Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes

I debated about writing about today...it's the one year anniversary of my aunt's passing and we had a mass said for her this morning at our neighborhood church. It's been a rollercoaster of a day, and this whole writing thing is very therapeutic, so I fell on the side of the fence that has me journaling my thoughts with you present.

So, while technically her time of death was on March 16th, 2008, it felt much more like it happened the day before, as it was just a few hours past midnight, and the Rocky Horror-ite in me still feels like it isn't a new day until I've slept, which I hadn't. Because of this, my personal memorial began yesterday, when I started packing to sleep over at my parent's.

I didn't want to have to wake the kids up to cross the dreaded 405 in time for an 8:15 mass, so I thought I should just go spend the night there. As I collected up my things, a wave of recollection hit me. When my aunt was sick last year, for the 48 days in between diagnosis and when she passed, I spent every moment I could at her condo. Towards the end, I slept there too, and I always packed projects and my clothes in the same bag I was now using to pack for the overnight at my moms. The familiarity of it washed over me and I started to cry. Accustomed to crying while being productive, I didn't let it stop my packing, and managed to get mine and the kids' stuff, plus the foldy mat, into the van. Michael had to work, so he was going to meet us in the morning, not being bothered about early wake up times when he's having another all nighter anyway, so it was just me and the kids who headed over to Brentwood as early dusk began. The problem with this is that the gentle tears falling uncontrolled from my eyes were periodically replaced with horrid, racking sobs which made it difficult to see and dangerous to drive, especially on the freeway. The kids were a bit concerned, but once they made sure they were not the cause of my crying, they let me go at it without more questions. I wondered what people were thinking as they pulled up next to me, but not enough to actually look at them or attempt to pull over or, you know, stop crying, as if that were an option.

The thing is, I cry because I miss her all the time, but really, this crying was different. The hours between 7pm and 3am last year were without question the worst 8 hours of my life. The process of packing and preparing for this evening had brought those memories back in force. Cancer is a terrible disease, and it is common opinion that pancreatic cancer is the most awful of all of them...I have no arguement against that. Details aside, the awfulness all came back to me.

I drove down Sunset Boulevard, past the place where I would have turned left to get to my aunt's condo. Magically, the crying stopped, and about a mile later, I turn into my parent's driveway, somber, but sob-free. The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful, I played online, listed items in a new Etsy store for my mom, and watched some of the Celestine Prophecy movie, in between looks with my grandma, who was in and out of tears herself. I stayed up way too late chatting with a good friend online, and was particularly bummed when Magnolia came into the room at 4am, complaining of nightmares. I move over and let her into my brother's twin bed with me, which of course then means I can't fall back asleep. Perched on the edge of the mattress, all I can think about it how am I going to make it through Monday with only 3 hours of sleep? Eventually, I hear my dad leave for the office around 5am, then the mini dogs begin their reveille around 6. Once Max woke up and got into bed with us too, I resigned myself to not falling back asleep.

Coffee, packing, dressing, loading the van back up and I get a phone call from Michael, he cannot find his keys and since he is still on the wrong side of the Sepulveda pass and we're 30 minutes from the service, he isn't going to make it. A bit annoyed am I, although the annoyance turns to embarassment when I discover his keys are for some reason in my purse (oops) and we're on our way to church, 2 blocks away. My bff meets us, and we head in. My cousin and his wife arrive about 20 minutes later, and since mass only lasts about 40 minutes, they've missed most of it. This seems odd to me, until after the service where he informs me that I told him 8:30. I don't know why I would have done that, we've gone to the weekday services before, they are always at 8:15, they've never been at 8:30, but I know that sometimes I say things wrong so I feel terribly guilty and apologize (even though I was supposed to give up guilt for Lent). Breakfast at Norms follows, per my grandma's request. She explains that she remembers coming here when the 5 of us lived together and we were seriously poor.

After all of this, I felt quite wiped, so I excused myself and took Magnolia to school, headed home, took care of some last minute work stuff for Michael, and took Max to school. Some well deserved "me" time followed, and I felt refreshed and rejuvinated again to face the world. For now.

Incidentally, I looked up the email I sent everyone with the information about the mass. It said 8:15. Boo-yah.