"Then you tell me..."

"Am I only dreaming?"

The nightmare didn't end. I didn't wake up, and the struggle with reality is only beginning. It's been a week since we said goodbye, and my stomach is still in knots.

"I'll wake up tomorrow and I'll start; Tonight it feels so hard."

I don't go to bed until you can argue that it's technically morning. And then I don't get out of bed until it's actually afternoon. Depression? I don't think so. Not specifically. Ennui? Maybe. I really don't know what I feel right now. And my new sleeping pattern is not going to coincide with my return to work.

"When you go, I'll let you be; But you're killing everything in me."

I want her back. But I know it doesn't work that way. I want to shout that it's not fair. But I know life isn't. I want to punch the wall, and fully realize all I'll end up with is a broken fist to accompany my heart. I don't know how to let go, and I'm afraid that I'm not more of a mess right now because I'm not letting go. Am I rationalizing it away as a defense mechanism? Or am I really stronger than I thought?

"I've always been afraid."

It's true. About lots of things. About taking chances. About quitting my job and striking off on my own. About losing people I love. Well, now I really know what one of those is like. But I'm going to try to learn the lesson she'd want me to learn: It will be okay.

"I feel that when I'm old; I'll look at you and know; The world was beautiful."

Over 500 lines in the guestbook were signed at Mom's wake. That doesn't include couples or families or those who didn't see the book. It's not a stretch to say there were easily over 600 people who came to pay their respects and maybe closer to 700. Some friends said they waited for over an hour to get inside. The line wrapped around the inside and the outside of the building. Some people actually saw the line from the street, went to run some errands, and came back later. (Mom would have enjoyed that.)

I'm lucky in that I don't have to wait till I'm older to appreciate the amazing woman that my mom was. The hundreds of people who came to pay their respects were proof. Not only friends and family from near and far. Her fellow teachers who all came out to say goodbye. Who helped us clean out the stuff in her classroom. Her former students and their parents. Our neighbors. Even our mailman came. The countless mass cards, letters, notes and emails. The food that seems to materialize from nowhere. The packed church. The overflowing cemetery chapel. The women at the bank who all broke down in tears when we told them that Mom passed. The amazing support from complete strangers.

"You say that love goes anywhere; In your darkest time, it's just enough to know it's there."

I can't begin to thank anyone who has shown us support. Our family and friends. The people who have stumbled across this blog. Woody among others--who I've never met or even spoken with aside from comments and comments about comments--who all leave me kind words and support. This is the darkest time of my life. The most painful thing I've had to face. But everywhere I turn I see love. A "thank you" doesn't cover that.

But that's all I have.

So thank you.

And Mom would thank you too. Her family was her world, and the support you have for us is support for which she would be forever grateful.

"Then you tell me..."

Here's to tomorrow.

"And the time such clumsy time, in deciding if it's time..."

Mom died on Saturday night. To write those words again tears another hole in my heart. Another void in my stomach.

I'm numb. Or in shock. Or both.

She was supposed to die on Tuesday. Then Wednesday. Every day the doctor came in and told us, "Not long now." 24 hours. Tomorrow. Soon.

"We can't do a thing but wait."

The hospital room was packed. Bed with mom. Chairs surrounding with her children. My father. My aunt. Our friends. We slept contorted and twisted and draped over the bed, holding on to her hands, her feet.

"When the big hand goes round again."

For 5 days my mom lived on love and determination.

After some discussion, we left the room on several occasions to have what would pass for family dinners in the hospital cafeteria. At first we thought maybe she was waiting for us to leave before she would pass. Towards the end of the week it became evident that she wasn't waiting for anything. She just wouldn't give up.

"You can lose yourself in your courage."

I voiced that opinion Saturday morning. Mom never had any intention of stopping. She kept going until her body couldn't. To sit for 5 days and watch you mother die... I guess I don't have a right to talk about what's tough or not anymore.

The doctor and nurses told us she has a strong heart.

Yeah, no kidding. We could have told you that. As if it was some astounding diagnosis. As if it was some great revelation that could not be explained. If it wasn't for the aggressiveness of the cancer in her liver, making chemo impossible, Mom would be here right now.

(Fuck you, cancer.)

"When the time we have now ends."

I held my mom's hand as she died. I held her hand.

My mom died and it hasn't even begun to sink in. What are we going to do without her? What am I going to do?

