The Bloody Doors Off

I’m a click-whore.

I find myself checking the stats for this blog, to see if anyone’s reading.

Not that I get a sense of pride or satisfaction when I see the results.

But it’s knowing. That I’m not.

Alone.

In this thing.

No one deserves. To be alone.

Heavy memory time.

I was relating to my friend Scott, who lost his wife at the end of 2020, my own loss.

When my mother died.

She and my step-father were at the laundromat that morning. I think it was a Wednesday. I remember the date.

October 5th.

Kevin called me just after 8:30 that morning. Relayed the news. That she was transported to hospital in Newmarket (or Aurora?) and was in intensive care. He said he was driving up and would keep me posted.

I demanded he pick me up as well.

He did.

Wayne and Donna were on vacation, south of the U.S. (I can’t remember the actual location.) But I was able to reach them after we got to the hospital. Larry couldn’t understand why I needed to make that call. I had to include them. Prepare them. Make a connection.

That we weren’t going through this alone.

I remember the doctor, a tall fellow, came in with a grief counsellor. They said she wasn’t expected to make it, and we needed to come say goodbye.

But before we did.

A nurse entered and informed us she’d had another heart attack, and they couldn’t revive her.

We still went in to say goodbye.

I’ll never forget the pained look that remained on her face; eyes wide, staring into oblivion, mouth contorted in a silent scream.

It haunts me.

But with time…

My take-away was.

Memories may suck, and they hurt, but in a really fucked up way.

It keeps them alive in our hearts.

And we’re never alone.

Damn. I used to have video of her doing the Gangnam Style dance. I need to search my phone and see if I still have it.

ETA: Found a pic.