a special kind of dying

mama b is sick. turns out the lady everyone loves isn't immortal after all.

I’m surprised my mother hasn’t died already. A loss I’ve been steadying myself for since I was 17. Which feels like a wild thing write. The lady has kind of survived everything so surely she’ll survive this and after all, wasn’t it only a matter of time.

Those lines sort of play on in my head in a loop.

When my little sister called me at 7 this morning, I figured she’d let me keep on sleeping. If she called again, that’s how I’d know it was urgent, that something was wrong. And she did, but between the dreams and final calm after a generally shit night of sleep, I let that one go, too. My desktop and my phone both ringing for third Facetimes, interrupting whatever podcast I had going to stuff me into slumber. Somebody talking about Love Island or murder or the government, who knows. It was the fourth call I think. When I picked up, she was hyperventilating and I found the will to hone in, there are steps to follow. Information to acquire. Questions to be asked and answered. But first, she’d have to calm down. First, my baby sister would have to breathe. Everything is not okay, but no worse than things were yesterday.

And yesterday things were abysmal. Bad. Less than ideal. The Grim is somewhere round these parts.