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Written to my brothers and sisters:

February 9, 2009

One week ago today was our mother’s funeral. These past few days have been an introduction to a new, unwanted reality.

We all will grieve in our own way. I don’t want anyone else to feel as though you have to do it the way I’m doing it. My purpose is not to try to make anyone feel anything. The thing is….the world keeps going. People keep moving in and out of their days, some of them know I just lost my mother. But here is the disconnection: it was my mother, and not theirs, that passed away. They can’t really identify with the death of Irene Wisehart Apple the way I (and we) can.

Somehow, I’ve learned to process my feelings through written words. I’m sending this on to you, because she was your mother, too. I need to be connected to you…somehow to process my thoughts and emotions among you, my family.

So, I hope you don’t mind me writing and sharing with you what I’ve been experiencing these past few days.

I called Dad again today. Joe left this morning, and Dad was alone in the house for maybe the first time since Mom died. It was so difficult…I found myself wanting to ask him how Mom was doing. I wanted to ask him about his visit with her – as if he had just been there with her at Miller’s.

I talked with him, realizing that he will not be going back there to see her. I talked with him, wondering what he was going to do today. What could he possibly be doing now? His life has been given to going and being with Mom. He went there every day, and fed her and cared for her, and listened to her and talked with her. He took her the home decorating catalogs and seed catalogs that she loved to look at. He was with her every day. He kept the hope alive that they would again be together at home. He encouraged her and kept their dreams alive. Today, I didn’t know what to say to him. There were no encouraging words I could speak. The best I could do was to say, “Things are really different now, aren’t they?” He just said emphatically, “YES, they ARE.” We both quickly tried to change the subject.

You know that Terry has been dealing with a neck problem. She finally had an appointment today with a neurologist. His office is in one of the medical buildings on the back side of the hospital where Mom passed away. We had to drive past Miller’s on the way. I had to take the same exit off the freeway that I took to go see Mom when she was in the ER just over a week ago.

The feelings began to be overwhelming. I deliberately drove around the back side of the hospital so I wouldn’t see where I had been when I went to be with Mom. I missed the first parking lot entrance, and the road led around the curve to the lot entrance next to the ER. I could barely stand it. I looked over and saw where I had parked on that night, and I saw the doors where I entered and left that night.

Terry had a second doctor’s appointment this afternoon. This one was across the street from the hospital. As we left that appointment to return home, we were pulling out of the parking lot, and I looked left to make sure there was no oncoming traffic. What I saw to my left was the little bend in the road that I used to take to go in the back way to see Mom at Millers. It felt like someone dropped a huge steel weight on my soul. We had to get back on the interstate to come home again, and again we had to pass Millers.

I’ve had to drive past Millers more times this past week than in any one week I can remember. I’ve had recording sessions downtown…and I’ve had to go past Millers and the hospital….doctor’s appointments, and I’ve had to go by Millers and the hospital.

It feels like every time I turn around, the rug is being pulled out from under my feet. I’ll remember something about Mom, and the rug is pulled out again, and down I go. Tonight as we ate dinner, it was a good meal…and suddenly, I was remembering again how many times Mom fixed a great meal. As the memory lodged in my heart, the next swallow stung as it went down.

Last night just after Terry and I got into bed, I was flooded again with the reality of the loss. It was overwhelming. I lost my mother. We lost our mother.

I know that we have been in days past the time that she would be able to can 75 quarts of green beans again – past the days she would take a walk around the yard and admire the flowers – past the days she would stand in church and sing from her heart with gusto – past the days she would triple her Twinkling Roll recipe and make yeast and cinnamon rolls – past all those days. But somehow, when she was still here, there was still this hope – or maybe it was just that she was the link to all the life that has been poured into each of us. While she was alive, she was the living link to all the good days we had with her.

When she breathed her last breath, that door slammed shut. There is no more possibility for more of the good stuff that we did have. Now, what I have is just the pictures on the walls of my heart, and the echoes of her voice. It’s hard to bear it. I don’t want this new reality. Maybe living here and driving on these roads eventually will turn out to be a good thing…but for now, every time I encounter them, it hurts. Every time I drive past Millers now is like someone is forcing my head under water keeping me from breathing. I hope it stops soon.

Today, I’ve had to make myself do things….fix dinner, do the dishes, change diapers, put clothes in the washing machine. I haven’t felt like doing anything. I have wanted to just lie down. Right now, dinner dishes are still on the table, the children are watching the “Snow Buddies” video, and Terry is asleep on the couch….Esther is asleep on top of her. This is the first time today I’ve been able to just sit and process. I realize I’m in a time of life that has a lot of demands….and I’m trying to process all that is stirring around inside me.

I’m not looking for anyone’s pity or sympathy. I just want to know that others hear me and maybe identify with what I’m sharing.

I love you all so much.

Scott

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