Always Take Notes

When my mother died, I wrote a lot to document and process what was happening to me. It seemed important to have a reference point at which to compare my progress in the future. Now, re-reading some of the eighty pages of entries I wrote over the course of a few months after my mother died in October 2014, I'm struck by how much I've forgotten. For instance, I didn't think I'd ever forget being with my mother in the intensive care unit as she died. And yet, so many of these details have been washed away in the initial waves of grief. An excerpt today from my diary, called "Keep Moving," is at the Coffeelicious today. It was so difficult to transcribe the events at the time, but I'm grateful I did. Please, for your life, for your own sanity, always take notes.

"The nurse returns. Before she left, she turned off the computer monitor above your bed so we would not watch your vitals, watch the dipping blood pressure, your erratic heartbeats, the bells of alarm sound off as you slid closer to the edge of death. But, out in the hallway, her monitors are still on, and the line on them is flat. Without us knowing, you have slipped away, like a breath, like a shadow across the wall. This room is the last place you have seen, a plaster ceiling, bright lights, the blips of machines. No flowers. No sunsets. No oceans or lakes." 
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