The year of magical thinking...

 Didion's passing this week and reading The Year of Magical Thinking brings back memories. Of the immediate seconds, minutes, hours, days, and months of my mother's passing. The two following years that were a black hole, where I mostly functioned on autopilot. Some memories are vague, some extremely painful, some trigger suicidal thoughts, of desperation, and of the inability to save her.

What I specifically remember was having to take charge immediately coz no one else would. Carrying her down the stairs. Driving her to the hospital, hoping that she'd somehow magically be brought to life even though I knew the exact second she passed away that she was gone forever. The calls that had to be made to the hospital, to my brother, to the ambulance, to friends and family. Arranging to take mom to the village, ensuring that the house was locked, that I had enough money to pay everyone, take care of Tamil, instructions to be given in the city and the village.   

Trying to explain how she passed away when I couldn't make sense of it myself. What these duties , the never ending duties did was to take away my time to grieve her properly. To make sense of the absence, to accept the void that would always remain. 

Six years on people still ask me if I could've done more. I don't know what to answer. It's something that I've struggled with all these years. How could you help someone strong willed as my.mom. that once she had decided something , there was no way you could change her mind. She had given up on the will to fight, she gave up on life. She wanted to die at home. There are times I am okay with myself for having been there in her last moments. That I held her as she died. Mostly I wish I had died along with her. The helplessness of watching her die, feeling and hearing the life ebb away doesn't ever leave me. It comes to me unbidden, the images that don't fade away. Those distinct sounds. The desperation . I carry that trauma, unwilling or unable to heal. There's no telling what triggers the memories. 

I've tried to replace the mother figure. The need to have someone take her place. The someone who accepted my crazy . That someone who believed in me, spoilt me, and loved me in her own unique way. 

Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should accept that she's gone. She's irreplaceable. I should thank her for making me strong. For giving me the courage to take on everything. To be alone. 

Maybe I need to cherish the memories , not try to recreate them. Be happy that I had a wonderful mother who gave her all to her children. 

Perhaps my healing would begin when I realize that I don't need someone to give me what she gave me. She'd given me enough. 

And I shall make peace with it .