CL Pauwels at Large

For more years than I can remember, that’s when I called Mom, 175+ miles away, to catch up. Family news from my scattered siblings and cousins, her latest doctor appointments, and what was on her calendar for the week – Eastern Star meetings, lunch with her best buds Rhea and Wilma, or maybe the monthly gathering of the remaining women from the Class of ’57 plus one hardy teacher. We’d talk until her hand was numb from holding the cellphone she despised, or until she needed a bathroom break.

She’d regale me with tales of her small-town apartment community – new residents, who stole her parking space, too-public spats in the commons, noisy dogs. We’d compare notes on the weather, aches and pains, doctor visits, and the latest NCIS re-runs. She’d remind me of family birthdays and anniversaries, share her most recent Rack-O or Upwords winning scores against my sister and her husband, and – if she was in the mood – ask how my dad (husband #1 of 4) and his wife (#5!) survived the latest Florida storm.

But not this this week, or ever again.

On the eve of her much-anticipated restorative surgery, literally hours before reporting to the hospital, Mom died at home – alone…a status I will never forgive myself for. I was in town for the surgery, but staying with a nearby friend for mostly selfish reasons as I tried to establish boundaries and avoid a repeat of the trauma from her previous surgery. Would my presence have made a difference? I’ll never know, but my too-vivid writer’s imagination continues to spin alternative outcomes.

All in vain, I know logically, but emotionally – someday, maybe, the pain will ease.

I wrote her obituary 24 hours after she died, in the early morning hours when I couldn’t sleep. I like to think she’d have been pleased with the outcome. No matter our differences in other areas of life – and they were many several in later years, she was always one of the biggest fans of my writing. Mom was an early beta reader for each novel, and enlarged covers of my books decorated her bedroom walls. She’d announce release dates to all her friends, and broker sales.

Why do I write this now, after sharing highlights of her life in the obit? Catharsis? Maybe, but unfortunately writing hasn’t offered me that in the past. Closure? Like that will ever happen. I’m left with far too many unanswered and unanswerable questions that will dog me for whatever years I have left.

I’m not looking for more expressions of sympathy. While the outpouring of Facebook responses when I shared her obituary was certainly heartwarming (and unexpected), the trickle of cards and notes from caring and well-meaning individuals over the past month has, sadly, been “death by a thousand cuts.” One in particular, “You were certainly an attentive daughter,” haunts me now and forever.

Maybe, since I’ve shared so much about Mom and family online over the years (TMI sometimes, I’m sure), I want to offer some sort of closure here – for any readers who may have made that journey with me.

At least that’s what I’ll tell myself today.

But we all handle grief differently – something I’ve experienced starkly this past month as I see how my sibs deal with the loss of our mother. I’ve spent far too much time comparing our reactions, and feeling, as I do so often anyway, inadequate for life in general. I’ve long been the outlier (I’ll avoid “black sheep” because, reasons), and have grown to mostly accept that, but Hubby and I often wonder: How am I related to these people?

By Mom, that’s how – to all 51+ of us, at obit count, and now she’s gone, no longer linking us together.

Maybe that’s the reason for this post…to memorialize that link so it doesn’t fade into the mists of time.

And maybe that’s reason enough.