Chocolate and Carbs

Today is the day after my mom's funeral. I am not sure why I feel so calm. However, multiple reasons, whether independently or individually, are making it so. 1. I am taking Xanex, regardless of my distrust and loathing for chemically-induced moods. 2. I am surrounded by my friends, family, and boyfriend. 3. I am picturing my aunt Polly and mom together in Heaven. 4. I see her in everything I look at, from the changing leaves of the trees to the sunshine to my aunt's faces. 5. I might actually be OK.

Last night, I walked into the chapel and immediately started to panic. "I can't do this," I said to Adrian. "I just can't do this." You know that weird pink glow of funeral homes...and there were huge, beautiful Fall flower arrangements from friends and co-workers. And her urn, with yellow roses draped over it. And a witch's hat with a perfect Fall arrangement built around it. And her picture. Her smile, her beautiful skin. And then that small pang, that hurt to know that it's just a picture and nothing more. But she would have loved how it looked. It oozed Gail, it burst with her personality.

I asked the funeral director for 3 easels. I made 3 different picture boards, with pictures from her childhood all the way to the pictures from the hospital. I dreaded having to do that, those little details you have to do for a funeral, along with the realization that they were pictures of my mom, for my mom's funeral, because my mom was gone. But, as I gathered pictures from her past, from my past, from her sisters' past, I felt so happy and so calmed to have so many pictures of her, to see her beautiful face and her equally just-as-beautiful personality that shone through each one. How happy I was to feel my mother in them. Words will never exactly express how dear she was to me.

Two days ago, my dad found a package from my first birthday, and he gave it to me. A bunch of old cards wrapped in a rubber band. I sat indian-style of my floor and opened it, my hands shaking. I looked through each one, cards from my grandmas, who are gone now, along with my aunt Polly and mom and dad's families and friends. I found a card from my mom's best friend, "aunt" Kathy, and I opened it, and 3 pictures fell out. My heart skipped at the sight of them. 3 small pictures, each of the them the same thing but slightly different in the pose. My mom, in a white blouse with feathered, short blond hair, holding me on her lap, me in a white onesie, no hair with chubby cheeks. All were variations of the same thing, and it was obvious they were trying to get me to look at the camera to get a good picture of the two of us. Not successful, but nevertheless made for something special and unexpected for me to find 22 years later. How I cherished this little surprise. I held them in my hand, finding the one I liked best, and I gently touched her face with my fingers, stroking her cheek, just as if she could feel it. I cried soft, quiet tears for her, but not for her suffering or my own loss, but for the simple fact and realization that I will never again stroke my mother's cheek, to be able to feel her soft skin against mine. If you love your mother like I loved mine, you will understand that feeling, that wonderful feeling, almost drug-like in quality. How beautiful and amazing, to feel your mother's skin, to hear her heartbeat when you're snuggling together (no matter how old you are), to see her laugh and smile and to hear her tell you she loves you--it sends these waves through you of such goodness, such calmness and contentment. You need this fix every now and then, some of us more often than not. Although I have had many moments like this, to feel this exact feeling I have described, no matter how often I was able to have it and cherish it, it is gone. I will not have it again. These types of thoughts, these types of realizations, these are what hurt my heart the most.

I avoided even thinking about the funeral until the moment I had to leave my house. Adrian picked me up, and I was so numb, so empty, not even registering the actual idea of us leaving to go to my mother's funeral. I dreaded having to see all of the people, all of the shocked, lost souls like mine, who were so devastated by such a loss as well. I dreaded having to look in their eyes, both to see their sorrow and to see their pity for me. But, oddly enough and surprising even for me, I began to feel relief. To see so many people who meant something to her, and so many people who she meant something to them. Friends from high school, old neighborhood friends, long-distance cousins, co-workers, all saying how much they loved her, how much she told them she loved me, how much she meant to them and how well she took care of them. It was comforting, and made me even more proud to be hers, which I never thought was possible but continues to grow every single day. The calling hours were scheduled for 3 to 6 with a memorial service scheduled at 6. At 5:30, the line was wrapped around the corner and outside of the funeral home. We didn't start the service until almost 6:45. I think this fact makes it completely obvious how much she was loved.

Father Cebula, who she enjoyed dearly and who delivered aunt Polly's sermon, did a wonderful job and used scripture and psalms to help remind us that she was with God, with aunt Polly, in Heaven, and in peace. He then invited people to share any words they might wish to share with everyone. My aunt Kathy, who is not my aunt but has been best friends with my mom for almost 45 years, stood up at the podium and delivered a beautiful message to her and in her memory. Next was my aunt Janny, then my aunt Becky, and finally, my aunt Rita (yes, there are that many...). Aunt Rita sat down, and I looked around the enormous and packed room to see if anyone else was going to speak. I got up, took my shoes off, and walked to the podium. I had written my speech on an index card in red pen. My hands were shaking, and my knees felt weak, and like I would burst into sobs at any second. I didn't look at anyone. Although my voice trembled and tears fought to come out, I delivered exactly what I wanted her and everyone else to hear.

"My beautiful, brave mother was my very best friend and very best companion. There is never a love for anyone else that exists like the love for your mother. She and I had a completely unbreakable bond, that even now, is still not broken, and I would have done anything for her. I am positive that choose to end her pain and suffering was the greatest gift of love and gratitude we could have possibly given to her. Since you all are sitting here now, you know how amazing she was, so I won't go much further. But I will say that, as her daughter, I will die happy and content if I am even half the woman she was. To all the mothers and the children in the room, hug each other a little tighter tonight. I love you mom. Thank you."

I have started eating again, although my body is completely rejecting it. I do not know why after someone dies everyone feels like they have to cook. It must be an unspoken, yet universally understood, rule. People have tried to force feed me for days, but I just can't eat it. However, just as a small, and very irrelevant note, I have eaten an entire box of pierogies and bought a box of gourmet chocolate truffles and have eaten several of those. Chocolate and carbs always do the trick. Along with the undying love of your beautiful mother, your beautiful angel putting the feeling of hunger back into your body and mind. And who knows what you like best better than your mother?