It has been nearly 6 weeks since Bernice's passing. Still seems very surreal that she is no longer here. In the wake of her death and all that burying a loved one entails, I have stayed too busy, really, to let my real grief speak. After we laid Bernice to rest, Nicole and I set out cleaning and organizing in the house. Cleaning out closets, cabinets, junk drawers, storage elements, etc. It kept our minds busy and occupied. We would stand back and say, "Oh Bernice would LOVE to see this closet all cleaned out!", or "Man I wish Bernice were here to tell us about all this cool stuff!". There were times when going through her things made her absence feel heavy for me. But in all honesty, tackling those projects was a bit of an avoidance for me. I could pretend that I was just doing these things that were really on HER to-do list so that when she got back she would be so excited!
But now I'm back here in Baltimore. You'd think being removed from the house, not driving by the place she is buried, not walking into her empty bedroom every morning...you'd think those things would help ease my pain. But what I'm experiencing right now is different. My grief is talking to me in a way that I didn't expect. Or maybe I did. I'm a perfectionist by nature. It's in my blood. So now that I've had a minute to myself...a minute to breathe and to think...my grief sounds like this:
I fell so naturally into the role of caretaker. When the last thing on earth she wanted was to have her sons or her husband see her in such a state of mind and body, it was me who stepped up. Not in a "see look what I did" way, but more in a "I was made for this" kind of way. We came to Oklahoma City late in the evening on Sunday May 15th. Monday morning rolled around and she was "healthy". I knew she was in pain, I knew her blood counts weren't normal, I knew that we could hear any day that "there was nothing else that could be done". But still I didn't think I would be saying goodbye to her less than 2 weeks later. I had no idea, not even subconsciously, that her body was literally wasting away. And so I stepped into that role to buy her time until we could find a solution. I offered what little "wisdom" I had to help her make decisions about her body, about her mobility, about her hygiene, about her treatment. I helped her to and from the bathroom, in and out of bed, in and out of the shower, in and out of clothes. I desperately searched for protein shake recipes that would help her retain as much nutrition as she could while her body was refusing to allow her an appetite. I tried my darndest to remember which pills she was supposed to take and when. I called my Daddy and asked him if he would be willing to fly me back and forth between Baltimore and Oklahoma City to help take care of her while she underwent "heavy treatments" until we could get back in October. He said he would be happy to, but we never got there. She died 13 days after we arrived...
As my mind has begun the process of, well...processing, what I'm hearing on loop in my head is "Rachel, what else could you have done?". Did I feed her the right things? Did I say the right things? Did I help her the way she needed me to? Did I do the right things? Did I ask the right questions? Did I do ENOUGH? And then the minutia begins eating my mind alive. "Rachel, you left the room to nurse Greysen at 11:15 when she was so restless. When Patrick came back in to get you 15 minutes later and said, 'I think you really need to just come back in', had she already gone?". I find myself poring over whether I was there when "her soul" left that tired body. Was I holding her hand when she left? Or was she searching for me and I wasn't there? She drew her last breath at 11:49 PM. I was by her side when she did. But was I there when she needed me? The easy answer is yes, but my grieving mind begs to differ. The perfectionist in me screams "You could have done it better!" And while no part of me wanted to see her suffer a minute longer, I find myself frequently asking myself if I did the right things, if I did things right, if my actions caused her to leave us quicker than she should have...
I wish I had never stepped out to nurse Greysen, even though I was back before she died. Even though I was right next to her when she drew her last breath, I still wish I had just thrown modesty to the wind and nursed him at her bedside so I could continue pressing her hand to my heart as the life spiraled out of her. I wish I'd had the guts to tell her "You're dying" when she asked me "Why don't I feel better?". She needed me to say those words and I couldn't bring myself to say them. I wish I had taken more pictures of her and me together. There aren't nearly enough...
So for me, when my grief speaks, it says words like IMPERFECT, GUILTY, REGRET. At times its excruciating. Now, am I a puddle on the floor every time those words well up inside me? No. I am a Mommy after all, and Greysen needs me to keep it together. So I will...and I do. But there is a loop in my mind that will hopefully fade with time. I expect the play button on it will be pressed more than once in the coming years...probably when I least expect it. But for now, as I wade through those last weeks I had with her. As I pick through the happy times we spent together. As I spend time reading her journals and the letters and emails she wrote to me over the years. As I learn to function in a world she no longer lives in...
I let my grief speak as loudly as it wants to. Because I know that eventually the acute pain that I feel right now (when I let myself feel it) will soften over time. Her absence will never not be apparent, but I hope and pray that as the years pass I will be able to look back at those precious final 13 days and KNOW that I have nothing to regret, nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to beat myself up about...
Sometimes I still hear her telling me, "Sweetie, you're doing great. You're doing everything right. You're the daughter I prayed for. I love you so much!" And when I do hear that in my mind, I like to push the repeat button on it. It's a much better loop...
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