The Cause
So, my dad went down to the funeral home to finally pick up the death certificate. The cause of death was a ruptured aortic aneurysm, apparently there are very few symptoms and even the ones a person might have generally seem minor until it ruptures. My mom never knew she had the aneurysm. There was nothing anyone could have done to help her. For some reason this makes me feel guilty. At first I felt like I could have done something if I’d gone to check on her instead of going to work and calling her phone. The truth is, she was already gone. I don’t know why the fact that there’s nothing any of us could have done makes this even harder. Probably something to do with the damn lack of control. It bothers me. I’d rather live with the guilt that I could have done something than the guilt that I was and still am completely powerless. Maybe it just scares me, but it hit me a hell of a lot harder than I imagined it would. Hell, it probably doesn’t help that this just made it all even more real, as if anything could make it more real after seeing my mom in that casket. I don’t know how to grieve. How do I even start that process and attempt to move on? Part of me (Ok, most of me.) doesn’t even want to. That part of me wants to sit here and deny that any of this is real, that I’ll hear the front door open and hear the sound of my mom’s keys. God, if that would happen I would waddle-run my giant preggo ass out there and throw myself at her and probably never let her go. As much as I dreaded spending time with any of my family, I wish I hadn’t been so antisocial all the time. Any time I hear a jingle of keys I instantly look up. I know she’s not there, but I can’t help it. It makes me so sad that I already can’t remember the sound of her voice. It’s been a month, and I’ve already forgotten something I heard just about every single day of my life. How? Why? If I begin to move on am I just going to forget more and more? As much as it hurts to think about, I’m terrified of losing anymore memories. I don’t know how to do this. I couldn’t even grieve properly when I lost my baby. I cried and cried, but I never really grieved. Instead, I fucked up my body even more than the miscarriage did by falling farther and farther into the ED I’d struggled against for years. I didn’t care because I hated myself. I can’t do that this time. I have my son to think of. Of course, I had Ville to think of before, but he was 1 1/2 years old. While he deserved so much more, his survival wasn’t based solely on what I ate or what I did to myself. Liam’s survival is. They both deserve to have their mother at her strongest, but I just don’t know how to reach that point. *sigh* My thoughts are all over the place anymore and I just can’t seem to get it together. I’ve been reading a lot about the cause of death. It says the chance of survival is about 35% if the patient is already at a hospital where care can begin immediately, anywhere else and it drops to 10%. That’s it. We have all this technology and that’s all they can give for something so relatively common? Ugh. And now I’m listening to Ville argue with my brother over whether this little girl at Ville’s school is brown" or "black." Oye! My son insists that she’s "brown" because her skin looks brown. I’m not sure how or even if this should be handled. He’s not being racist, but I don’t want him running around saying weird shit to people. Oh my goodness, this is making me laugh. At least it’s taking my mind off of things. Ok, I must go stop this argument. My brother just told Ville to ask the girl what color she is. No, just no. *headdesk*
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