The Elephant in the Blog

Every time I’ve sat down and tried to blog about anything lately, it somehow turns into a post about my mom. Not wanting to be reduced to “the girl with the dead mom who can’t stop talking about it”, I just end up letting the posts languish on The Island of Misfit Drafts ™. No more.
Guys, I miss my mom a lot. Everyone warns you that the first round of holidays after you lose someone is difficult, but since Judy wasn’t into Christmas, I didn’t think it would hit me quite so hard. I thought wrong.
I think that the disconnect is that I was picturing it like The Family Stone (spoilers ahead). Christmas is this Very Important family tradition and Diane Keaton’s character loves Christmas and then she dies and they all gather to hang ornaments without her and reflect on how different Christmastime is without their mom, their rock. Judy, in contrast, was a complete humbug. She did not honour Christmas in her heart and try to keep it all the year. So, it’s decidedly not nostalgia that’s driving this latest wave of grief that I’m riding out, but I can’t imagine that the fact that it’s hitting me so hard right as the holiday season begins (as foreseen by my therapist and basically every resource I found about grief processing) is purely coincidental.
I fell this week. The kids had a snow day and I was in a mood and it was just an awful, overwhelming day. I felt like such a miserable heap of wasted space. I was determined to stop being scream-y mom and start being fun and enriching mom, so I decided that I was going to bring some snow inside for the kids to play with (since Jamey isn’t terribly keen on playing outside in the snow). And so I rolled up the rug so it wouldn’t get wet, dug all the sand toys out of the playroom closet, and cleaned a tray to fill with snow, a process that should have taken about two minutes, but was made ten times longer by my grumpy, bored, impatient children. By the time I was ready to go outside and collect the snow, I was still not feeling like fun mom; I was feeling like end of my rope mom.
I had gotten one foot safely into its boot, and had then resorted to a slapstick-esque hopping around trying to yank my other boot on, when I lost my balance. With my right hand entangled in the boot of my airborne foot, my only choice to keep from face-planting was to catch myself using the heel of my left hand. The impact was…intense.
I spent a significant amount of time lying completely still, not wanting to move, in case something was broken. Then slowly, I began to bend and rotate each joint, one-by-one. Luckily, the damage was negligible, not even half as bad as I had been preparing myself for. All in all, it was a complete nonevent.
I got up and got myself an ice pack for my wrist and then I sat down on the couch and began to sob. Not because of the pain or humiliation that comes with being a professional klutz, but because I so desperately miss having someone to talk to about all of the mundane nonevents. I cried about the nine months worth of boring minutiae of my life that I had been keeping to myself and about the yet-to-be-determined amount that would continue to pile up because I no longer had anyone who cared, really cared, to hear them.
I know that I am not the only person who has been left with a gaping, Judy-shaped hole in my life. I know I’m not the only person who misses her or is still,on some level, struggling to come to terms with the fact that she’s gone. More broadly, I know I’m most definitely not the only one who has to navigate a world without their “person” in it. I wish that knowing all these things did anything to ease the feelings of loneliness and isolation that have swallowed me up as of late.
I don’t have an eloquent way to wrap this post up. There’s no neat little bow to put on top of such a disjointed wet blanket of an entry, but I have learned one thing while I typed this up. Writing about the thing that I don’t want to write about feels objectively better than not writing at all, for fear of mentioning said thing I don’t want to write about. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