Today might be the day — or not

Grief is interesting.

I've grieved many, many, many things in my life. (Any kind of a loss that a person perceives sets the grieving cycle in motion.) I'm quite familiar with this painful but enlightening process. Ugh.

However, this will be the first time I have grieved a close loved one's death. OK, and two at the same time, to boot.

So I'm going to say this up front: This is brand new to me. I'm on a learning curve, although I can imagine how a few things will go.

When my mom had her massive stroke in October, my grieving for her began. I lost my mother as I knew her on that day. I spent seven months cycling Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' stages of grief and adjusting to the new and child-like mom. I grieved her losses and how she experienced her losses, as well. I mourned my family's loss. I mourned watching my dad mourn. It was truly the most hideous experience ever. In some ways, it seems —at this time anyway — worse than death.

Mom this past Christmas.

That's leaving me wondering when her actual death is going to hit me. I mean truly hit me. And will it? I would assume so. Is it just delayed by my dad's death?

I'm sure these answers will come.

As for my dad, I'm experiencing break-through-the surface emotions at this time. (Who would have thought a trip to Home Depot would set me off?) While I've done a darn good job of flying on autopilot — if I do say so myself — the time will come when I have to wake up and fly on my own abilities.

That day might be today.

Dad's 70th b-day, this past November.

As many of you know, Dorsey and I moved all of our stuff from our downstairs bedroom, bathroom and closet area to Jordie's room and bathroom to make way for first my dad, and then my mom. (OK, with all my junk, it's true I had to leave much of my stuff downstairs. Still, I got rid of bags and bags of stuff.) Jordie was away at school, so at this time, he has the couch and/or a defective air mattress.

In my house's current state, I see the lift chair Hospice provided, Dad's hospital bed (Mom's is already gone), Dad's oxygen tanks, his walkers, the wheelchair and various other paraphernalia.

I've avoided all of it, except the lift chair, because it's depressing.

Today, National Home Health (crazy, it was Britcare for my mom), comes to pick up all his stuff, and I will begin the process of putting the "Dad Quarters" back together. All of my dad's most personal belongings are currently in my bedroom: His Bible; the books he was reading; "Smithy," his outdated cell phone; His glasses; the letter he wrote to give to Jordie after his death.

You get the idea.

And in the other part, where Mom was staying, sits her customized wheelchair, her blankets, her stuffed animals (we got her several during the seven-month journey), her nature DVDs and TV, her family pictures, her glasses, her foam blocks.

The bathroom holds their personal hygiene items. The closet, their clothes. My dad's beloved ostrich boots and cowboy hats. 

Today, I begin sorting through what's left after the home health stuff is gone to make room for Dorsey and me to return to our space. Yes, it's necessary to do that now. Because I say so. (And because our necks and backs hurt, and Jordie needs his own bed again.)

It will be interesting because grief is interesting.

I'll try to observe the process as if from third person. Perhaps that will make it all easier.