I got my hair cut on Friday. I’d had to cancel my appointment in June because I was out of town for a couple of days. Early August was the soonest she could fit me in.
As I sat there, wet hair being combed and snipped, it struck me that the last time I’d been here — in late May — Mum was alive and healthy. How can so much change in between two hair cuts?
People ask me how I am — and I know they mean it. I say that I’m mostly OK. I mostly am. There are moments, lots of them, when my thoughts collide with reality. My counselor says I’m still in shock. It doesn’t feel like it. So how will I know when I’m out of shock?
I tend to get saddest at night, before bed. Perhaps because the day is finally quiet and I have time to do more than go from one activity to the next. I started crying the other evening and Adam held me and said something to the effect of, “You haven’t cried in a few days, so this is probably good.”
Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m supposed to talk about Mum or not to other people. Today I’m wearing a shirt she bought me. A coworker complimented it and I mentioned it was from my mum. Then wondered if I should. But then I remembered that it’s only a terribly sad thing for me. At most it might make someone else feel a bit awkward, if they don’t quite know how to react. I’m not always sure how it will make me feel, to talk about her. Sometimes it feels warm, sometimes hollow.
A better answer to how I am is that I miss her every moment, ever day, but most of the time I deal with it all right. Some moments are harder than others: Duncan’s birthday (which I was sure she’d still be here for), getting my haircut and realizing my hair dresser knows nothing of how my life has changed in a short interval, holding Berry while she cries, loudly missing her Nanny.