Caterwauling

90 days ago, my Momma passed.

30 days ago, I said that out loud for the first time.

17 years ago today, she moved in with me. I thought then that my life was great and this would change it.

To be clear, my life was NOT great. It was fine, though. I thought I would meet a nice guy and start a family. Stop working so much at some point.

I was 33, after all. Back when I cared about such things.

I was not nice about Mom moving in. I am sure there are dozens of posts about my “houseguest” that I would regret today.

But at some point, I went from feeling obligated to realizing that the right thing to do would be to WANT her there. That it was a choice we — I — made. And that helped a lot.

And life did change with her … for the better.

Every memory was made with her.

Every ordinary thing was made more beautiful by her.

She always had advice. Or a joke. Or an outfit to lend. Or the right encouragement at the right time.

I probably wasn’t the best daughter, even so. I did kind of have my moments where I wondered if I would have found a better man than the losers I did find, since there really wasn’t much room for three of us.

Though she did have me buy things in threes for a while. Boy did she like one of the losers. Three plates, three cups, three placemats, etc.

So now I have her stuff, my stuff AND stuff for that someone who didn’t stick and all the others who weren’t worthy of being part of a “Big Three” situation.

I asked the Tarot what becomes of me.

My favorite question.

Its favorite answer is “The Lovers.”

So, there will be another someone. Of some sort.

Also if I understand tarot timing, I also get the Two of Pentacles on that one.

Two years.

In the meantime, there is silence. So much silence.

And that means … so much THINKING.

I was thinking out loud a bit today. I’ve had cats for 30 years so force of habit.

But I stopped myself.

“You have nothing to say … and no one to say it to. SHUT UP, MIND.”

What I was thinking was that I still need a lot of grace.

It will be a long time before I come to terms with going from being Robin’s daughter to just being another kid who lost their mom.

Not to act like a saint here. I was ready to be “just Dawn” a whole lot more than I let on.

When she was slipping, I said something awful.

It was something I had been thinking about, to justify my utter and complete exhaustion with feeding and bathing and dressing and cleaning and working and worrying — MY GOD the worrying.

I had let it slide right out of my face that I’d nearly raised her for 18 years. My obligation was complete.

I still want to cut off my ponytail and hang myself for that one.

I didn’t mean it. It was in my head because I was thinking that, for someone who did not ever want kids, I ended up raising one for the number of years you are obligated to raise one.

But when you are at your wits’ end and so frustrated that she hates the food or can’t swallow it or throws it up on both of you, your filter works as well as some howler monkey’s on a treadmill.

I’m sure I said a lot of stupid shit over the years. But that one bugs the fuck out of me.

She was hurt, too. But didn’t fight. She knew it was in the midst of an awful moment and she hated how many of those she had to subject me to.

In the silence, this is what you are left with.

There’s a new meme going around that when our parents said, “I’l give you something to cry about,” they meant decades of unresolved trauma.

I don’t laugh much, but that one got a smile out of me. She never meant to make me crazy. I did that to myself

She never felt entitled to anything. Though I did shower her with gifts and meals and trips and hell she even got the better bedroom in most of our places.

That was something I felt my grandmother did. Was not wildly affectionate but could show affection in other ways than love and hugs. I am more like her. Mom and Grampy were more of the huggy, emotional types. I won’t hug you but I will send you an incredibly personal gift that I searched 14 stores for.

I mean, Mom did that too. Always perfect. The right thing to say, to give, to respond, to fix everything.

So, here’s hoping I have that too.

I know I do. I am many things, but Robin’s daughter is the only one worth a damn in this messed-up world.

I just worry that “just Dawn” ain’t shit without her.

Growing up with a mom who worked in a funeral home gives you a fascination with death.

That all started when my cousin’s husband died. He got drunk and his dog ate his face. Not sure if he was dead first or if Prince killed him. But dude was always drunk.

I was living in Highland Park at the time. Came home to a message from my mom singing, “A tisket, a tasket. We’re going to pick a casket!”

My Disney princess was the best Disney princess.

Anyway Mom ended up working part-time at that funeral home. She was the greeter and she decorated the place and ran the show.

I am not supposed to share that she cosmetized the bodies sometimes, as that requires licensing. But like all family funeral homes, it got gobbled up by a national chain.

So it doesn’t even exist anyway. Like anything or anyone I loved.

And it’s not that I was a fan of the original “Beetlejuice” movie beyond hometown hero Michael Keaton’s appearance in it.

And I never got to see Beetlejuice’s Graveyard Revue in Orlando or the Dark Universe land at Universal. Both closed, boo.

But I saw the off-Broadway production … TWICE … and it stole my heart.

When Kelly and I went the first time, I cried the whole show. She even asked me if I was OK a few times. And I said no but I loved it.

