I'm Glad My Mom Died(54)

“Where you going?”

“New York, remember?”

“For what?”

Drill-drill- LOUDEST DRILL I’VE EVER FUCKING HEARD-drill.

“The Nickelodeon Worldwide Day of—” I stop, realizing how ridiculous this sentence sounds. “I don’t know; some thing I’m supposed to be hosting. So I really shouldn’t go?”

“They say it’ll happen today.”

I freeze, shocked for a beat, but not for long. I’ve experienced this moment many times before. Somebody says Mom’s gonna die, and then she doesn’t. I go back to tugging on the zipper.

“Yeah, but…” I start, knowing Dad will know what I mean.

“But what?”

Never mind. I always forget Dad never knows what I mean.

“But people have said this so many times before. If this is just another false alarm, I really shouldn’t head down. Nickelodeon’s gonna be pissed if I bail on this thing.”

A beat. Knocking starts up again at my front door. The driver’s probably checking in on me. Dad swallows.

“You really need to come down.”

“Fine.”

I hang up just as I finally get the zipper shut. I’m sweating by this point. I stand up, cross over to my bed and sit at the foot of it for just a moment to try and collect myself before heading down to see my mom for possibly the last time I ever will. I’m trying to process this intense reality, but I’m really struggling to because hammer-hammer-hammer. Drill-drill-drill. Knock-knock-knock.





55.


I’M SITTING ON THE COUCH looking at Mom as she lies in the hospital bed that’s been set up for her here in the living room of the ole Garbage Grove hoarder house. The couch was removed to make enough space for it. Mom’s been in hospice care for the past three weeks, so this is not an unusual sight, though she’s typically sitting up instead of lying down like she is now, and her breath is shallower than I’ve ever heard it.

Scottie and Dustin sit nearby. All of us are silent, the effect of years of emotional exhaustion. I’m surprised none of us are crying, but it’s like we have no tears left. We’ve been through at least a dozen dress rehearsals of our mother’s death. We remember the VHS tape.

My phone pings with a text. Nickelodeon is reaching out to say no worries at all on me missing the Worldwide Day of Whatever. I send a thank-you text back.

Another text comes through, this one from the guy I’m currently stringing along. Current Guy and I “met” via Twitter. We arranged to meet up in person. I invited some friends so I wouldn’t get murdered. Once I knew he was safe to be around, we went to fancy dinners and laser tag and minigolf. We even went to Disneyland together to watch the fireworks. (I splurged on a VIP guide so we wouldn’t stop any parades and piss off Goofy.)

Current Guy is wonderfully sweet and thoughtful and romantic. But I don’t love him. Maybe it’s because I don’t have space in my heart to love anyone right now while Mom’s dying, or maybe that’s me trying to blame a genuine lack of connection on grief. Grief is a great scapegoat. Regardless, I’m discovering just how powerful of a tool it is to not love someone.

Loving someone is vulnerable. It’s sensitive. It’s tender. And I get lost in them. If I love someone, I start to disappear. It’s so much easier to just do googly eyes and fond memories and inside jokes for a few months, run the second things start to get real, then repeat the cycle with someone new.

That’s where I’m at right now with Current Guy. The distraction has been nice, but I’m ready for a replacement.

I whip out my phone to check the text from him.


What are you up too?



I’m no stickler on spelling but Jesus Christ get your “tos” right. That’s it. I’m ready to end things. I draft a text.


Hey—I’m really sorry but I just can’t do this right now. My mom’s gonna die and I really need some time to just be alone. I hope you can understand.



Send. Done. Simple as that. I look back up at my dying mother. A text pings.


Don’t say that, boo. Your mom’s not gonna die.



He ignores the rest of my message. I roll my eyes. I’ve told him twelve times that Mom’s dying of cancer but he acts like she has a sprained ankle. He has no concept of loss. I feel like the world is divided into two types of people: people who know loss and people who don’t. And whenever I encounter someone who doesn’t, I disregard them.

I’m in a constant state of irritation these days. I just don’t want to deal with people anymore. I set my phone facedown on the arm of the couch. I look at Dustin, then Scott, then Mom. Her breathing looks so strenuous. She’s struggling to hang on. I hate this.

Mom takes a sharp breath in, then out. The hospice nurse locks eyes with Dad, gives a slight nod. Dad looks at us. Mom’s gone.

We’re all numb. We don’t cry. We just sit. In silence. Finally, I pick up my phone. A hundred messages have poured in. Everyone’s heard. E! News broke the story. How the fuck they already know, I have no idea.

I go to my text tab, then click on the chain with Current Guy. I stare at his last text: Don’t say that, boo. Your mom’s not gonna die.

I text him back: She just did.