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verbicideFuckity. Was sposed to go buy pumpkin pie ingredients today, but um didn't. Instead worked, and then sat around watching QAF. Then watched Survivor. Which is a show that raises my otherwise perfect blood pressure.
I totally fluctuate between being completely anal about neatness and then just letting it all go to hell. Papers are all over the floor. This is what happens when deadlines hit me. Chaos and diet pepsi cans everywhere.
Will get up early tomorrow (hah! no, have to dammit) and go grocery shopping. Need to assemble pie immediately so it can cool for 2 hours. I’m due at Ellie's at 5pm. Must finish laundry and dishes, etc.
So, while idly sitting around watching tv, I decided that tonight was the night to tear apart Mama's blanket. This is the one I inherited when Dadijan (Grandma) died. Mama had made it for her, and it was her lap blanket throughout the end of her life. It's the only thing I wanted, though my aunts decided to also give me the gold chain she wore her entire life. My mom is hanging on to that for me. I can't be trusted with jewelry. Though *frown* I should have given mom Mama's gold bracelet. I've got it in a safe place, but it freaks me out to have it. I can't believe the aunts decided to give it to me. Me, who never wears jewelry. Well, not gold jewelry. But I'm awfully touched to have it. But also guilty. Like they should have kept it for one of themselves.
Anyhow, the blanket's gotten really old. All the batting in the middle has balled up and it needs to be redone. Maybe I'll swing by the fabric place tomorrow and see if they're open.
But I just sat here and tore out all the old batting and then finally just separated the lining. It's gotta go. Made a mess though, and there's shredded batting everywhere. Hobbes is delighted. He's made a nice nest for himself.
I can't believe Mama is gone. It's bizarre. Like, I still don't believe it. I can't believe how fucking lucky I was to move home when I did. I had 6 months with her that I wouldn't have otherwise had. It was such a weird time, too. With the sale of the house, my parents were so freaked out. God, how do you pack up 25 years of your life? I'm glad I was there, because yeah. I kick ass as a personal assistant. And this was all before the house got painted/recarpeted. So the fumes weren't going to hurt her.
Jesus Christ. The night of the power outages. I don't think I've ever been so freaked in my life. Her oxygen support needed power, duh. So the power would go out, I'd run to her room, get her canister-operated one hooked up. But we were low on canisters. So as soon as the power would go back on, we'd switch her back to the main line. I was studying for that fucking accelerated ochem class, too. By flashlight. I think the power went off/on for a total of 15 times that night. Each time the house alarm would freak out. So it's dark, the alarm is blaring, and I had to get her oxygen on and then run to deactivate the alarm. It took them more than 24 hours to fix the problem. I thought I was going to have a fucking heart attack. That was such a horrible night for her, but the only thing she said? "I'm so sorry, I know you've got a test!" Um hi, yeah, you need to breathe. Priorities. Fuck ochem. (Well, fuck it in general, too, but especially compared to taking care of her).
She held out until the day after my final. And I swear to god I think she did it for me. The morning after my final, she took a dive and we called 911. The ER that night. Having to intubate. And she fucking pulled through. It took 4 weeks of us taking rotating shifts at the hospital with her. But she pulled through. She promised to come home with me and watch old videos we'd watched with Dadijan. Anu and her kids made it to the states to see her. She made it back home. And then, what, two weeks later she was in a coma.
I stayed there with her that week; mom and dad didn't even try to get me to come home. And I promised her that if she pulled out I would get married to anyone she wanted and pop out babies, immediately. It didn't work.
The last death/funeral that I'd been part of was Dadijans when I was 15. I just remember my aunts going to pieces. I cried, sure, but this was so different. We had this last vigil for her, and then we pulled the plug. I was so grateful that my dad let me stay in the room until the very end. It was me, dad and my Aunt C.
I have all these weird memories of it. The way her face looked. Little Z trying to be in the room, trying to pray, but having to just run from the room. How absolutely lifeless Kik's face looked as she stood by the bed, just gingerly stroking Mama's legs through the sheets. The utterly unfamiliar look of my dad's face, contorted with grief.
I'd heard all these horror stories of how messy death is. How hospital ridden people soil themselves, or twitch. Nothing like that happened. She went out as dignified as she lived.
I went with dad the next day to make funeral arrangements at the Islamic Center downtown. I picked up a guide thingie to Muslim funerals, because I realized I knew nothing about them. I asked my Aunt C about it, because well, I just needed to know. She told me about some of the ceremonial shit that goes down. Basically there's this thing called the Ghusal and after that, the burial. The Ghusal is the last bathing of the body. My aunt and mom had done my grandmother's, I was going to do Mama's with Aunt C.
