Then, We Went to the Beach

Hey, look, another disclaimer. I guess I should just put a blanket one out there, but then again, not every post will have something worthy of it. But this post is a bit of a doozy. It's about the day I found out about my mom's passing. There's a lot. So... yeah. And it's long. Funny, for not being able to remember most of the day there's quite a bit here.


Tuesday, February 27, 2018

There was absolutely nothing spectacular about the day. It was pretty much a typical Tuesday. I had had some SP* work the day before, and had training for another case later in the week. Being a little over a week out from opening night of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor-could the title of this musical BE any longer-Dreamcoat, I was tired from rehearsing, but also exhilarated. I was finally getting to play a dream role I've wanted to play since I was 14. And of course, Tuesday is when I teach my after school drama class with a group of young ladies I've been teaching for the past two years. Just a typical Tuesday.

Then, Wednesday happened.

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

The day started off with me waking up and not being able to fall back asleep after my husband's alarm went off. Not unusual, but not exactly my favorite thing, seeing as his (first) alarm goes off sometime before 6am. So, since I was some sort of awake, I got up and slowly started the day. This was easy-ish since I knew I had the ability to go back to bed that morning when/if I did happen to get tired again, which was also not unusual.

What was unusual was when I picked up my phone and looked at it. I saw I had already missed a call from my dad. Or that he was calling at that moment. Honestly, I can't remember. I just remember immediately thinking that if he was calling me/had called me before 7am my time (6am his) that something had to be wrong.

Over the past few years my mom had had a variety of health issues/scares/concerns, that had sometimes sent her to the hospital. After the first few times of finding out this information well after she had been released and sent home, I made it as clear as I possibly could that I didn't care what time of day or what it was, if someone was in the hospital I wanted and needed to know. Even more since we moved to Boston and I was no longer a twenty minute car ride away.

When I saw he was calling, of course I was concerned, but I also took for granted that I probably could guess what was wrong. Maybe something with the cancer came back. Maybe she was back in a mental health facility. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I picked up the phone and hit answer. Or called him back. I just can't remember. I do remember that when I had my phone in my hand and was speaking to him I was pacing the space in our apartment connecting the living room to the bedroom.

And I remember the tone in his voice. I remember him saying "she's gone," and "hung herself," and then just various sentences conveying the overall disbelief of the situation, and how he was so sorry. He said he was sorry. So. Many. Times.

And I remember the moment he said she was gone, I was standing in the doorway between the two rooms. I was standing in the same exact place I was when my mom called me to tell me she had pancreatic cancer.

That. Fucking. Doorway.

The phone call didn't last terribly long. Just long enough to get very basic information of when it happened (Tuesday afternoon), sort of how it happened (how he found her hanging in the living room at their house, and all the police and interviews and everything he had to face the day before I found out), and that we were both sorry.

All of this happened in the short window of time where my husband was still in the process of getting ready to leave for work (my dad later told me he was hoping he'd catch us before either of us had gone anywhere so we could be safe at home versus on a train/driving/etc. I don't say it nearly enough, but man, my dad is the best, even in the shittiest situations). I hung up with my dad, and, in a state of whothefuckknowsmyworldhasshattered, told my husband what had happened.

To say the least, after the phone call, there was nothing usual about that day.

My husband called his work and let them know he was working from home that day. And I sat down and attempted to contact everyone I could think of that I would need to regarding not being able to work as, though I didn't know the specifics, I knew I was going to Kansas City in the very, very near future, and I didn't know how long I'd be there.

I composed a few different emails. Depending upon how well I knew the person the reason for my being gone varied from "family  emergency" to "my mom committed suicide."^ None of which were easy to write, but I am and will forever be grateful for the compassionate replies I got for each.

Then, we went to the beach.

Ya'll, I can't even begin to adequately express how much that beach has meant to me over the past few years. It is my place of peace. When nothing makes sense- go to the beach. When things are wonderful- go to the beach. When I want to just disappear- go to the beach. Plus- Piping Plovers. Don't know what they are? HERE. And you're welcome :)

Whether it be walking alongside my husband and dog, or just me by myself, something about the sounds and smells just helps whenever everything feels like it's crumbling away.

But of course, we can't live on the beach. Well, I can't. Not this beach at least. The Atlantic Ocean is freakin' freezing.

So, after some very, very deep breaths (see? I told you, deep breathing is a big part of this), a phone call with my director telling her I was still going to do the show, and making plans to drive to Kansas City the next day, we headed home.

