Sadness rides shotgun with me now
I took a selfie a couple weeks ago with a giant jalapeño margarita.
This was before the nice guys bought me tequila and the one said how I had deep sadness about me.
It was the first selfie I posted since March, when Mom’s health took a turn. Because I looked even sadder in all the previous ones.
This was the first selfie I took after she left. I went to the Triple Moon Tour and the seat next to me randomly opened up like Momma sat down. I had to capture this just to say I am glad you are still with me, Mom.
Sadness rides shotgun with me now, friends.
I did get a rare moment of happiness last week when an old friend from my Phillips years popped up.
I might have reached out first, because I saw something that made me think of him.
He had already seen it and was planning to send it to me.
He also said he would buy me Casamigos shots.
I said what?
I had NO IDEA that this person was still my Faceypages friend. Tom sold the company the same year Facebook was created. Back when you friended everyone you ever met.
Sneaky boy.
Also his message. Um, swoon? Swoon-ish, for real.
Also, what a breath of fresh air from the friend requests I get every now and again from someone who defriended me across every platform.
Someone who cussed me out via text and who pops up every August for some reason.
(I was in my “1989” era when I knew you, buddy. “Folklore” and especially “August” is about someone else. You can have “Black Dog” from TTPD, though. Maybe “Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” but I think that’s a better fit for Scott Borchetta/Scooter Braun and another SB I won’t yet name.)
Ed Kelce sums up your obsession in five words.
Someone whose posts I don’t miss because they whined and complained and refused to take any life advice offered.
In case I wasn’t clear on Xitter, Sparky, I don’t miss you like you miss me.
I don’t even THINK about you.
Talk to that dope who’s paying your bills.
And give me a fucking refund for my Chicago trips. Cheap fucker.
Moving on.
I put up another selfie yesterday. Well, two, as I do different ones for Faceypages and Instagram since I limit access to me on the former and therefore I’m a bit freer.
I thought it looked OK. Of course, I was in a dark Italian restaurant and I didn’t have my glasses.
And I could hear my mom saying, “Wait till you’re pretty again to put up a selfie.”
Not that she would ever say I wasn’t pretty. I was always her favorite thing to look at and talk to.
But there were a few times when she told me to reconsider a selfie. She knew Cindy — who not only couldn’t take a good selfie if she tried, bragged about not trying — would rejoice at seeing puffy eyes and no makeup.
Anyway, Mom’s voice comes through all the time like this. I hope it always does. I hope I always hear her above everyone else who has the audacity to not be dead instead.
As I looked at my stupid little pics with non-bleary eyes last night, I thought about taking them down.
But really, I wear my sadness like a badge. In place of the obituary I’ve never written.
I don’t want to hear from all her idiot exes who pretended they wanted to be a dad to me.
Especially this one.
Also, since we’re talking about my superfans, THAT is what’s worthy of the #curlsofinstagram hashtag. (WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE, BTW.)
And I don’t want her jealous high school friends to write about it giddily in their alumni group now that the beautifulest and sweetest one — their competition — is now gone.
I’ve barely told anyone, though a few astute Faceypages friends picked up the sudden lack of interaction from Mom on my wall.
My final post on hers.
She last used Facebook on my birthday. Of all the gifts she gave me, and those were plentiful, the fighting to stay alive for it so that I would hate a different day is one of the best.
My friend Jim lost his dad on his birthday in the middle of May. He was planning to take the day off to go with Dad to the casino. Now Jim is sitting on Steelers season tickets and faced with either selling them or taking his hippie druggie uncle.
We got to commiserating over that. I said I do talk to one of Mom’s friends. And while I appreciate that she texts me every time she thinks of Mom, I don’t want to hear from her. I want my Mom. And Jim said the same thing — the uncle calls him but it will never be the same. Not even close.
So, while Jim’s birthday is ruined forever, for me it’s Father’s Day.
Which honestly was always shitty and don’t even get me started that my bio dad and his mother and his other two stupid kids are all breathing just fine.
