Not that I couldn't pull it off. I can swear like nobody's business. Get me mad about something, you'll see. But not here. Not now.
We've made it to 18 weeks officially today since my Dad's last breath, and we also surpassed the official 4-month mark this week, as well. (That was Monday, December 2nd, for those of you playing along at home.)
A couple of observations: I did not think my Mom would have made it this far. Seriously, the way she was talking before my Dad died and shortly thereafter, there were times I honestly thought I was going to be planning a double funeral. Only they didn't/don't want funerals so it would have been a double non-funeral. You get what I mean.
And I get what she means. Who wants to live without their spouse? The person they've spent 60+ years of their life with? The person they've built their life with? The center of their universe? I can't even imagine what that's like. Nor do I want to try.
But I'm proud of her. She's given me some scary moments (not truly scary in that I've had to call in professional help, just scary as in not knowing what I can do and then having to realize that there isn't anything I can do) but overall I think she's doing great. She's taking care of herself, doing the things she put off doing so she could be there for my Dad (like cataract surgery), taking care of her house, socializing with other people, and I've actually managed to get her out of her house and out to do a couple of new things lately. The bottom line is, I've seen her have some truly happy moments these past few weeks, and that makes me happy, too.
Oh! I almost forgot! My Mom got a tattoo!! Words I never, EVER thought I'd say. A real, actual tattoo. The day after my Dad died, we were sitting in her kitchen ("we" being her, me, my son, my nephew, his fiancee, and I think my son's roommate was there, too? My hubby was in the living room. My son's roommate might've been there, too. I don't remember exactly.) and I said we should go get memorial tattoos, and she agreed. And didn't change her mind thereafter. I think that, the day we got our tattoos (10/30/2024) was the first time I saw her look truly happy since losing my Dad. It was awesome. She's even planning on going back in the Spring to get another one! Another memorial tattoo for my Dad. But that's all she wants. Just two tattoos, and that's it.
Anyway...yeah. So when Mom's happy, I'm happy. I'm not stupid enough to think that it's a permanent kind of happy for her, but I will take finding happy moments for her wherever I can get them.
Don't worry, I'm happy at other times, too. My point was that part of the reason I was scared for my Dad to die was because I didn't know what it would do to my Mom, or even to me. In case you didn't know, I'm a little emotionally unstable. This is the biggest loss I've ever had in my life. The worst pain I've ever felt in my life. I literally feel like I'm in a car that was racing down a winding road and flew off a cliff and burst into flames before it even hit the ground. I didn't know if I'd stay trapped in that car as it kept rolling down the foothills, burning everything in it's path (including me) into an unidentifiable mess that no one could touch, or if I'd somehow manage to jump out like they do in the moves, and tuck and roll away from the disaster then stand up and brush the dust off my jeans and try to figure out how I'm gonna climb back up that cliff to get back on the road.
Tuck and roll, kids. Tuck and roll.
I'm really feeling like someday soon I need to write all about my sister's role, or lack thereof, in all of this. To do that, I'll need to tell some backstory, too. So it will take more than just my lunch break to go into THAT little tale, ha, ha, ha. Part of me has this...this fear? inkling? suspicion? whatever, that she actually reads this, which has been another part of my hesitation in writing it. But another part of me cares less and less about that aspect of it with every passing second, because I. Didn't. Do. Anything. Wrong. And if I did, maybe retelling the story here will help me see it and own up to it. But I've replayed it a begillion times and I'm pretty sure I would've figured it out by now if it was a Me thing.
Back in the day, I used to journal to get the confusing thoughts out of my head and to try to make sense of things I couldn't stop thinking about. That's the other reason why I need to write about my sister soon. The whole thing is frequently on my mind and it makes me so mad and frustrated and I hate feeling like that!
Alright, enough of that for now. Gotta get back to work. TTYL!
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