Some of you more self abusive readers, who have been following this blog from its inception, know that my parents (technically custodial grandparents) both died of cancer within four years of eachother. So I was orphaned at 25. Boo hoo.
I had kind of a cruddy upbringing until my grandparents got custody (understatement), and as normal, loving parents they meant the absolute world to me. When they died I was crushed. Kee-rushed. I remember sitting at my mother's funeral doubled over the entire time with my head between my legs sobbing and hiding from the world and what was happening. A few months later I got HG and ultimately ended up here on this blog sucking eggs.
Lately, I've been noticing my growing dissatisfaction with my parents. I am not happy about this and that and at times am even angry. I find myself almost abandoning them, disowning them. I become detached. I decide that I don't like them really, that it was all a dream and that I'm really better off without them in my life.
And then I sit down at the desk and see my dad's picture staring back at me. At once I recall smoke rings and treasure hunts and baritone flossing. I recall a joyful soul who let me drive when I was too little, took me fly fishing, and helped me find my lost cat when all hope was gone. I see him at suppertime polishing off butterpeas cooked lovingly by Mom who always smelled like Rosemilk and had the best hairbrush.
Her hands traced an outline of my face before goodnight kisses. She tucked me in and loved me. We went shopping together. She knitted me sweaters. She made ice cream out of snow.
In college I told her we would hang out on Friday night, that I would make dinner, that we would play Boggle and giggle until midnight. But I didn't. I never did. I was a university student with boyfriends and "better" things to occupy my time. I grew up and away. She took the abuse. It killed her but she never said a word. Time passed, cancer came, she dissolved into history. Her rainbow fades into the grey. Who needs rainbows.
I go into the kitchen and Mom's recipe is written on a paper cat. At the bottom of the card she says, "If you ever get stuck you can always call on me." If I ever get stuck...
I choke on emotion and drown completely. The chord is struck. Tears begin to well. I'm helpless; my parents are gone. I shove my fists into my pockets and tell myself I'm better off without them. I'm not and I know it, but what else can I do?
SICLE moms who weep and mourn and claim no regret... for a fleeting moment I understand that kind of denial.