When G first died, I didn’t want to talk about it. I wrote about it, sure, but that and actually forming the words “My husband is dead” are totally different.

Then, I couldn’t stop talking about it. To friends, strangers, people I just met. I’d blurt out “I’m a widow” just like a normal person would say how great the weather was. I think I wanted to get it out there and maybe if I made people uncomfortably aware of it, they wouldn’t want to talk to me about it. My lame attempt at reverse psychology. Worked for awhile. The widow cooties are strong, not unlike The Force.

And then, just like that, the pendulum swung again and I didn’t talk about it. For a while anyway. Then I went to NYC and with the support of friends I sat on a dais surrounded by amazing people and talked about it, and I was alright with that in that moment.

But my daddy died. And I haven’t really talked about that yet.

I can’t.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle the hard truth that the most important person ever in my life is gone, and that will be the final shove that sends me off into the land of hoarders, bag ladies and people who get “crazy checks” as my aunt called them each time she opened hers.

My mother talks a bit too much for me sometimes. She has taken on this habit of telling everyone we encounter in inquisitive situations that she and I are both widows, and that I lost my father and my husband within 9 months of each other. Then of course I get the doe-eyes and the sympathy face while I squirm silently and nod my head while I’m sure my eyes glaze over like the cuckoo they think I am.

Lately she has become obsessed with things being “in order” and as she puts it – “making sure I am taken care of when she dies.” Even at the car dealership. While making sure she had the service records changed to her name, the lady behind the counter asked why. My mom teared up and turned to me, and on cue and like a robot, I responded “My dad died and she wants to put it in her name.” And as soon as my mom regains her composure? Yep. She says it. I know it by heart. I’m a widow, my daughter is too, she lost her daddy and her husband, yadda yadda yadda…and then she changed her game, put her hand on my arm and said “she’s got to get back out there.” Like the kids say, FML. At this point I want to just slide down into the floor and be done with the entire conversation. But, because I love my mother and in some strange way this is her way of coping with it, I stand there and smile and nod and glaze over like a Krispy Kreme.

Oh I’m “out there” alright. That just booted me straight into orbit.

Anyway, this conversation has happened several times, albeit minus the “getting out there”  and I’m not so sure what to do about it. Every time I try to talk to my mom about the whole thing she starts to cry, I start to cry, and I get a good dose of the guilt monster and I STFU.

It really grates on me, but I think about my mom, and the 43 years she and my dad were together, and I feel bad saying something. So then I make myself feel bad because I’m comparing my 6 year relationship with theirs and it’s apples and oranges and ohmygawd there I go making myself psycho in my head again. No wonder so many people are medicated, your damn mind can make you crazy (er).

So I write about it. I type my feelings here and sometimes I publish them and sometimes I don’t, but I get them out. I roto-rooter out the things that clog my brain and my heart and hope that one day, I can really talk about it.

I just hope that someone will be listening.

Yesterday I briefly entered the Twilight Zone.

My mom and I were sitting on the side porch watching hummingbirds, talking about normal stuff and trying not to move too much after a huge lunch.

And then, she said this …..

“I got asked out on a date the other day.”

After my heart resumed beating I nonchalantly replied “Oh really?” while keeping a death grip on the swing.

She then proceeded to tell me that she was shocked when it happened. She couldn’t believe it but laughed because “she’s still got it” and was flattered but not ready.

She’s not ready ?

WHAT ABOUT ME ?!

Now, my mom is, well, let’s just say she’s the same age as the year I was born. But she looks much younger. The woman has aged well. I covet those particular genes. See? This was taken this past July. And she doesn’t dye her hair or have a plastic surgeon.

My mother cannot go on a date. She’s my MOTHER. MY FATHER’S wife. Yes, I am aware that my father is no longer with us. But I want to know who in the hell has the nerve to ask my mom out less than 9 months after my daddy died. A date? ACK.

Unless it’s this guy, it’s not happenin’…..

(Dad would approve. He loved The Donald. Plus he could keep us both in shoes. Forevah. And the hair? Bygones.)

*sigh*

I thought parents were supposed to be the ones worrying about the kids going on dates.

How did I get to bizarro world?

* I wrote a post about my uncle a few months ago, and this is the follow-up. I actually mailed him a copy of this letter and sent one to his personal and work e-mails. I also included a copy of the afore mentioned post, which pretty much says it all. I will not be ignored. Heh. *

Dear Uncle,

I sat down tonight to write you this letter after weeks of staring at the phone, dialing your number and then hanging up. I wanted to say some things but knew that the temperament of a phone call could be too harsh, words said and exchanged that could be misconstrued and twisted and used against either one of us, mostly I’m sure by you.  This letter is in black and white. It is solid. It is truth. You may choose not to read it, and that is your decision. But if I know you, you’ll read it. It may take a few tries, but you will. I know we are too much alike to not read something passed between us and our curiosity rivals that of the cat who allegedly died for his passionate pursuit of such. I also know that we are of the fiery temper and this is liable to end up shredded or aflame in some random fireplace. But don’t worry, I emailed you a copy and put one on the internet where it is bound to live forever. And if you want to talk about this letter to anyone, feel free. You certainly exercise every opportunity you have to speak ill of your family to everyone you see. I’m sure you think we don’t know about all of the things you say, but never forget that small town circles run deep and are far-reaching. You used to tell me that no one can outrun a radio or a phone. Neither can you.

I have always loved you. Through all of your bullshit and drama. You have always made me laugh and you can carry on like no one else I know with your quick wit and dry humor. When Daddy died, you were the second person I called in those screamingly painful wee hours when we were seeing our worst fears realized. I first called my brother who shares the same mutual disdain for you as you do for him. And then, I called you. I wanted you there to tell us it would be ok, to take us through the awful journey that losing the most important man in all our lives took us on, to take care of us. Like you promised my Father. The promise you have broken. The promise being picked up and delivered by others in our family, strong men who say what they mean and mean what they say. Men who haven’t let the business of a dollar get in the way of what’s right.

You like to talk about people. You talk about (name omitted so as not to awaken the drama llama) like she is no better than dog poo on your shoe, about how she has forsaken the family and is no good to anyone. And now, you are no better than she is. You have forsaken your sister, who looked to you for strength and support when the main source of her’s is gone. And where are you? Sitting on your porch a few miles away, stewing because you weren’t given anything. Bitching to whoever will listen about a Jeep, a boat, a pickup truck and a boat house, as if these were the most important things in life. They are not. I have heard you have problems of your own. Who doesn’t? In the two months since you have spoken to your sister, you didn’t have a minute to pick up the phone? To say “Hi, I know you are having a tough time, but so am I, I just called to say I love you.” You can’t even do that? You can go to the hunting lease just down the road and visit friends who live a mile away but you can’t take time for your blood? You are sorrier than the people you talk ill about. And this isn’t the first time. Remember Barbara, your other sister? Who you shunned for years after Grandma died and y’all fought over her stuff? And when she died unexpectedly you told me how you wished you hadn’t done it and that it was one of your biggest regrets and you loved your sister and blah blah blah more of your lying bullshit. You had me fooled into thinking you learned something from that.

So many people have told me to forget you, to write you off. If it was just me I probably could. But to know my mother cries over you and is hurting more than she has to because you are acting like an ass leads me to this. There is time for forgiveness. There is time to make it right. She misses you,  you selfish jerk. You still have a family. Be part of it before it’s too late. Or not. It’s your loss, and I hope it hurts you as much as you’ve hurt my mother. And then some.

Your niece,