Postcards of Grief

Mourning is a process.

Comments on breast cancer by proxy, written by a woman coping with the loss of her mother.

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Not what I wanted

My father called this morning to tell me to come home. That was all I heard. I had spoken to her last night, and although she was weak, tired, and sore, she said she was okay. She seemed okay. Not good. Not getting better. Okay. I would have come home if I thought something was wrong, if I knew that it was so close and so urgent, but this morning was too late. It was a snow day again here, so the roads were slippery and slow and clogged. I had to get in the car, and I didn’t even think about brushing my teeth or my hair or doing anything other than getting dressed and leaving.

I felt so lonely this morning, just lying in bed. It took far to long to realize that I hadn’t yet answered the phone, that NPR was reporting Kerry’s win in New Hampshire, that it was time to get up. I brushed my teeth and started the kettle and pulled my bathrobe around me until the heat came on. My work laptop was still hooked up to the phone line, so I curled myself under it and checked the school closings and the weather and my email. I had enough email to distract myself from the night’s ephemeral pangs of loss.

Still, I did check the answering machine and the cell phone for messages.


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