My mother died on September 8, 2013, a few days before her 68th birthday. The cause is still unknown to me, but I will pick up the death certificate soon. She died in a bathtub. Accidental drowning is my top pick but internal bleeding and heart attack are also contenders. I was slightly more upset than I thought I would be when I imagined her death. She surprised me because she had improved her health, compliance behavior, attitude—pretty much everything—and then promptly died. Funeral was yesterday. I cried for approximately an hour and half, straight through the memorial service, receiving line, and most of the luncheon. For whatever reason, I was fine during the internment. It was less a reflection of my actual pain than my empathy. I tend to cry when people are nice to me.
Today, I attempted to sell a significant portion of her furniture—things she specially told me not to ditch—to people I know she disliked. I felt mild guilt, but everything must go!
People keep telling me, “Oh, your mother would understand.” It’s a nice thought, like heaven, but equally as laughable. She would be furious with me for many of the decisions I have made since her death. It’s the status quo; I may as well roll with it.