Today marks eight months since I've seen, talked to, or held my mom's hand. Or harassed her. Or tricked her like I was always doing. Or rolled my eyes at her when she goes on and on and on and on about something. 8 months.
At this time eight months ago, I was on my way to my mom's oncologist to have him fill out FMLA paperwork so that I didn't have to go back to work. I knew we were nearing the end, but I had no idea that mom would pass away in less than two hours.
We had already done her last rites about two hours previously. At that point, I thought we were just doing them to get them out of the way. Merely four hours after we did them, she passed away. How was I so naive to think that I could do an errand while my mom was literally on her death bed. Isn't it weird what we do in our darkest hour?
As I type this, I am watching my bouncing ball of 7.5 month old joy, Elise Kimberly. She'll never know her namesake. That bothers me. But there is nothing in the world I can do about it.
8 months. I cannot believe that it is soon to be a year. Blah. I am to young for this. And she was too.