I’ve never thought along the lines of “mom” and “death”, even though I’ve always known it would happen in the dark recesses of my brain. My dad died when I was 24 years old – I drank my way thru that – keeping myself well insulated with cheap italian wine and drugs. Mom got her own burial plot years ago, and she has a living will, and we’ve discussed the death and dying things. Mind you, I was always on the edge of these discussions – they make me very uncomfortable, and I quite frankly prefer not to think about mom and death and the dying things. I can talk about death, I can talk about the dying things but to include mom in that sentence too just doesn’t work.
I…don’t…want…to…think…about…it.
Because when I think about it I cry.