"Can you still hear the last goodnight?"

My mom died and I held her hand as she took her last breath. I felt her hand get cold. I saw her expression change. I lost my mom.

"Close my eyes and believe where you are, an angel for me."

"May angels lead you in"

I have been here a week. My mom for two. I think I speak for my family when I say we've run the gamut of emotions. We've been hopeful an scared. Happy and sad.

The same couch. The same exact spot. Except this time the pit in my stomach isn't going away. It's going to turn into a hole that cannot be filled.

"May angels lead you in."

My mom is going to die. There isn't anything else they can do for her. Unless she becomes the object of a miracle, the doctors have given her 24 hours. My mom is going to die and my heart is broken.

"I never said thank you for that..."

But I got a chance. Yesterday morning, after a very difficult and pain-filled night and before the fever and situation that would exclude my mom from anymore treatment, we had an opportunity to speak with her. Each breath was a struggle, and each exhalation was accompanied by a moan. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was in a whole lot of pain. I asked for a moment alone with her.

When I smoothed her hair with my hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek, I told her I wanted to talk to her. She opened her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes, now sick and yellow. I tried not to cry when I told her she was so brave and strong. How she taught me to be brave and strong. I told her I try to make her proud, and she told me, "Always." I told her I hope I don't disappoint her, and she said, "Never." I told her that I love her, and she said, "I'll always love you."

I am sure that I am unable to fully appreciate that minute-long conversation right now. But I'm confident that in the weeks and months and years that will follow, it will probably be one of the most important conversations of my life.

A little while after this, she developed a fever and started shaking and moaning uncontrollably. It took a long time before she was drained of fluid, comforted with warm blankets and soothed back to breath-moans. Then my mom sort of regained some consciousness. I remember when is now a long, long time ago, writing about having to shave my mom's head after her first round of chemo. I thought that was going to be one of the most difficult things I would ever have to do. I was wrong. I'd shave her head from now till kingdom come if it would have prevented what happened when she tried to talk.

Keep in mind, my mom has not had anything to eat or much to drink in over a week. Sure she's been able to down part of smoothie or shake here or there, but much has had to rely on the now-removed feeding tube. Her throat is sore, and her lips and mouth are perpetually dry. Not to mention all the morphine in her system, or whatever stronger pain killers and anesthesia that never left. It's hard for her to talk. Or it was.

"I'm so sorry."

Heart sinks to knees.

"I tried so hard."

Tears burst from our eyes and hers.

"I tried."

We all told her how proud we are of her. How brave she is, how strong she is. How she has nothing to apologize for. How she did wonderfully. Perfectly. How amazing she is. How she showed us to be strong and fight. This time I can't speak for the family. But a part of me died I think.

And then another part when she struggled to say, "I love you guys." Over and over and over. "I love you guys so much. I love everyone so much."

I don't know how many times she said it. And I don't know how many times each of us assured her that we know, that we would tell everyone, that we love her too.

My biggest fear now is my mom's afraid of dying. Afraid of leaving us. We are her life, and she would do anything for us. Pardon the phrase, but it kills her to know she won't physically be here for us. After all, it kills us too.

We did our best to calm here and share our love with each other, and eventually she fell asleep. Her moaning stopped and her anxious breathing slowed. We continued to talk to her for the rest of the day and through the night. After a while she stopped opening her eyes and responding. But we still talk. We still tell her we love her. That we're proud of her.

The night nurse told us her heart is strong. We could have told her that. Even today, her heart is strong. Her vitals are even pretty good. It's her liver which has given up. Her bilirubin continues to climb. Her stomach continues to fill with fluid. I still cannot believe we have to sit here and watch her die. Watch her strong heart stop beating. I don't know how I'm going to do this.

"And if you were with me tonight, I'd sing to you just one more time..."

I can't sing to save my life. But she will be with us tonight. Just one more time. I hope and pray I won't forget to tell her a thing...

"A song for a heart so big, God wouldn't let it live."

And it doesn't look like he's going to.

I don't know why I've been writing this blog. I don't know why I've been blogging about one of the most difficult and intimate parts of my life. And I still cannot believe I'm talking about my own mother...

I don't know how I'm going to get through this. But I know she taught me well. And I have to do her proud. I told her I'd always talk to her. Always count on her. I don't think she'll mind.

I love you, mom.