coffeedaiv | I remember this.

I remember this feeling.

Mom is going into hospice.

Knowing that the thing is going to happen. Knowing it is right, it is proper, it is necessary. And, in any case, it is going to happen. Not just “someday” but soon. The thing is “my mother is dead”. My 87 year old mother, who went from visiting family on St. Thomas, to living in assisted care in Denver, to having a subdermal hematoma, to having a stroke, to hospice. To what comes next, probably in less than six months, all told.

I have seen death before. I understand what hospice is. I would have advocated for this path, if i had been asked. But, of course and as usual, my three brothers had a phone call and conversation, made a decision, and then afterwards decided to include me. Not that it would have made much difference. We are all on the same page. I would not have had an objection. But they excluded me from the process, and that … Is what it is.

And this is the feeling. Trying to decide how to feel. What to feel. If this requires me to feel anything, do anything. There will be a time to do. Going to her service (where? Denver? Kentucky?) Settling her estate. Arranging for her house, and possessions. There is cast iron and handmade quilts, a table and a cedar chest. Stuff i would like to have to remember her with, stuff I hope to pass on to my own children. There will be stuff to do. Deciding who to tell, and when, and how.

For now? I have my coffee, i have plans for the night. Atropos will cut her thread when she will. Until then, all i can do is what is in front of me.