Just finished adding labels for my blog posts of late 2004. Crying. Stingy eyes. My chest hurts reliving my heart being sucked out with an industrial vacuum. There are no labels for knowing your mother is dying, for knowing you can't prevent it, for feeling that pull on your heart, for trying to send your dad enough energy over the phone to get through the next day, for wanting to grab doctors by their ears and yell in their professional emotionally-detached faces. There's no way to categorize veins that can't handle yet another attempt to start an IV. There's no way to make the pain go away. It doesn't surface as often now, but the ache is the same. I look at my posts and realize I was trying to send whatever positive energy I had out to the universe to envelope Fritzi and strengthen my dad while keeping my head from spinning way off my neck.
While I was in Nebraska helping my dad move home from the hospital, I wondered often what Fritzi would want me to do. I wanted to grab Dad by the ears and yell in his face that I can't blog my way through this again. It feels like prickles and electric shocks all through my veins. I am as dry and brittle as the rice cakes I serve my students for morning snack. Rice cakes spread with wet concrete.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
LinkWithin
2 comments:
When does the ache ever really go away? I don't think there's much comfort for the loss of a parent. You just get better at going on, as time goes by.
Post a Comment