gray

Gray. The color of the world when a loved one dies. Gray. Not even black and white with many shades of gray. Just gray. Simply gray. Like the gray of a storm cloud. Not just one gray cloud in a blue sky, but rather a sky filled solid with gray clouds. Nothing but gray for as far as the eye can see. No breaks, no cracks, no rips. Just solid gray. This storm is going to stay for awhile.

I find that my whole thought process has changed. It is hard for me to concentrate on anything for more than a minute or two. My brain jumps like a train from track to track. A train without a conductor. A runaway train with no control. Thought to thought…completely random without any control.

The memories come like a raging river that has broke through a dam…flooding everything in it’s way. Memories of good times and bad times. Memories from early childhood to things that had happened only a few moments ago. Most of the memories are of my mom. Others are of my grandparents and other family. Some are of days gone by when times were great. Others are of their deaths and the aftermath. The flood comes and pulls me under.

It is hard for me to talk to people. It is hard for me to listen to them complain and whine and piss and moan about being late for work or how they are tired or how bad their life is because they hate their job or whatever. I just wish they would disappear. I wish my biggest problem for the day was being stuck in traffic for an extra 10 minutes. Seems like a breeze compared to going through the death of a loved one. Petty. People can be so petty. I just want to say to them if your life is that tough…that miserable…just go and disappear. Leave us who are trying to rebuild our lives and figure out the next step in peace. I see everyone’s lips moving, but I hear nothing. Sad thing is…I used to be one of them. Before my mom was diagnosed cancer, every bump in the road I had, no matter how small or tiny, was a crisis to me. Every minor setback or nuisance was the end of the world. Every annoyance I had needed to be shared with the world by being sung in the chorus of “poor me”. When she was diagnosed with cancer I realized that nothing I had ever gone through could hold a candle to her pain and agony. The hell she was in physically, mentally and emotionally was real. My hell was self inflicted and ultimately not real. The difference is choice. She had no choice. I had a choice. Choice. I never once complained about helping her all those months or sitting with her for hours while she was in chemo or at the doctor’s office. I knew that even at my worst state…I was miles ahead of her best state. What right do I have to complain about sitting in a chemo room with her for five hours while she is the one sitting there for just as long as me but also has an IV in her arm pumping in chemicals hoping by chance that it is killing the cancer? What right do I have at all? My step-dad complained. He complained all the time. To this day I hate him for it. I was the lucky one. I was not her. She had trouble with her IV’s. The nurses always had trouble getting them in. Her veins would roll or disappear or the IV would go bad. It was a nightmare. An honest to God nightmare. One time she grabbed my arm and looked at my veins and said a prayer that I would not have to ever go through what she was going through. She was always concerned about what I was giving up to be there to help her. Little did she know I gained so much more than I was giving up. The lessons I have learned from her and her struggle have been life changing. I was always floored at the gall of some people who would come to complain and piss and moan to her about their trivial problems. I just wanted to scream to them…open your eyes. Open your eyes. My eyes are open…now open yours. Now I realize that…I was…what I now hate.

I had some pictures developed today. There were 7 roles of film that I had found in my camera bag. I knew two roles were of pictures of the flowers from my mom’s wake and funeral. Another role was pictures of the displays we set up at the wake of her favorite costumes that she had sewn for our theatre productions. There were also a few pictures of her in the casket at the end of the wake. I don’t know why I took them. I just thought that there might be a time later on in life that I would want them or need them and would be glad that I had time. And I thought…take the pictures and just put them in a box and forget about them until that time comes. I figured it would be easier to destroy them down the line if I did not want them than live with the regret of not having them if I did want them. I don’t even know where I had the idea to take pictures to begin with. I guess it was with all the deaths before hers on television. It seems there are always pictures of the dead if you are famous. If you are a celebrity or historical figure your whole life is documented. I figured we should have her life and death documented as well. In any case I have the pictures.

I thought I would warn the guy developing the film that the pictures of her wake were on the roll. If I stumbled across them without warning, I know I would have a heart attack. So I warned him out of to be courteous. He told me that actually quite a few people take pictures of their loved one’s funeral and casket. He said it is nothing strange. I think it is strange. I did it and I still think it is strange.

Anyways…the other four mystery rolls turned out to be pictures of our family from Thanksgiving, Christmas, Isabella’s birthday party and so on. Hard to look at them knowing those are the last holidays and birthdays we had together. Even when you know they are dying, you always think there will be one more day. One more Christmas, one more Easter, one more Thanksgiving, one more birthday, one more day…just one more day. That isn't always true. There isn’t going be any more days with my mom. What we had is all we will ever have. Hard to believe. And I did come across the pictures of her funeral. The envelopes were mixed up. I had not planned on looking, but fate had other plans. I had even labeled the rolls so they would not get mixed up…but they did. Another cruel joke. I saw them. Not fully realizing what I was even looking at. Then a moment of clarity. I recognized what I was seeing and I felt numb. I quickly stuffed them back into the pouch and put them back in the envelope. Now they are safely put away…clearly labeled so there will not be another mix-up. I survived the moment, but I don’t ever want to relive it again.

So there it is…a gray day. A gray world. Gray. No color. Gray. At least I have pictures of the world back when it was in color. Pictures. Giving proof that it wasn’t always like this. Pictures. Giving hope that it won’t always be like this.