Consumed

Currently I'm totally consumed with this:  http://momdieditsucked.com
It's kind of got all my attention.    

To My Brother, with Mucus

Over the last year of mom's illness (ALS), she had constant issues with phlegm.  She couldn't swallow or spit or even cough.  Her throat, mouth, and tongue were completely unresponsive.  We found a suction machine, like what a dentist uses, and set her up with that so she could find some relief from the horrible sense of choking to death.  She'd take the suction wand and cram that thing so far down her throat I thought she was going to accidentally pull her seat cushion through herself backwards.  It was gory.
At times, this activity was more than I could stomach, and I had to look away.  I'm going to spare you the details, except to say this: snot in a straw.  Okay, no more details!
Besides being horribly appalling and uncomfortable to watch, it was awful to see mom struggle with this.  She feared choking, she couldn't clear her throat, she was just so uncomfortable.
She used a device to communicate.  She'd type out a word or sentence, and hit a button and it'd read it back, as best it could.  Usually the device's best was really lousy.  At one point it developed an Indian accent, which left you feeling like you were having a conversation with tech support for Mom v.1.0.
The disease began to take its toll on her hands as well.  Soon she abbreviated her thoughts, using single words to communicate.
Her single word for phlegm build-up, the sensation she was choking, and please get her the suction device was "Mucus."
Mucus.
I began to notice the effect the word had on my brother.  I saw the way his lips pursed, his nose wrinkled.  The churning of his stomach seemed to alter the tilt of Earth on its axis. It bothered him deeply.  I saw him in a new and vulnerable light.  My big brother, the one who always got to do everything before me.  The bigger, smarter, more athletic older brother who, in my younger years, I regarded as completely untouchable.  There he was, a little weak in the knees, a little afraid, and a little grossed out.
I thought, "Paydirt."
Thus began the random acts of mucus.  Sometimes I send him an email -- no subject line, just a word: "mucus."  Sometimes I spell it in all caps, or I enlarge the font.  I send texts to his phone too, just the word Mucus.  On occasion if he doesn't answer when I call, I leave him a voicemail message: mucus.
It's not a constant thing.  Just once in awhile.  It's my way of letting him know that I'm thinking of him and that I appreciate our connection.  Some people use the word "love," I use Mucus.

I PROMISE!

I swear to clouds and rainbows that the "Mom" category is not going to be flooded with "wah wah wah I miss my mom oh woe is me boo hoo hoooooooooo."  Not flooded with it... but perhaps that sentiment will trickle in from time to time.  I will try to offset the whining with other, less whiney anecdotes. 
There was the time she ran over my bicycle. 
Wait, no, I'm definitely not ready to write about that.  I'll start whining again. 

Please Mom, Do NOT Visit Me

I'm not ready for it.  I'm afraid to think about you too hard because then I know you'll visit me in my sleep.  I miss you.  Holy shit I miss you so much.  I miss your funny voicemails, where you'd ask me a question and wait for the answer... even though you were talking to a machine and you knew it. 
I miss how you would laugh at my stupid jokes and you always managed to pass off even a courtesy laugh as a real, genuine laugh.  I considered comedy as a career choice at one point. 
I miss your cooking. 
I do not miss your driving.  Sorry mom. 
I miss your eyes.  They were such an amazing blue and for some reason you always had this optimistic and hopeful expression in your eyes.  And I always thought that you were the only adult I knew who had that expression.  It baffled me.
I miss how your number one goal in life was to let us kids know how important we were to you.  It isn't like I need the constant affirmation.  What I miss about it is the example you set for me of constantly showing your loved ones that you loved them.  
So why wouldn't I want you to visit me?  Why would I be afraid to sleep at night or meditate or pray or do anything that might give you a quiet moment to come in and visit me? 
Because I know exactly what you'll do and say.  You'll tell me how much you love me and you'll hug me and you'll tell me how happy you are to be with Jesus finally. 
It'll feel too much like forgiveness and I'm not ready for it.
I guess I'm not ready to be at peace with this. 
You suffered so long, so much.  I feel that I failed you.  I lost patience with you, I never once could grasp what you must have been going through, I selfishly only thought of my loss, me... me... me...
And there is no way to go back and fix it -- to hug you more, to spend more time with you, to empathize more.
So, I'm stuck in this self-punishing mode. 
Ironically, I get this from you.  I'm afraid if you visit me you'll forgive me, take away my self-punishment, and really that's kind of my last tangible connection to you.  There is nothing on this planet that is as tangible as the long slow burn of failure and guilt. 
When you died and I went into your room, I had to remove your rosary before we left.  I carefully unwound it from your hands, and placed your hands -- clasped in prayer -- on your chest.  As I moved you a bit, I felt a warm spot on you.  I suppose the blankets had kept the last of your body heat from escaping.  My heart nearly stopped.  I knew I would never feel that warmth, ever again. 
Instead I'm clinging to the burning sensation of failure and guilt.  If you visit me, you'll take that away. 
I really just need to hang on to this connection to you, Mom, no matter how little sense it makes. 
Please Mom, do NOT visit me.