The night my mother died is raw. It was filled with a lot of emotions: anger, regret, sadness, guilt, and remorse.
The next day, I woke up to multiple calls, text messages, posts on my Facebook wall, and Facebook messages. It was a flood.
The flood soon turned into a drought.
Before I could process what happened the night before, people were sending flowers, the funeral home was calling, and people were showing up at my door. The next two days there was an influx of people in and out of my house and a lot of food.
But the day of my mother’s funeral is a blur. I remember getting up and taking an extra Zoloft pill because I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even think.
I wish I would have recorded her service because I don’t remember much. I was numb. I was numb because I had held it together since the night she died.
I held it together for me, my kids, my sisters, my nieces, and my dad. Who else was?
I was continuously surrounded by people, yet I still felt alone. I was surrounded by people and I couldn’t grieve. I had people there for me, but it wasn’t enough. It still isn’t enough.
The day the casket closed on my mother and the funeral home doors closed, the noise stopped.
Nobody called. Nobody texted. Nobody visited.
Nobody cares after they’re gone. They said their goodbyes, but I didn’t. I’m still grieving.
I’m grieving, and no one calls anymore. I’m grieving, and nobody texts me to see how I’m doing. I’m grieving, and no one says “I’m going to bring supper for you and the kids. Just because.”
The thing with death is not all of us were able to grieve properly or say our goodbyes. We have to say goodbye every single day.