It's been six years.
I say I hate April. I say it's because it's a crappy month, the end of school, too many tests, etc, etc, etc, and I let it go unspoken or unknown why I really hate it. I really hate it because the tears start in April. I start to have a really awful week, and for some reason I can't hold the tears in anymore, and I start to cry in class. And then it hits me. It's April. Of course.
It didn't used to be the whole month. A couple of years ago, only the second week in April was hell. But for some reason (probably me blowing it out of proportion) the hellishness extended itself into the whole month. And honestly, April probably wouldn't be so bad if the tears were just confined to the reason I hate April. But through some stupid cosmic joke, everything upsets me. School, work, boys, television, EVERYTHING. And then when I finally have someone to talk to, to cry on, the tears won't come.
I hate April because my Momma died on April 14th, 2003. And I hate it. I hate that I still feel like I can't talk about her death without making people feel uncomfortable. I feel like I can't talk about that night, because the horror is just too much for people. And meanwhile it's eating me up. So. Since this is read by no one, I'll just tell you.
The whole week before she died was awful. We had to rent a hospital bed and put it in the living room because she couldn't walk up the stairs anymore. Her friends came over with gaudy fat-lady underpants because her body was swelling up with fluid, and I couldn't hug her without feeling her wince in pain. But she still smiled and kept herself busy - picking out the curtains in our living room - yellow and lacy to match the sunny yellow walls. On her last day I was in the living room, about to go out for something, when she called me over. She tried to talk to me about what she wanted for my future - a husband that would show me the world - and I brushed her off. I can remember the condescending smile on my face, the "Oh, okay," I said as I patted her hand and walked away. I'm so ashamed that the last conversation we had went like that. Because later that night, the fluid in her lungs had gotten so bad that we had to call an ambulance. I remember sitting in the kitchen as the ambulence pulled up in the driveway, and writing a poem about how much it hurt, not fully participating in the scene. It just felt so surreal, a feeling that persists to this day.
Maggie and I were hustled off to Aunt Karen's house, where we were put into the bunk beds. I couldn't sleep. I stared at the digital clock on the dresser and at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and waited for sleep. It didn't come. Aunt Karen came into our room at around midnight, and said "It's going to happen tonight." We got into the minivan and drove to the hospice. It was deceptively beautiful and peaceful. Our footsteps echoed in the hallway, and then we were in the room. She lay on the bed, unconscious, breathing loudly, and occasionally making pitiful crying noises. My dad said that she wasn't in any pain, it was just the air going past her vocal cords. I don't know if that was true. Her parents and best friends were there, all looking haggard and tired. My dad encouraged us to say goodbye. And I just hung back. I can't remember if I said goodbye or not. The next thing I remember is driving back to the glow-in-the-dark stars, and then Aunt Karen's quiet footsteps in the room, and a whisper. "She's gone. She's in heaven now."
It took a year and a half to really sink in. The smiles and denials worked for a while, but there was the day when all the walls I'd built suddenly crashed down, and I was able, for the first time to really cry for her, and for me. And ever since then, April has been my nemesis. I haven't been back to her grave for 3 years. I can't do it. Just like I couldn't listen to her. Just like I couldn't say goodbye, just like I couldn't cry.
