Time

My mom and me getting ready for my wedding, September 4, 2010.

As a mortal human being, Doctor Who fan, and Trekkie, I’ve thought about time a lot. But it still makes no sense to me. A minute on the treadmill can feel like twenty, but a week with someone you love passes in an instant.

Earlier today I was surprised to realize that it has been a month since my mom died. In some ways, it feels like it’s been years, but in so many other ways, I still can’t believe it even happened at all. I imagined I’d still be counting minutes and agonizing over the clock when it struck midnight and I realized it’d been a day, a week, two weeks, a month, etc.

Consciously, I’m not counting minutes anymore. But I think my soul is keeping track.

The only advice I’ve really received about grieving is that I need to stay busy and let time pass, and the further I get from that horrible night, the easier it will be to deal with it.

But I’m not sure that my mother’s loss is a solitary event. I feel like I lose her again every day. Every time I check my phone for a missed call, enter the house to find it empty, look at bridesmaid dresses for my sister’s wedding without her, or make any kind of plan, I lose her all over again. I’m transported back to her bedside, and it is nearly two in the morning. We are waiting for the on-call Hospice nurse to arrive. My cousin Lisa is saying soothing things, like “Shhh, you're ok,” in her soft, nurturing voice while stroking my mother’s head. I’m holding her hand. My dad is leaned against the bookcase, watching, tears streaming down his face. My Aunt Vickie and Uncle Wayne are at the foot of the bed, their hands on her leg. My Uncle Elbert is on the other side of the bed, his hand on her shoulder. 

It’s happening right now. Again. All the time.