I have lost a lot of relatives over the years and went to my fair share of funerals for my friends' family members. When I was young, I used to talk out loud to my relatives who had recently passed. I often did this outside in hopes that they might be able to hear me. Shockingly, I have not done that with my mother. I tried it a couple times in the car, and I almost drove off the road due to screaming and violently crying. I have gone through many exercises in therapy which have greatly helped, but I've only addressed her directly three times on my own. I might point to the ceiling or raise my eyes up high if I'm referring to her, but that's it.
This is very strange behavior for me because my mother and I used to talk about every last little thing. There were certainly ups and downs (especially in the teen years), but we became open books with each other around 2001. I would go to NYC (at her encouragement) and call her in-between shows, when I just met an awesome actor, on my way to the train...I'm always tempted to call the old house line when I go to Times Square now. I always knew to give her a minute as she fumbled to pick up the receiver while yelling "wait a minute!!"
Today, my eyes welled up every time I thought about how much I needed my mother to hug me. It was not something we did often in the last 10 years due to her being very bedridden, but we found a way when we desperately needed comfort.
I made sure to pass the cemetery on my way home from getting my normal Friday night takeout. It was such a gorgeous, sunny, clear, and beautiful evening. My mother's grave is located in the far left of a beautiful elevated garden surrounded by huge trees. I took my hoodie and laid it to the far right of the grave, right where I normally would have taken down the hospital bed bars. I lay down and curled up tightly, like I would have in the twin sized bed. I could feel my head resting on the firmness of her belly that had widened over the years. Her pale hand, adorned with all her rings, trembled as it tried to stroke my hair. I was high enough on the lush green bed that she could lean down and kiss my head. She just let me cry as if I'd never stop. As the tears subsided, I finally freely talked her ear off like I've needed to do for two and a half years. She listened patiently as always.
It may not be the living room with a muted TV and a clunky hospital bed, but it was the most peace I've found since she passed.
