The Empty

 

Just slightly in front of the weathered shingle cottage on the left and adjacent to the white cottage on the right there once stood a two story cottage called "Lou's Haven" that was Barry's family's summer home on White Horse Beach outside of Plymouth, MA. When the storm known as the "Perfect Storm" walloped the east coast, the cottage, pilings and all, was swallowed by the raging sea. In the two years that followed this catostrophic event my in-laws dealt with some severe health issues and died.  The city declared that the property and thus any rebuilding plans had been "abandoned" by the deceased owners and therefor no rebuilding could occur. Yeah. Turns out cities can be pretty heartless entities...but that's the stuff of another blog. Back to White Horse.

A couple of weeks ago on the way to Hyannis to catch the ferry to Nantucket and a much anticipated girl's trip, my dear friend Mary Lee suggested we veer a bit off track to check out White Horse. I eagerly agreed since I was anxious to see how the working-class beach community had rebuilt. We pulled into the parking lot next to the sugary white sand and followed a quaint boardwalk bordered by small, neat Cape Cod style cottages that were well cared for and weloming. And then...this empty space— where parties and clambakes and egg tosses and card games and cocktail hours and parents and grandparents and babies and aunts and uncles and friends once were. And now...empty— but for the memories that immediately flooded my mind and soothed my soul.

In the hindsight of a week or so since, that brief detour started a process of self-assessment —what was I feeling, really feeling since my mom's death last December? Quite simply, there was a part of me that was/is just plain empty. I was so focused on the last few months of her life —the traumatic hospital stay, the hospital-acquired wounds, the questionable medical care, the nightmarish home care incidents, the disastrous palliative/hospice care experience (oh yes...all to be detailed if and when I feel up to it). I was so focused and angry and dismayed with it all. Then packing up a household, dividing possessions, planning a service, writing a eulogy. Did I cry? Sure...the day before she died, the moment she died, when they took her out of her house as I watched my brothers escort her to the waiting hearse, when I called the regional hospice manager to reiterate (crying/yelling) that what happened to us should never, ever happen to another family. So yeah. I cried. And then, I didn't. 

Everyone grieves differently, I told myself. You had her for two years because of COVID, I'd think. "You were lucky to have her", "you'll have no regrets" friends would say, implying that if/when she died I'd feel some ...what? ...relief? that I'd cared for and protected her from the dreaded plague? I don't know. In any case, in a post-vaccinated window of time she was able to get back east to her home which she wanted desperately. So did I. And it was all good. Until it wasn't. 

I didn't want to deliver my mom's eulogy. I didn't trust myself. Once I start crying there's no stopping. I cannot cry softly and still speak. In fact, I'm a downright ugly crier. I practiced reading the eulogy over and over and over until the words that I painstakingly wrote and rewrote were just that...words. No crying. Relief.

"You must miss your mother." How many times have I heard that in the last several months? How many times did I ask myself, "do I?" Of course I do....I must.

So many times over the years I've written on sympathy cards, "may the love of family and friends and happy memories help you get through this difficult time." I surely had the love of family and friends. But the happy memories? It seems that once the scanned photos of a lifetime were committed to a slide show for the reception following my mother's funeral, I basically boxed them up. Stopped looking. Stopped remembering. Stopped feeling.  Defense mechanism? Perhaps. 

And now, if you don't mind—I'm going to start filling up my tank😊