This morning, I had a really hard time getting out of bed. I felt fully awake, and part of me was pushing for a productive morning. That part, sadly, lost the tug-of-war. Gone were aspirations for raking the leaves, putting the garbage cans out, finishing the first draft of my book, getting to a client early. Gone. All gone. Bed and avoidance won the early part of the day.
I always check in with myself when I lose to lethargy, to make sure I’m not slipping into depression. I’m virtually certain that I’m not – my work is getting done, my house is still orderly (setting aside the leaves that will have snow on them in the morning…), and I’m feeling pretty energetic. So it took a while for me to figure out what was going on – what my body was trying to tell me.
Finally, I realized what it was. Three years ago today my mom had a massive stroke, which led to her death less than two weeks later. Hard to believe it’s been three years already. Often, I feel like I should be calling her to make sure she’s doing well, or to see if she needs me to pick something up for her at CVS before I come to visit.
For a few minutes, I began the downward spiral toward deep sorrow. Mid-slide, I stopped myself. It’s not really how I feel these days.
I’m able to think of my mom with much joy most of the time. With a smile on my face, as I remember the puns she made while in the hospital. Shaking my head in wonder as I remember my sister doing the New York Times crossword puzzle with her, sitting at her bedside. Misty-eyed, but incredulous, as she and her best friend of almost 70 years sang together just a few days before she died.
My mom was a tough broad. She was resilient. She was brilliant. She was funny. She could tell a mean joke. I loved her immensely. I always will.