Some other things happened that day. I was in search of a cat sitter, my husband prepped the car for the 3,000 mile round trip we were about to take (and ended up driving through two, count 'em TWO Nor'easters), I called my dad to update him on the plans.

Oh, and made the obligatory post to Facebook. No, I didn't do this because I'm a "millennial" and that's the bullshit we do. I did it because I wanted to let people know, and that is the 2018 version of an email/phone chain. Also, selfishly, if I could put it out there once and cover a lot of ground I wouldn't have to tell the story over. And over. And over.

But before the Facebook post the phone calls had been made my dad, and I started receiving messages.

Fuck. I forgot, that's what people do when they hear someone died. They reach out. A completely normal thing, but man, I was not ready for that. Facebook messages, text messages, emails, carrier pigeons, I swear, from every possible means of communication I started to hear from people. I had only had this information for a matter of hours. I had barely formed the ability to talk, let alone be polite and gracious.

Now, please, don't take this as I didn't appreciate it. I did. More than you know. Unless you've been in my shoes, then you do know. And I'm sorry you know. But for those who have only been on the sending end, please know, if you didn't receive a thank you/any reply in a "timely manner," or hell, at all, don't take it personally. The way society gathers around those who are grieving is like a whirlwind on top of a cyclone. The person you care for and want to help is so unbelievably overwhelmed, and that was BEFORE the condolences started rolling in. They're grateful. They just can't breathe at the moment. So please, grant them some grace. Besides, this isn't about you. Please, remember, when you are consoling someone, whatever you do, don't make it about you. That's your PSA on grief for the day.

So, yes, all day my phone was lighting up or buzzing or whatevering. I wanted to turn it off, but I was worried if I did, my dad wouldn't be able to get a hold of me. Thankfully, unlike me, my husband was able to function cognitively, and sent my dad a message saying if he needed me, to call him. And with that, my phone was off.

For a while. I'm only human. A girl needs her Instagram cute animal fix. And if there is a better time than when you're in emotional shock, I don't know what it would be.

Other things happened. Again, as you've probably noticed the trend of this story, I don't remember much, except a snapshot here and there. I don't remember what or how or why, but my husband and I were out running an errand in preparation for leaving the next evening and he pointed out that we had not eaten. It was probably around 2:30ish. And for two people who had been up since about 6am, food was needed. I couldn't have cared less. Yes, logically I was aware of the need of food. But was I hungry? Eh.

But, thankfully the logical half of this equation (my husband) made the decision. We pulled into Sonic and I stared blankly at the menu. Absolutely nothing was intriguing. I didn't want a burger. I really didn't want a slush or soda or shake. But damn, the siren call of a corn dog apparently can be heard through any haze of sadness.

In case you were wondering, the kids meal with the corn dog, juice box, and tater tots is pretty damn tasty when you're not hungry. And it came with a toy- a Batman mask. I balanced the small, ill-fitting piece of plastic on my nose, did my best (terrible, truly, truly terrible) Batman voice, and smiled and laughed for the first time that day.

That night, I went to rehearsal. On my way, my wonderful therapist (one of the people I emailed, one of the people who go the completely honest info), called. She and I talked, as one generally does with a therapist. Like most of the day, I don't remember specifics of the conversation other than when I first answered and she asked where I was and I said going to rehearsal she was "you're going to a REHEARSAL?" and her telling me not to be afraid of using something to help me sleep (which was very helpful because up until that I point I had completely forgotten about the concept of needing to sleep that night). Btw, Benedryl worked well when melatonin failed. Wine worked as well on occasion.

Once at rehearsal, I don't remember what happened other than getting some well needed hugs, singing some songs, trying not to cry, trying not to think, trying not to cry while singing some songs, and then returning home.

I'm sure there was more crying. Some catching up on reading messages. Attempting to reply to said messages, and giving up on replying to them. It had only been 16 hours since I found out. People could wait for their thank yous until after the Benedryl had done it's job.







*SP- Standardized Patient. Remember that Seinfeld episode? Yeah, sorta like that. Just less yellow makeup, and more terror in the students eyes.

^Ok, so I am painfully aware of the huge debate about using the term "committed suicide." It's what I chose to use, and still choose to on occasion. I do not in any way believe it was a crime. Committed doesn't immediately mean it was a criminal act. If you want to pick that fight, please, do it elsewhere. Seriously, given the subject, that is the last thing we should be arguing about. *steps down from soapbox and tips my hat to you*