And what a crowded room it is. It is a room only found in my head. It's not as full as the rooms of great memories, but still, there's a lot to clean out.
Opening the mental room's door of rough memories and stepping inside has been tough. But it's time to clear it out. Some stories I will post; others I will not. (Yeah, I know -- maybe I just spiked your curiosity, but too bad.) Pulling out boxes of now old bones that once had been the bodies of horrible memories. Sweeping up a pile of dust and cobwebs to reveal things long forgotten. There's some really putrid-smelling fresher ones. Some are unrecognizable. Maybe my Sister might be able to help.
I've decided to no longer keep this room for the purpose of rough memories. I've bust a hole in the wall to put in a window so the sun can shine in. Painted over the black walls with several coats of robin-egg blue. Re-sanded the grimy and blemished wooden floor and put a fresh coat of varnish. I have decided to add a cedar chest and a couple of old trunks to temporarily store those rough memories in. The key words are "temporarily store."
I'm finding this blog and posting on it to be the best cathartic way of working through my grief as well as build hopes and dreams. And not to mention the best way to practice and form my writing style.
I've written about the painful current events -- the death of my Father and all the lingering effects and experiences that came and come with it. I have not, however, written about the death of my Mother.
My Father's death was painful, but not as painful as my Mother's. I focused on this one thought the other night. Why was his not as difficult as hers? I came to a few conclusions. The biggest one -- she went first and it prepared me for the second one. I was conditioned, by my Father, that he would go first, but life played a joke on him.
I also had to ask this question -- Why did my Father go second with all the health issues he had? Diabetes, heart disease, a serious bout of sepsis, high blood pressure, high cholesterol... the list goes on. My Mother had better health. Her conditions maybe weren't as easily managed, I guess. Hypothyroid and high blood pressure. I've learned not to dwell too much on this unanswerable question. I may never know the reason.
We had a conversation about it later. I told him God was teaching him lesson. Don't prepare too hard, it may or will get changed. It didn't help that my Father was also very dramatic. We were not prepared for my Mother. It just didn't seem possible that she would die the way she did.
From the moment of her diagnosis, I knew grief would be a big part of my life over the next few years. I would grieve for her then. My Father's health wasn't good and he would be gone sooner than later. And now, 5 years later...
CSM
Opening the mental room's door of rough memories and stepping inside has been tough. But it's time to clear it out. Some stories I will post; others I will not. (Yeah, I know -- maybe I just spiked your curiosity, but too bad.) Pulling out boxes of now old bones that once had been the bodies of horrible memories. Sweeping up a pile of dust and cobwebs to reveal things long forgotten. There's some really putrid-smelling fresher ones. Some are unrecognizable. Maybe my Sister might be able to help.
I've decided to no longer keep this room for the purpose of rough memories. I've bust a hole in the wall to put in a window so the sun can shine in. Painted over the black walls with several coats of robin-egg blue. Re-sanded the grimy and blemished wooden floor and put a fresh coat of varnish. I have decided to add a cedar chest and a couple of old trunks to temporarily store those rough memories in. The key words are "temporarily store."
I'm finding this blog and posting on it to be the best cathartic way of working through my grief as well as build hopes and dreams. And not to mention the best way to practice and form my writing style.
I've written about the painful current events -- the death of my Father and all the lingering effects and experiences that came and come with it. I have not, however, written about the death of my Mother.
My Father's death was painful, but not as painful as my Mother's. I focused on this one thought the other night. Why was his not as difficult as hers? I came to a few conclusions. The biggest one -- she went first and it prepared me for the second one. I was conditioned, by my Father, that he would go first, but life played a joke on him.
I also had to ask this question -- Why did my Father go second with all the health issues he had? Diabetes, heart disease, a serious bout of sepsis, high blood pressure, high cholesterol... the list goes on. My Mother had better health. Her conditions maybe weren't as easily managed, I guess. Hypothyroid and high blood pressure. I've learned not to dwell too much on this unanswerable question. I may never know the reason.
We had a conversation about it later. I told him God was teaching him lesson. Don't prepare too hard, it may or will get changed. It didn't help that my Father was also very dramatic. We were not prepared for my Mother. It just didn't seem possible that she would die the way she did.
From the moment of her diagnosis, I knew grief would be a big part of my life over the next few years. I would grieve for her then. My Father's health wasn't good and he would be gone sooner than later. And now, 5 years later...
CSM
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