My mother died yesterday.
I'm not completely sure I've really wrapped my mind around it, even as sharp waves of grief slam into me from behind at odd moments, pushing the softer, steadier underlying numbness to the side.
I thought, having had such a long lead in, and knowing that this was coming - even desired (in the "please Jesus end her suffering" way) - I thought it would be easier. Not harder.
It feels impossible.
We aren't having a service. Mom was always so incredibly anti-funeral, I don't know how we could have one and still be considered to be honoring her memory. And the truth is, right now, I have no desire to play hostess to anyone else's grief. Even going through the well-meaning comments on the Facebook notice has been more than I can handle. I'm glad others know how wonderful my mother was. Except that I don't really care about their loss, because it can't hold a candle to mine, or my kids' losses. And I find I don't have the patience to want to sit in the parlor with all the Mr. Collinses of the world who want to come and condone when, while mama was alive, they couldn't be bothered to treat her or our family with kindness and respect.
I'm sure there are those who did. Who loved her. And I'm sure I'm being unfairly selfish in my grief. But I don't care. And I feel it's reprehensible that we have a cultural norm that says the bereaved need to provide a big room for others to try and share our grief.
I know who's truly grieving with us. We know who really loved mom. And they're not the ones pushing us to have a funeral that she didn't want.
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