I miss my mom. I miss calling to get her opinion on everything in my life – work, men, exercise, general pontifications. I miss her reminding me of who I am and validating my badass, outlier self.
Before the accident, my mom and I talked every day, often several times. Despite all the head-butting and general insanity in our relationship over the years, I always knew I was not alone in the world – that there was someone to call in the dead of night when I was upset, frightened, or feeling crazy insecure.
I was depressed this morning, for a number of reasons: Family drama and trauma that had resurfaced through dealing with my mom’s accident. Confusion about how a man can express a deep soul connection, then disappear. Loneliness and insufficient social and support network. Frustration about pain issues keeping me from many activities I used to enjoy.
I called my mom, to see if maybe today she was lucid enough to carry on a semi-normal conversation. With no “hello” preamble, she directly launched into a monologue about…
- details of the items that had magically appeared in the box she was digging through (I’d packed the box, but apparently that information didn’t take away the mystery)
- the man who was wearing a shirt that looked like one of hers (probably stolen, she said – following which she outlined her plans for a full-scale stealth investigation into his wardrobe)
- the fellow residents in the hallway who’d obviously congregated near her with the sole purpose of eavesdroping and reporting back to the evil nurses (prompting my mother to drop her voice and assert we could not, under any circumstances, discuss this or that topic)
I felt more depressed after hanging up. For all intents and purposes, at least for now, I’ve lost my best friend.