Failing

 Nothing since 2021 on here. Feels like an eternity has passed. Or a week. Depends on the day I guess. My mom died. That happened September 10, 2022. 

I'm not sure what to say or even how to write about it. When Patrick passed, I couldn't stop writing. I think it kept my heart beating and the synapses from exploding. And now, I have so many all at once feelings I... freeze. 

Maybe this is me trying to unfreeze. Maybe its time to learn a whole lot more about myself, the "myself" I don't think I know at all. The parts that I buried to protect or protect me from. I don't know. 

Too much has happened, too many people have died in my life and I guess that left me kinda freaked out. But my mom? Living here? Trying to save a dying woman who wanted to die and hating myself over not being able to save or revive or... make happy was a one-way ticket to panic and sadness. It felt like no matter what I did, it just wasn't going to be enough. I had all the plans in the world about healthy food, protein shakes, no sugar, walking my hallway, you name it. 

None of it.

She wanted to make me happy and so she tried at first. The protein shakes make her sick. She agreed to a short walk to the bathroom and back sometimes. But mostly, she was in her recliner watching Jeopardy and wanting desperately to be with her husband, her sisters, her brothers. She was the last Bachand of her generation.  I know I didn't fail. I know on the rational level of my brain that I didn't force my mom into a home, that I tried until I couldn't do it any more. But it was me. I said I couldn't take her back to the ER doctor. And that was that. And it was awful because I felt relieved as much as I felt guilty. I keep telling myself I don't feel certain emotions around this whole thing, but that's because I survived my whole life that way. Shut it down, put it away, don't stare too long into the abyss.

Having my mom back in my life for those five or six months was like hopping on a really fucked up time machine. Nightmares every night almost. I spent all day pacing and pacing and cleaning and wiping and fussing and washing and counting everything. Count breaths per minute. Count steps. Count calories, count ounces of water, count hours of sleep. I would lie down at night rigid and stiff and stay that way until finally the sun came up and I would start it all over again. Failing and counting. 

I know my mom was 83. I know all about her medical history. I breathed it. 90% of my brain knows I did everything I could, that nobody asked for or expected perfection. Nobody dreamed I'd be the greatest caretaker of a mom ever born. That was all me. 

And that's why I spent every minute counting and failing instead of sitting and being.