The ladies at the mosque I guess were worried that we'd be hysterical, but they needn't have been. When it comes to stuff like this, I'm ok until it's over and I'm alone. The body is washed in a very ritualistic way, that as surreal as it was to be in a room with Mama, and have her not be alive... I think it gave me some peace of mind. She'd never married, and never had kids, but she'd claimed me as her daughter. So, I wanted to do all the duties a daughter would do.
My Aunt C would need to break now and then and cry, but I couldn't. I was mad. And grim. And I just hated everyone. Not my family, but I think I even hated the women who were helping us perform the Ghusal. It's a really noble service they provide, so I'm not sure what my problem was. That they were there? That they were seeing her like this? That they were touching her, when they didn't know her?
This one woman was training her daughter. So her daughter was in the room. I hated that. There was an older woman who chanted dua'as and I hated her, too.
After washing her, they handed me the rubber band from her braid (which I wore around my wrist until it completely unraveled) and they wrapped her in the white cloths. Muslims, upon death, are wrapped in white unsewn sheet segments in a very specific way. Everything but the face is covered, then very limited people can come in and say goodbye, and then the person's face is covered and can not be uncovered.
So we got to that point, and I was so frustrated at the number of people coming in. She had a huge group of people who loved her, whose lives she touched. But I really didn't want people coming in. Regardless of what I wanted, I really didn't say anything.
Some people, I swear, had the look of ...I don't know. Curiosity? I thought I was going to explode. I wanted to scream at them to get the fuck away from her. But I just stood by the wall. Then everyone left, they walked out. Aunt C and I stayed and covered her face. She was put into her coffin and we went to the gravesite.
This was another point of contention. There are certain fundamentalist assholes who don't want women to participate in some levels of the funeral. Oh, you see, because women are bound to get hysterical and that is painful to the spirit of the deceased. When I went with my dad, I made it clear that this was not going to be the case here, and the guy who heads the funerals at the IC had no issue with it. But at the gravesite, this one guy from the local community, who is a complete prick, and has a tendency to try to dictate what people should do at their own events, started to bark orders. So I scowled at him and said "Where. Is. My. Dad." He was taken aback by my tone, and I'm sure, enraged glare, and pointed to where my dad was, with the religious officiator of the funeral. My dad tells me that I strode up to them, and barked at the poor guy that no one would be telling the women to move back, that no one would be telling me that I couldn't participate, and that no one was going to move me from where I wanted to be.
I feel pretty bad about this. There were several hundred people there. I'm skittish in crowds anyway, and really, this was not a good day to piss me off. My dad calmed me down and in a nicer way, explained to the religious officiator guy that yes, the women would participate at all points.
And we did. I didn't cry at the funeral either. I couldn't. I knew if I started crying, it was all over. And I just don't feel comfortable losing control in front of strangers. Or really, in front of anyone.
Grief is so weird. I cry over EVERYTHING. I am the biggest wuss in the world. I cry at sappy commercials. At song lyrics. But I don't cry in public. And I felt kind of bitter to have such a huge public event to face at such a private moment. But from a cultural standpoint, having a lot of people at your funeral is a sign that you were a great person, a sign of respect. God. I personally would only want close family and really close friends there.
Anyhow. Finally, it was over. We left and went to one of my Aunt M's house for food, since we'd sold our house and had moved out of it, literally, the night Mama went into her coma. She'd been staying at Aunt M's house because of the fumes from painting and because of the dust from us moving. And I was supposed to go to Aunt M's house to stay with her that night. But I was worn out from moving all day, and she'd said it was fine --that I could come the next night. Two of my other, younger cousins stayed with her. I'll always wonder if things would have turned out different if I'd been there that night. But I think I'd rather not drive myself insane with that line of thinking. It was her time.
So it's been a year. I wonder when it'll get better. It's so random. You're fine. Then a wave of it hits you. And you feel so bad for not having been a mess all along. I think I keep forgetting she's dead.
I keep thinking of that week I was 100% in charge of her. Food, water, oxygen. That was the best week of my life. She was the kind of person who appreciated every single thing you did. She appreciated how small you cut the pieces of her apple. She was always 100% on my side. Even when I was wrong. I remember her trying to stop some other aunt who was torturing me with some long-winded annoying story. I'm not known for my patience. And she turned to her sister and said "When you're talking to my daughter, please be very to the point!" When she could have told me to stop fidgeting and just listen for 5 minutes.
To her? I was perfect. My hot temper. My impatience. My lack of respect for culture and religion. None of it existed for her.
She would always say that I would do anything she asked. And she was right. She'd tell me to call some local relative and I'd grudgingly do so. Then I would call her back and say "Ok, mama. I did it. You SO OWE ME" and she would say, "That's my daughter. I absolutely owe you. Thank you."
She called everyone to remind them of whoever's birthday, anniversary or special occasion it was. She called to do all the inviting to parties, so no one was excluded. We fought over whose house she would stay in. She would call cousins in 4 continents to share good news.
