The Vacuum

The nurse at the hospital called it "the vacuum" -- that sudden collapse of having that last support person leave you after they were there for you during a tragic time.

My Mom left this morning. She's boarding her plane right now, and will leave the city in about 30 minutes.

I drove her to the airport, I walked with her to check in, then we walked all the way to the security checkpoint, and there I had to let her go. We both cried and hugged and said how much we'd miss each other. I kept saying "We'll be ok", and Mom said she knew, but we both cried anyway.

Now I'm back at home, alone, and wondering, exactly what do I do with myself now?

I started a small list. Just little household things that won't be hard on me. I need to make a couple of pillows for the new living room furniture. Stuff like that.

But as I read the grief book the hospital gave me yesterday, it said that in the midst of grief, people try to fill up too much of their time doing things to run from the pain. I'm not supposed to do that either. What a weird balance. I'm home, and left to mostly mental work, and some physical healing to do, so I can't re-landscape the back yard or anything like I would if I had a few weeks off and were in good physical condition. I can't just sit here either. Maybe I'll just do a little laundry, go through pictures of Jacob's hospital stay, and start his memory book.

Ouch.