It's May

It's May, which for me means that the last two fingers on my left hand are the tiniest bit numb because of the knot in my left shoulder that has appeared.  I know that's what is going on because this is the fourth year in a row that it's happened.  It's the fourth May in a row that I start to notice less feeling and then realize the knot is back. 

I have not read the book, but friends have told me about a book called "The body keeps score."  It's about how the muscles of your body remember trauma and pain even when you aren't aware.  It's muscle memory.  Whether you acknowledge it or not, your body is recalling the pain of something and choosing to respond. 

This is the fourth May that my fingers have gone numb because my body remembers.  It's the fourth May since I lost my mom.  It's the fourth May that the memories of those days and weeks play like movie scenes through my mind.  Scenes that I didn't press play on and struggle to figure out how to stop.  The fourth May that I become so incredibly aware of what day it is and what that day held four years ago......  

The day I drove north to take care of her.  
The day I took her to the hospital, when I sobbed uncontrollably in the waiting room because they wouldn't let me back with her.  
The last conversation I had with her face to face, completely unaware that it would be the last.  Because if I had known, I never would have left. 

The last phone calls before she took a turn and would be sedated until she passed.

The day I broke down in the hallway in her house as I called to tell my brothers the turn she took.

The days and nights I set alarms to call nurses and beg for information because I was the only one the hospital would talk to.

The days I was obsessed with numbers and stats I previously knew nothing of. 

The first day I got to walk into her hospital room with oil, and through sobs and tears laid hands and prayed and begged the Lord for a miracle. 

When the nurse met me after and asked if anyone had discussed end of life care with me. 

The numerous phone calls when I was asked to sign DNR orders. 

The call from the doctor that said she had maybe a 10% chance of survival.

The call that further complications had arisen.

The conversation with the sweet nurse who walked me through every number that showed she most likely would not pull through.

The conversations with the brothers as we debated decisions about DNR.

The phone call for permission to intubate. 

The mad dash to the hospital to try and see her before intubation in case she didn't make it. 

When the staff gently let us know that she was actively dying before the final moments when I held her hand and my brothers sat in the room as her heart gave out.   And when I had to ask that the ventilator be turned off because she was gone. 

Waking up in the wee hours of the next morning and coming to terms all over again that she was gone.   

Those days and weeks play in my mind whether I press play or not.  And so my fingers are a little numb because my body remembers those weeks.  My body remembers the pain, the trauma, the decisions, the enormous loss.  I know I could never forget, but it's wild that the body remembers and keeps score. All because it's May.