What a difference...

...a day makes.  Or, Getting the Hell Out of Dodge.

I escaped.  After two weekends without Baby Sister's usual Saturday Daddler Ministrations (he was getting extra grouchy) and my near-death experience with Fungal Meningitis/West Nile Flu (contrary to my Quack-Doc's diagnosis of sinus infection.), I went to visit a friend who lives 90 miles from here.  I don't think I've ever before thrown up forcefully and repeatedly enough to break blood vessels in my eye.  I came very close to calling 9-1-1 that night.  I was afraid that I'd die, naked, in a pool of sweat and vomit.  That The Daddler wouldn't miss me for a week or so.  And by then, Beulah, The Bulemic Cat, would've run out of food and (justifiably) feasted on my festering carcass.

I haven't felt that forlorn in a long time.  See, there's something about throwing up that makes me cry for my mother.  Unlike The D, who could sleep through a nuclear attack, nothing got past Mother's parabolic-sound-amplifier-ears.  Like when I skulked in at 5:00 a.m. after a decadent night of collegiate decadence.  The upside is that after I married and left home, I knew I could call her anytime - day or night - and she'd be there.  I couldn't have made it through giving birth and being a young mother without her.

It's a mom thing.  Toward the end, I assumed the mom role with her.  I was the one she clung to when she was sick and afraid.  When she was helpless, I rose to the occasion.  I was scared shitless, too, but I was strangely imbued with an uncanny ability to do for her the things she'd done for me for so many years.  The night before she went into the hospital for the last time, a week and a half before she died, she cried in my arms that she didn't want to be a burden to me.  I can still hear myself reply, "Burden?  Just think of all those shitty diapers you changed!"  In other words, I channeled her strength and fortitude.  I will take great comfort in knowing that.

Even though I miss her desperately sometimes, I will be forever grateful for the legacy she left me.  Fierce independence.  And fiercely protective of the ones we love.  Which is why I manage to put The Daddler ahead of my own wants and needs.  I promised her I'd take care of him.  And more than the legacy of independence and strength, she taught me to be honest, no matter what.  To keep my promises.  Come hell or high water.  So, even though I've failed her many times, I know I've honored her with the big things.  And I firmly believe that she'd be so very proud of me.

And even though The Daddler is incapable of expressing gratitude or affirmation for my selfless martyrdom (is that redundant?), I know that I'm his favorite.  Mother would never admit it, but I know she loved me best.  What more could a daughter want?

Back to my great escape.  We ate.  Slept.  Watched a goofy Chick Flick.  Talked.  Laughed.  Cooked, and then ate some more.  Rubbed each other's feet.  Lounged on the sofa and read the paper.

I needed this.  It was healing.  I'm slowly, but surely, recovering from a horrible case of PTSD.  I'm not sure I'll ever be completely cured, but I've come a long way since I started this blog.  And I'm looking forward to brighter days ahead.