On Feeling Again

Nine months is a long time–Plenty of time for a baby to be born, or for a cow to birth a calf. Enough time for a madman to be well on his way to dismantling the American Republic.

In my case it took nine months for me to feel…anything about Mom dying. I couldn’t call her “Mom” even. Every discussion was “my mother,” or “my mom.” Somehow this arms-length feeling helped me not feel. I desperately needed to avoid feeling.

The way I kept describing to those who’d listen, both professionals and laymen, was I was holding in a sneeze. You know what it’s like to feel a sneeze coming? To know it has to be expressed, but feel helpless to let it out.

Now, do 9 months of that.

I don’t know what jarred me lose–probably the double bill of my parent’s Anniversary on 8/10 and my mom’s birthday on 8/18 (she would’ve been 73). I walked around, and it started somewhere in my solar plexus, a sort of ache. Then it spread up to my heart and just stayed there. Honestly, I haven’t felt that since my future wife and I broke up in 1999. It’s a sort of gnaw and absence, a scarring sort of wound that seems to be expelling the poison, if not closing yet.

But somehow, at my next appointment, I could say “Mom.” Not arms-length. “My guy” recommends I sit with the grief, make time for it. Make “Grief appointments”.q

I can only reflect how utterly ridiculous Mom would find the concept.

“They’re DEAD! Find a pine box and stick’em in a hole for all I care. I despise funerals. Utter waste of time! Please do the same when my time comes.”

Of course, we didn’t do that. God decided Breathitt County needed a snow day December 11, 2024, when the bore Mom to her resting place at Combs cemetary, up Highway 30 West, where the Middle Fork of the Kentucky River comes together with the road to Canoe (“COO-knew”) and Old Buck.

From her grave, you can see the spot where I was baptized.