I just clicked on the calendar and realized today is five months since Mum died. Before I did that, I was staring at the grey sky, swearing internally, and trying to figure out where to take the kids today so they can run around without being in the (quite likely) rain. It's been five months. That means, um, I should really find out where my grandparents are interred, and have Mum's ashes interred as well, so the urn is no longer in Dad's basement. And it means it would have been good if we had the paperwork for Dad's survivorship benefits done some time ago. But they're nearly ready to mail in! Sigh.
We still haven't gotten the autopsy report back.
We know what she died of- she was no longer able to eat or drink, and became comatose. So we had no extraordinary measures and let her die. But we still don't know if it was Alzheimer's (which is generally very slow) or a different kind of horrible dementia. It will be good to know, whenever the results come back.
Whenever we discussed having an autopsy, my aunt and I would leave the hospital room and stand in the corridor. We didn't want to talk about it near Mum. I was even uncomfortable discussing funeral plans in the room. Mostly I sat, and read, or spun, or prayed.
I'm starting to get to the point that I am, emotionally and unreasonably, wanting her back. That was something I really didn't want before, and I think it means that my horrible and frightening memories of her in her last year are fading a little, and I am remembering her the way she was. That's good. It means that even though I am really, very relieved that my mother is no longer suffering, that I am missing going out for falafel, and trips to the odd foreign supermarkets I fell in love with, and seeing her and Nat both light up with joy when she came over to take him to the park. I am missing her reserve, and her quiet centredness, and her Bible with most of the pages loose.
I will always remember how she takes her tea. And which kind of cookies.