She never gossiped, she was always honest, but somehow always managed to give the nicest perspective on things.
I love you, Mama.
I totally fluctuate between being completely anal about neatness and then just letting it all go to hell. Papers are all over the floor. This is what happens when deadlines hit me. Chaos and diet pepsi cans everywhere.
Will get up early tomorrow (hah! no, have to dammit) and go grocery shopping. Need to assemble pie immediately so it can cool for 2 hours. I’m due at Ellie's at 5pm. Must finish laundry and dishes, etc.
So, while idly sitting around watching tv, I decided that tonight was the night to tear apart Mama's blanket. This is the one I inherited when Dadijan (Grandma) died. Mama had made it for her, and it was her lap blanket throughout the end of her life. It's the only thing I wanted, though my aunts decided to also give me the gold chain she wore her entire life. My mom is hanging on to that for me. I can't be trusted with jewelry. Though *frown* I should have given mom Mama's gold bracelet. I've got it in a safe place, but it freaks me out to have it. I can't believe the aunts decided to give it to me. Me, who never wears jewelry. Well, not gold jewelry. But I'm awfully touched to have it. But also guilty. Like they should have kept it for one of themselves.
Anyhow, the blanket's gotten really old. All the batting in the middle has balled up and it needs to be redone. Maybe I'll swing by the fabric place tomorrow and see if they're open.
But I just sat here and tore out all the old batting and then finally just separated the lining. It's gotta go. Made a mess though, and there's shredded batting everywhere. Hobbes is delighted. He's made a nice nest for himself.
I can't believe Mama is gone. It's bizarre. Like, I still don't believe it. I can't believe how fucking lucky I was to move home when I did. I had 6 months with her that I wouldn't have otherwise had. It was such a weird time, too. With the sale of the house, my parents were so freaked out. God, how do you pack up 25 years of your life? I'm glad I was there, because yeah. I kick ass as a personal assistant. And this was all before the house got painted/recarpeted. So the fumes weren't going to hurt her.
Jesus Christ. The night of the power outages. I don't think I've ever been so freaked in my life. Her oxygen support needed power, duh. So the power would go out, I'd run to her room, get her canister-operated one hooked up. But we were low on canisters. So as soon as the power would go back on, we'd switch her back to the main line. I was studying for that fucking accelerated ochem class, too. By flashlight. I think the power went off/on for a total of 15 times that night. Each time the house alarm would freak out. So it's dark, the alarm is blaring, and I had to get her oxygen on and then run to deactivate the alarm. It took them more than 24 hours to fix the problem. I thought I was going to have a fucking heart attack. That was such a horrible night for her, but the only thing she said? "I'm so sorry, I know you've got a test!" Um hi, yeah, you need to breathe. Priorities. Fuck ochem. (Well, fuck it in general, too, but especially compared to taking care of her).
She held out until the day after my final. And I swear to god I think she did it for me. The morning after my final, she took a dive and we called 911. The ER that night. Having to intubate. And she fucking pulled through. It took 4 weeks of us taking rotating shifts at the hospital with her. But she pulled through. She promised to come home with me and watch old videos we'd watched with Dadijan. Anu and her kids made it to the states to see her. She made it back home. And then, what, two weeks later she was in a coma.
I stayed there with her that week; mom and dad didn't even try to get me to come home. And I promised her that if she pulled out I would get married to anyone she wanted and pop out babies, immediately. It didn't work.
The last death/funeral that I'd been part of was Dadijans when I was 15. I just remember my aunts going to pieces. I cried, sure, but this was so different. We had this last vigil for her, and then we pulled the plug. I was so grateful that my dad let me stay in the room until the very end. It was me, dad and my Aunt C.
I have all these weird memories of it. The way her face looked. Little Z trying to be in the room, trying to pray, but having to just run from the room. How absolutely lifeless Kik's face looked as she stood by the bed, just gingerly stroking Mama's legs through the sheets. The utterly unfamiliar look of my dad's face, contorted with grief.
I'd heard all these horror stories of how messy death is. How hospital ridden people soil themselves, or twitch. Nothing like that happened. She went out as dignified as she lived.
I went with dad the next day to make funeral arrangements at the Islamic Center downtown. I picked up a guide thingie to Muslim funerals, because I realized I knew nothing about them. I asked my Aunt C about it, because well, I just needed to know. She told me about some of the ceremonial shit that goes down. Basically there's this thing called the Ghusal and after that, the burial. The Ghusal is the last bathing of the body. My aunt and mom had done my grandmother's, I was going to do Mama's with Aunt C.
The ladies at the mosque I guess were worried that we'd be hysterical, but they needn't have been. When it comes to stuff like this, I'm ok until it's over and I'm alone. The body is washed in a very ritualistic way, that as surreal as it was to be in a room with Mama, and have her not be alive... I think it gave me some peace of mind. She'd never married, and never had kids, but she'd claimed me as her daughter. So, I wanted to do all the duties a daughter would do.
