Nobody puts baillee in the corner

For KP. For Always.

There is nothing in adult life that can prepare you for having to search for urns on Etsy.

Consequently, there is also nothing in life to prepare you for the conversation you have to have with one of the friend’s who is driving you back home after your mother has died wherein you have to nervously tell them your mother’s ashes need to ride with them because you’re worried about your dogs potentially knocking her over, so you need to put your mother in a separate car.

Fortunately, I can tell you that in my experience, you’ll both laugh because it’s such a weird and uncomfortable moment to share.

I don’t know how I thought I would feel when KP died, but I think being able to see her in the state she was in before she passed truly helped me let her go. She didn’t have to suffer. She didn’t spend days transitioning out of this life. Instead, she went exactly when she wanted to go, mostly on her own terms.

We found out about hospice Friday, and she was gone Monday night. To be totally honest, I think she was mostly gone on Sunday night, but I think she just wanted to say goodbye to me and for my sister and me to both be there.

People keep talking to me and throwing out the comparisons between KP and me, and every single time, I can’t help to think about I’m not even a fifth of the woman my mother was. I never will be.

Nothing in adult life will prepare you for having to call your apartment complex and have your mother’s dog put on your lease.

Nothing will prepare you for when your apartment manager beings to sniffle because your mother is so beloved.

My mother used to make fudge for the staff at my complex when she could, and she once even made my apartment manager a cup of coffee in one of my mugs because she was having a bad day. She would ask our maintenance manager if he wanted a soda or any sweets when he would come by and fix things around my apartment.

Nothing in adult life can prepare you for your mother missing your 30th birthday by mere weeks. On Friday, KP apologized to me for dying (some of you will probably now understand some things about me). She told me she was sorry for the milestones she would miss and to tell my future kids about her and how she would have loved them.

KP would have been the most amazing grandmother you’ve ever seen. I’m not even in a relationship, and it’s weird to think about my wedding, my future children, and all the things she’ll miss. These aren’t even things in the near future, but they’re still extremely painful to think about.

Nothing in adult life will prepare you for walking into your mother’s apartment for the first time since she’s died.

The entire energy is different. Her beautiful apartment in disarray from the hospice equipment she never even used. She told me, even before she got sick, she never wanted to have to suffer or be fully dependent on others. As in life, she set her mind to do something, and she did it. One last time.

Nothing in your adult life will prepare you for letting your mother go.

It’s extremely odd to exist without her. Go to the grocery store without her. Eat breakfast without her. Get ready for the day without her. I almost even sent her the eulogy I wrote for her to read on Tuesday, out of habit. She always read everything I wrote, so there’s something truly beautiful and tragic that the first thing I wrote without her was fully devoted to her.

Nothing in your adult life will prepare you for your mother dying.

You’ll begin to rethink everything. Maybe you could have texted more. Maybe you could have hugged her a little tighter. Maybe you could have bought her another Coke.

Nothing in your adult life will prepare you for realizing your mother knew she didn’t have much time left.

You’ll think back and realize the last time you saw her as herself she cried like she always did when you left, but she said, “Remember I always loved you.” – Past tense.

You’ll think about how she said she made you an Easter basket at 29 “just in case it was the last one she ever made for someone.”

You’ll think back and realize she mentioned where some important paperwork was in what you thought was passing.

Nothing in your adult life will prepare you for writing your mother’s eulogy.

Even though you know you have to, and you promised her when was first diagnosed, and you write professionally and recreationally, you will struggle to find the words.

Nothing will sound right. You’ll ask the people you let read it in advance if it’s okay a million times.

There will never be words to truly illustrate how incredible KP was.

Nothing in your adult life will prepare you for the sleepless nights.

You can believe me or not, but I had trouble sleeping that started weekend before last. There was a heaviness I couldn’t shake, and I even saged my entire apartment to try to get it out.

Now, I only nap during the day when my body finally crashes, and my nights have been spent watching YouTube videos and binging on streaming services.

Nothing in your adult life will prepare you for second-guessing your grieving process.

You’ll feel like you should be portraying your grief a certain way, when you’re honestly just relieved your mother never had to suffer. She never wanted to linger or have to be fully dependent on anyone for care. You’ll keep remember how she looked when you saw her and how fucking grateful you are that she didn’t even have to spend a single night in a care facility.

You’ll be terrified your friends and family think you don’t care. You’ll think they think you don’t have a soul, when really, you feel more than anyone, and that’s why you’re glad she went quickly and peacefully, with a smile on her frail face.

Nothing in your adult life will prepare you for this.

And, that’s perfectly okay.