She didn’t live that long. I just opened the first bag of mom’s coffee, to prepare the coffee maker for the morning. It smells wonderful. Wish mom were here to share it with me. Might as well have some; it’s not like I’ll be sleeping now.

Life is too short to drink lousy coffee.

I dreamed my mother was still alive and healthy. We were all working on her house, and at some point she and dad brought me to the airport. Mom would be following on a later flight–terrible travel planning on her part, which was pretty normal. Dad would be staying behind. We said goodbye as I got onto a shuttle, and I thought “That’s the last time I’ll ever see them together.”

Then I woke up.

For a moment, I didn’t know where I was or why I’d just said goodbye to my parents. Then I remembered. It was like going through it all, all over again.

It’s going to be a very bad Christmas.

When I called AARP for the first time, I had a vague hope that the tons of mail, including credit card applications, would stop. Yeah, that was dumb. I’ve called again, I’ve written at least twice, today was the third phone call… really, mom doesn’t want AARP membership, any of the AARP credit cards, AARP insurance, AARP travel, AARP financial services, AARP discounts, AARP local services, official AARP dumbbells, AARP jewelry, AARP electronics, AARP swampland in Florida, AARP “Rolex” watches, cash transfers from the AARP ambassador to Nigeria, or the AARP kitchen sink. Honest. I wouldn’t lie to you. She doesn’t want them. She can’t. She’s dead. Still. Even after all these months. That’s not going to change.

I know, I’m ranting. It’s not a problem to toss this stuff into the shredder–when I actually get my hands on it. But mail has been coming to my house and going to mom’s old house, and until recently, no one was there to get the mail. The change of address forms I filed didn’t make a difference. Mail was still delivered regularly and sat in that mailbox for weeks. Anyone who has dealt with identity theft will tell you what a bad idea that is.

And it’s not just AARP, though they are one of the most stubborn offenders. Whenever dad went to pick up the mail there would be four or five different credit card applications there, and he’d nag me about each one. “Maybe you should call AARP and ask them to stop.”

What, AGAIN? I’ve called or mailed them monthly for the last five months!

So here’s a clue, direct mailers. When someone says “My family member is dead, stop sending them mail,” we mean “We’re already hurting, it’s been a very bad year, and if you persist in selling the name of a dead person you are going to generate a lot of resentment here and you’re going to give yourself a very bad name. Our loved one’s name is worth pennies on your list, remove the name from all your lists and LEAVE US IN PEACE.”

A long time ago, when a person died, they left behind children, memories, photographs, a gravestone, sometimes tangible things that they built that might last 50 or 100 years. These days, when you die, you leave behind your name on thousands of mailing lists. You’re remembered not as the teacher who cared deeply about her students, but as account number 1415926535, who had an interest in travel, automobiles, and gold jewelry. And as long as your name can be sold for a few pennies now and then, you will live forever.

</rant>

My grandfather is 95, and in ill health. His house is typical old New England architecture: small rooms and doorways, stairs everywhere, half a dozen stairs just to get into the house, no full bathroom on the first floor. He’s just been released from hospital and nursing home after nearly five full months, and it’s simply not practical to have him return to his house. If mom’s house weren’t empty I’m not sure where he would have gone.

Of course, if mom were here and healthy, she would be helping and she might have had some ideas of her own.

Mom’s house, while not exactly handicapped-friendly, is much easier to use than my grandfather’s house. There are only two short steps into the house. Everything is on one floor. One bathroom has a tub, one has a shower stall, so while I suspect he’ll be using the tub and a transfer bench, there are options. The rooms are larger, though the doorways are still narrow–too narrow for a standard wheelchair or walker.

A tiny bit of good has come of the horror of the past two years.

It doesn’t help.

Mom’s tastes were a bit expensive. Mine are too, but she could afford it. I can’t. I looked over the menu and realized that the only thing I could possibly afford was the clam chowder. This was mom’s favorite soup. I’m sure they make it with heavy cream. It’s a heart attack in a bowl, and even when I’d stop to get it for her, I’d only allow myself a taste. When she was doing chemotherapy, there were days when this soup was all she could eat.

Since it was all I could eat, I ordered it. The familiar taste and rich, comfort food texture brought me right back to those days. I was back in the kitchen, ladling soup out of a cardboard container. It was the worst best soup I’ve had in a long time.

All month I’ve been fighting off thoughts of “I’ve got to go get mom a gift… wait, no, I don’t,” but I’ve been avoiding looking at the calendar. This morning snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking. It was not a good night.

I called the pharmacy today to refill one of my prescriptions, and their computer linked my phone number with mom’s prescriptions. The pharmacy tech greeted me with her name. I asked again that they correct their records. They’ll ignore me again, I’m sure.

Now I know why dad sounded like crap on the phone yesterday.

Fucking cigarettes.

The hell with it. Sleep is for mortals.

Images came back to me several times today–the glass IV bottle and multicolored plastic lei hanging from the pole, the brightly colored mural on the wall outside, the patient sitting outside with his IV, chain smoking.

Today, visiting someone else in a hospital, we pulled out the Skip-Bo cards and started to play on the hospital table, and for a moment I was back in the nursing home with mom, playing Skip-Bo with her to try to keep her engaged and aware.

It’s three in the morning. I do not want to go to sleep.

Looking back, I can’t pinpoint the moment when I became certain that if I am ever diagnosed with small cell lung cancer, unless treatment changes radically, I will NOT undergo treatment.

Mom’s treatment was horrific. The fear, the pain, the other things going wrong with the body, the lack of energy, the nausea, all the physical problems… those were unspeakably bad. I’ve only touched on it in this blog. So many details were too terrible to document. But the loss of intelligence, the loss of self… Never. Never.

It’s possible I might someday be diagnosed with this cancer. “Smoking, smoking, smoking, smoking, and second-hand smoke,” said the doctor as he listed the causes to my mother, and I sucked down 20+ years of second-hand smoke.

If I am diagnosed, I will walk out of the doctor’s office, give away everything I own, have a DNR tattooed on my chest, and board a cruise ship to nowhere. Let me die on a lounge chair on the lido deck. They can toss me overboard when I’m gone. There is no way I am going to go through the same treatment my mother endured.

No fucking way.

Nicotine.

My cousin came home with me. She unloaded mom’s stuff from the van, helped me do some unpacking, and got to see the area. After years of family problems kept us apart, it was good to see her and spend time with her again. She also kept me sane while I reacquainted myself with the signs of mom’s last days. She left yesterday.

Last night the routines started coming back. When mom was diagnosed with lung cancer I started calling her every night. It was a comfort for her. She got to tell me about the treatments and the fear she was facing, and listen to my explanations, all carefully phrased to make everything sound as safe as possible. I got to talk to her, which I knew would come to an end too soon.

Last night at about dusk I realized that I hadn’t called my mother yet, and I needed to do it soon or she’d go to bed.

She was with me for the last months of her life. I stroked her face as she died. You’d think I wouldn’t have trouble keeping these things straight.

Remembering I didn’t need to call her was terrible.