My Aunt C would need to break now and then and cry, but I couldn't. I was mad. And grim. And I just hated everyone. Not my family, but I think I even hated the women who were helping us perform the Ghusal. It's a really noble service they provide, so I'm not sure what my problem was. That they were there? That they were seeing her like this? That they were touching her, when they didn't know her?
This one woman was training her daughter. So her daughter was in the room. I hated that. There was an older woman who chanted dua'as and I hated her, too.
After washing her, they handed me the rubber band from her braid (which I wore around my wrist until it completely unraveled) and they wrapped her in the white cloths. Muslims, upon death, are wrapped in white unsewn sheet segments in a very specific way. Everything but the face is covered, then very limited people can come in and say goodbye, and then the person's face is covered and can not be uncovered.
So we got to that point, and I was so frustrated at the number of people coming in. She had a huge group of people who loved her, whose lives she touched. But I really didn't want people coming in. Regardless of what I wanted, I really didn't say anything.
Some people, I swear, had the look of ...I don't know. Curiosity? I thought I was going to explode. I wanted to scream at them to get the fuck away from her. But I just stood by the wall. Then everyone left, they walked out. Aunt C and I stayed and covered her face. She was put into her coffin and we went to the gravesite.
This was another point of contention. There are certain fundamentalist assholes who don't want women to participate in some levels of the funeral. Oh, you see, because women are bound to get hysterical and that is painful to the spirit of the deceased. When I went with my dad, I made it clear that this was not going to be the case here, and the guy who heads the funerals at the IC had no issue with it. But at the gravesite, this one guy from the local community, who is a complete prick, and has a tendency to try to dictate what people should do at their own events, started to bark orders. So I scowled at him and said "Where. Is. My. Dad." He was taken aback by my tone, and I'm sure, enraged glare, and pointed to where my dad was, with the religious officiator of the funeral. My dad tells me that I strode up to them, and barked at the poor guy that no one would be telling the women to move back, that no one would be telling me that I couldn't participate, and that no one was going to move me from where I wanted to be.
I feel pretty bad about this. There were several hundred people there. I'm skittish in crowds anyway, and really, this was not a good day to piss me off. My dad calmed me down and in a nicer way, explained to the religious officiator guy that yes, the women would participate at all points.
And we did. I didn't cry at the funeral either. I couldn't. I knew if I started crying, it was all over. And I just don't feel comfortable losing control in front of strangers. Or really, in front of anyone.
Grief is so weird. I cry over EVERYTHING. I am the biggest wuss in the world. I cry at sappy commercials. At song lyrics. But I don't cry in public. And I felt kind of bitter to have such a huge public event to face at such a private moment. But from a cultural standpoint, having a lot of people at your funeral is a sign that you were a great person, a sign of respect. God. I personally would only want close family and really close friends there.
Anyhow. Finally, it was over. We left and went to one of my Aunt M's house for food, since we'd sold our house and had moved out of it, literally, the night Mama went into her coma. She'd been staying at Aunt M's house because of the fumes from painting and because of the dust from us moving. And I was supposed to go to Aunt M's house to stay with her that night. But I was worn out from moving all day, and she'd said it was fine --that I could come the next night. Two of my other, younger cousins stayed with her. I'll always wonder if things would have turned out different if I'd been there that night. But I think I'd rather not drive myself insane with that line of thinking. It was her time.
So it's been a year. I wonder when it'll get better. It's so random. You're fine. Then a wave of it hits you. And you feel so bad for not having been a mess all along. I think I keep forgetting she's dead.
I keep thinking of that week I was 100% in charge of her. Food, water, oxygen. That was the best week of my life. She was the kind of person who appreciated every single thing you did. She appreciated how small you cut the pieces of her apple. She was always 100% on my side. Even when I was wrong. I remember her trying to stop some other aunt who was torturing me with some long-winded annoying story. I'm not known for my patience. And she turned to her sister and said "When you're talking to my daughter, please be very to the point!" When she could have told me to stop fidgeting and just listen for 5 minutes.
To her? I was perfect. My hot temper. My impatience. My lack of respect for culture and religion. None of it existed for her.
She would always say that I would do anything she asked. And she was right. She'd tell me to call some local relative and I'd grudgingly do so. Then I would call her back and say "Ok, mama. I did it. You SO OWE ME" and she would say, "That's my daughter. I absolutely owe you. Thank you."
She called everyone to remind them of whoever's birthday, anniversary or special occasion it was. She called to do all the inviting to parties, so no one was excluded. We fought over whose house she would stay in. She would call cousins in 4 continents to share good news.
She never gossiped, she was always honest, but somehow always managed to give the nicest perspective on things.
I love you, Mama.
