I have been unpacking for three days now, removing my stuff from boxes and dealing with all of the...stuff. Where does all of this stuff come from? How did I accumulate all of this stuff?
The past three months have been a gradual process of sorting through all of the stuff. First, all of the physical stuff, then, all of the mental stuff. I'm trying to get my life organized, back in shape, neat and orderly, like a well wrapped Christmas present. But, I dare to ask, what happens when all of this stuff is finally in order? Will I then be able to grieve fully? Does anyone ever grieve fully?
Among the mounds of stuff my brother paid to have shipped here to San Francisco, lies the last shirt my Mom ever wore, a cream-colored thermal Polo. It was the shirt she had on when the ambulance crew forcefully strapped her to the gurney to rush her away to the evil, dark hospital. She kicked and screamed and socked one of the emergency guys as hard as she could in the balls. I was hyperventilating, crying uncontrollably, and unbelievably confused because I didn't know if I had made the right decision to dial 911. She hated hospitals. I guess like everyone else.
It was the day after her first dose of chemotherapy and she was speaking in jibberish, curled into fetal position on the bed. The only words in English she could scream were "Come on baby, let's go! Come on baby, let's go!" She was trying to rip out her 5-FU chemotherapy pump attached to some major vein in her chest. (I like to call it the 5-fuck you pump, dripping bitter, toxic poison into her body over a period of three days). I didn't know what the hell to do or where the hell she wanted to "go". Only in retrospect do I think she meant she wanted to go, like... go. As in, leave the planet. Exit her body. Hell, I would have wanted to. Badly.
My Mom looked like she was in complete, utter gut wrenching agony.
The emergency guys shoved her feistiness into the back of the ambulance so they could sedate her. I kept telling myself that if I was in that kind of pain I would want to be sedated too, in la la land. Give me some goddamn heroin or whatever mind altering drug that would make me float away from the horrific tragedy that had happened to my body. An 85 pound shell of existence.
Little did I know at the time that "Come on baby, let's go!" would be the last words that I would ever hear from my Mother's mouth. In essence, they were her dying words. My Mom, this superb and amazing conversationalist slipped into a catatonic state after the ambulance people injected her with some sleepy drugs and she slept and slept and slept until she passed, three weeks later.
Today, finding her soft, crisp Polo shirt shoots my mind back into this horrible memory and I'm so afraid that every time, every single fucking time I look at this stupid shirt, this shirt that's just a shirt, I'll relive that horrific day over and over and over.
The only reason I kept the shirt was because, well, it still smells like her, like her skin. I never knew that our own skin could smell, almost like we're all different flowers with our own fragrances. I never realized how she smelled until I found the Polo shirt wedged into a hospital bag at the back of her closet after she died. I figured by keeping the goddamn shirt it would help me remember the way she made me feel when she would hug me, like a warm, soothing blanket on a cold foggy night.
To me, she smelled of sunshine, vibrant flowers, sweet honeysuckle, healing incense, and love.
Today, I cursed that stupid shirt. I didn't think of her hugging me when I smelled the stupid thing. I thought of ambulances, needles, respirators, bed sores, hospital gowns, catheters and heart monitors.
I quickly stuffed the shirt to the back of my drawer. I'm hoping the next time I pull it out, I won't be so angry. Since, after all, it is just stuff, right?
