~ I managed not only to pack all
my own stuff in the van, but a
considerable amount of Karen's, too ~

Friday 1 July 2005
8:51 a.m.

Home! Was on the road 20 hours on Monday to get here; once we started, neither Karen nor I wanted to stop. I arrived in our yard at 1 a.m. and when Scott went out around 7 to do his morning chores, he noticed that the van’s right front tire was low. When he came back a short time later, it was completely flat. I have a feeling that tire was low all the way through the mountains ... but now I have a guardian angel, obviously.

It is so good to be here ... I keep repeating myself on that theme ... have been trying to describe it to Scott and finally last night fell back on something similar to what I used to say, explaining how it was to work a 40-hour week outside my home: that it’s as if I took a deep breath when I went out to BC last fall, and now have let it out again. It is not only happiness at being here, but there is a sense of relief. I wouldn’t trade the past months with so much time spent with Mom and all the side benefits of that — the times with my sisters and my niece — but the minute I crossed the Alberta border into Saskatchewan, I exploded with exuberant hooting and hollering even though alone in the vehicle.

The house is packed, with boxes and bags covering every inch of floor space it seems. The first room I tackled was the kitchen; the next day, the bathroom; today, perhaps the office. Have not been driving myself too hard; am taking the time to go out and play with the new puppy a little and yesterday was followed around by the Beckster, Scott’s niece who for some reason likes me quite a bit (strange, because as S says, “You don’t even like kids!” and it’s true, just because a person is a kid doesn’t mean I will take any particular interest in him or her, as is the case with people who love kids) and didn’t want to let me out of her sight after not seeing me for so long. She is about four now, or maybe five.

She says to me, “ So, I heard your mommy died.” Out of the mouths of babes, eh?
“Yes,” I answered. “Would you like to see a picture of her?”
“Yeah!”
We went downstairs to the bedroom, where on the nighttable is propped up a snapshot of Mom alongside one of her with me and my sisters at Christmas, and a large print of Mom and Dad. When Beckster came back a little later in the day she went straight down and sat on the bed to look at them again for several minutes.

Yesterday S and I went into town to repair the tire, pick up a few groceries, and do some other errands. I ran into a lady who always tells me how she recalls catching rides home from the city with Mom and Dad when they were brand new parents, and that she strongly remembers how tenderly and with what care Mom, so young herself, looked after this tiny infant, me. This little story is one that I thought of after Mom died, because it struck me that I had the opportunity to return her tender and devoted care in some similarly fundamental ways ... helping her wash and dress, covering her up to keep warm, bringing her food, giving her medication, supporting her to walk, even entertaining her at times. It was as if some sort of circle had been closed, or completed, between us. She helped me into this life, and I helped her out of it.

It was while telling the lady this that I almost lost my composure there in the store, after she’d remarked how sorry she was and what a sweetheart Mom had been. It’s true that, as Karen and Reta have told me, it is when one has something to say that the tears well up. Not that I mind talking about Mom. No, never. I like nothing better.

A friend has commented that I write about what I am doing but not what I am feeling. I tell people, when they ask, that I am doing quite well. And I am. It does seem as if my emotional turmoil was more to do with anxiety about Mom suffering, than about eventually being without her. Until this past year, when we certainly made up for it, I didn’t spend a lot of time with Mom, so not seeing her for fairly long periods will not be that unusual. We were never constant companions.

I am walking around in a disbelieving way, mind you, as if she can’t really be gone for good. It's almost as if it's too great a change to grasp. Mom's memorial in our home town is Thursday afternoon; perhaps talking to so many people who knew her will make her absence more real.

And goodness, what to wear?

...

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