ok when she was gone. And oh hey mom? A little advice on how to make it through this world alone would have been nice. I prayed that she left a note saying that she understood how bad we were going to hurt, but that we would survive if we only did X, Y, and Z. But nope. Nothing.

I have torn the house apart a thousand times looking for one. Every single trip home ends up with me curled up on her closet floor - a tiny, blubbering blob of runny mascara and tear-soaked sleeves after another unsuccessful search of every single dresser drawer, closet, and purse that I have already looked through 100 times.

I am furious that she even had the nerve to ask us to donate her clothes…all six closets full. We haven’t yet, and I’m not sure that we will ever find that kind of strength. Stepping into her closet is like stepping into a time warp – everything still in the exact place she left it, her smell (a mix of our favorite Jo Malone perfume, laundry soap and her body butter) lingering on her clothes and the 1,000 scarves and hats scattered across the floor. It’s like she never left. How could she ask us to get rid of that? To remove her from our home as if she wasn’t the foundation that held up all 2,300 square feet of it? 

I am mad at her because she will never get to become the one thing she always wanted to be – a grandma.

I’m pissed that she doesn’t answer my phone calls when my heart hurts and I need her words of wisdom on things like work and life and ex-husbands and weird moles and what the heck you’re supposed to do when your dog breaks his tooth.

I hate that she left me before she ever got to see me fall in love again. That I never got the chance to call her and tell her I got promoted or that I paid off my first car. She will never see me become a mom or an aunt or turn 40. Who will send Charlie and I our Twinkie trees?

I am mad that she left dad all alone.

I hate that I couldn’t save her. That I couldn’t fix her pain or tell her everything was going to be ok.

I couldn’t destroy the cancer that took over her body or keep the tumors in her brain from making her last few months with us so foggy.

I couldn’t do anything. And I HATE how helpless I felt.

I am angry that we will never have another “Terri’s Birthday Month” or play her weird Christmas Eve gift game. I will never hear her laugh so hard that she would snort or get SO ANNOYED at her when she would sneeze 35 times in a row. We’ll never be able to run down the road for a “sammy and a toddy” or to Jake’s for a glass of wine and French onion soup. I will never get to roll my eyes at her again for telling a stupid joke, or lay in bed with her on Sunday mornings and watch Twilight for the millionth time. There will be no more beach trips or shopping sprees, no more boat rides at the hut, no more “saluds” to whatever it was that deserved a toast that day… even if it was just the fact that I was home for the weekend.

There are so many things in life that I took for granted, moments and experiences that I never thought I was experiencing the last one of until it was too late. And I am mad at her for that.

She took so much of my future with her when she left, so many small moments that I already miss her in. I want my mom back so bad that when I think about how quickly and cruelly she left this world the anger bubbles inside of me until I can’t hold it in anymore and it comes out as one of those horrible screaming yell cries that are often accompanied by hiccups and incoherent blubbering.

How could she leave me here? I want to hate her for it because it’s so much easier than the alternative.

But to paraphrase one of those most famous movies of the 90’s (10 Things I Hate About You obviously),

I hate the way she’s not around
And the fact that she doesn’t call.
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate her.
Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

Miss you lots mom. Give each of those fluffy girls a kiss on the snout for me. 🖤🐾