I much prefer the Broadway adaptation. In the original, Lydia’s mom left. In the show, her mom Emily died and Lydia runs through the afterlife trying (unsuccessfully) to find her.

But isn’t it weird that Lydia can see everyone’s ghost but the one she wanted most?

My mom was psychic. I remember all the stories she would tell me of what she saw, heard or just innately knew.

She had all kinds of spirit encounters, mostly through dreams.

I used to rib her, like why do you know all these random people’s business (Cindy) but you never hear from your own mom? You can’t figure out where we should move or if I’ll ever get married … but you can pinpoint Howler Monkey’s deepest insecurities without even hearing her record-scratching voice?

Anyway, that was why the Beetlejuice musical was so exquisite.

I knew I was losing my Momma. I knew I would want to run through the afterlife to see her again … and couldn’t.

Lydia went on to live a happy life with Geena Davis and one of the Baldwin brothers. Not too shabby. She also had Catherine O’Hara and the guy who had kiddie porn or something. And he didn’t make it to the reboot that I saw in Orlando last week; nor did the ghosts who aren’t supposed to age, so they didn’t even try to show them.

I loved the movie sequel. Again, not the storyline I fell in love with. But a GenX Lydia haunted by ghosts and questionable life choices is my spirit animal.

Anyway I’ve been on this weird hunt for Beetlejuice merch. In the midst of cleaning out all the stuff we bought (and never used), I do not need more stuff.

But it’s my season, Halloween, so all bets are off.

I already plan to be more depressed at Christmas, so I won’t be joyfully doing anything other than having a salad instead of a two-person family feast.

I even have a few Beetlejuice Halloween costumes and a leather coat lying around here. I mean, I bought a few sizes but I am pleased to say I am not as fat as I think or say, hooray.

In any event, I read a lot about people who are experiencing a death. I envy those who have all these beautiful bedside conversations. I think 90% of those stories are exaggerated. But, whatever gets you through this hell, right?

Mom’s last food-food was a bite or two of birthday cake, which I’d wisely ordered for the day before my birthday. It’s like I freaking knew.

She spent my birthday in bed. The whole day. For the first time. She was ALWAYS out in the living room otherwise.

She thought, let me just rest today and we’ll have a good day tomorrow or the next day.

She never got out of that bed other than to use the bathroom or shower. That took every ounce of strength, and back in she had to go.

She could manage that on her own and I dressed her wound and got her clothes on.

It was always a race while she showered to get her bedsheets switched out because I insisted on a fresh bed for her several times a week.

So I would often go dark on Teams because we did it when she felt good enough. Or, less lousy, as it were.

In my head, I knew it was an honor and a privilege. But I was tired, too. I spent my birthday on the couch streaming “The Eras Tour” from whatever country she was in that day.

She was cogent till the end. But that last day, when I finally got smart enough to drag a chair and the Christmas tree (!) into her room, was pretty silent.

Her eyes were open and darting around. She was watching a “television” only she could see. I read a Kindle book and drank a bottle of wine from the bottle.

I can’t drink that vintage anymore.

I did hold her hand. I was never good at affection. Ask anyone I ever dated. I repel hugs. I squirmed away from my Momma a million and a half times.

Belly does the same to me now. Like love me … from over there.

Anyway she wasn’t really up for conversation but she definitely laughed and reacted to the few witticisms I offered up.

I just wish the last moments were “I love yous” exchanged or wisdom imparted.

But the thing with illness is you have plenty of time to talk about that stuff. So, it’s not that there wasn’t much left to talk about. It’s just that there is no passing peacefully.

You just try to be present and aware.

To love them out.

I’ve become acutely aware of the spirit world since she’s been gone. She sends me dreams all the time.

And I don’t believe in God or heaven or anything like that. But I do think there’s a parallel universe, about a foot or two off our ground.

I think they are zipping around like Star in the Disney movie “Wish.” They see and hear us, but not like they used to. I think it’s more of an awareness of us rather than seeing us in the shower or other weird shit.

But I do have to laugh. Mom was good at picking losers. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Beetlejuice type was always trying to pick her up now. I hope she outruns him eternally.

One of the many things I liked about the Beetlejuice sequel was when Lydia’s daughter Astrid saw her dad in the afterlife.

Where Lydia didn’t get to see her mom, her dad rescued her in one final act of love.

Kelly and I had a disagreement the other day. She’s one of those “everything happens for a reason” people. I am not. You tell me why my mom had to get sick and die. You tell me why Israel is killing hostages and people in Gaza just got their first shipment of fruit and vegetables in 11 months.

She shrugs. It just does, she says.

I’ll leave it at that for now.

Maybe Mom saves me in some way from the afterlife. Maybe she pushes a howler monkey off their treadmill.

Like Grampy, days after he died, surely pushed Blob off his Harley.

As if I needed more reason to believe in the spirit world.