And don’t get me started on my stepdad. Who I forgot about except for Mucinex commercials since he looks like that snot.
But I saw “It Ends With Us” yesterday, and boy did I get flashbacks.
My Momma was SO STRONG for getting us away from him. Thank god for her and my grandparents.
It’s not that I choose violence for Butch; I choose justice. And I pray it’s the same thing.
The days between my birthday and Father’s Day are a blur.
It was painful and ugly and beautiful all at the same time.
How she died pretty after all that is beyond me. But of course she did.
I was OK in the immediate aftermath. The front gate broke (of course it did) so I had to run downstairs to let in all the people I needed to let in at 3 a.m.
The undertaker told me to leave the room so he could load her up. I said nope, I grew up in this business. And I helped with the lift.
I told mom I got her a cute undertaker. And I watched her do a “Once Around” in our ridiculous circle.
Which, I know she would appreciate and I wanted so badly to TELL her how ironic it was.
Holly Hunter and Richard Dreyfus would get it.
But, she was off, taken by something she saw coming fast and she told me, “Something’s coming for me. I gotta go.”
My OK never lasts long. My friend Tony checks in every day. He said you’ll cry every day for three months. Eventually you’ll get to the point where you’re just deeply sad but the tears won’t come so easily.
Well, two months in, he’s not wrong.
I read a really great article about “When the Caregiving Ends.” It was helpful.
(I am sure Cindy, who put her husband on blast by tweeting that he’s learning to be a better caregiver, will memorize it like the malignant narcissist she is. You have NO idea what it’s like to be a caregiver. Though it’s easier when the recipient is a caring person. And, you know, dying.)
My cousin sent me a book from a psychic about receiving signs. I get a lot of signs, so I haven’t been in a rush.
It’s 619 for my grandfather.
But there was one point in the forward that I actually DID stop crying.
She said what if your loved one’s final, most loving gift to you is to stop having you watch their suffering? To stop having to worry and rush to hospitals and just sit and breathe for a while?
Anyway, I didn’t want my first real post about my mom to be about everyone else. But as she would say, when was anything NOT about me (Goddess)?
That’s where the real guilt was. I worked too much, too many hours and had too much going on to be much of a companion. She was stuck in the house and had to be quiet/out of sight for my endless stream of video calls.
I have to thank them for letting me be barely effective for five months now. Though I should have given her this “off” time, not myself.
I got to see Cocoa Beach. And drink everything in it. Margarita Tour 2024.
Welp. I just moved my desk to “her” spot. It’s a nice spot with a great view. But I feel even more like shit for doing it.
However, here’s the rub. Her friend (that I was just kvetching about) said to me, don’t feel guilty. You’ll maybe feel closer to her there.
Huh.
She’s … not wrong.
Packing up a house means unpacking first. Oy.
I mean, she’s still not Mom. And I still don’t trust anyone enough to say the how and why of it all.
But, I’ve had conversations and made connections that I never would have.
That I didn’t have time and bandwidth for.
The Psychology Today article really hits home because, as the person directly responsible for everything, you will forever wonder what you could have done to improve quantity and quality of life for your loved one.
I wish I could have added that time to when she was still good. More trips, more anything. Not to the end. God, not to the end.
She didn’t want to go. She didn’t believe she’d go. I don’t even think she accepted it till whatever came for her, came.
I do have some fun ghost stories to tell. I’ll save those for another day. But, I had a house full.
I am pretty sure I got a hug from my grandfather. I mean, I was reasonably sure, but when Mom asked the next day (her final day) if her Daddy was here, well. Chills.
Anyway. I’m at the point where I either go join her or figure out how to extend my own quality/quanity of life.
I’m leaning toward embracing my “Reputation” era or maybe even my “Vigilante Shit” era.
I have zero time for anything that isn’t going to make me happy or bring me peace.
What I do know is I literally lost my better half. And this insane post is my origin story for what comes next.