I think that they tried to make this place feel as welcoming as your own home, but mostly it feels empty. And a little too alien. The doorways are just a little bit wider than normal (wheelchair width) and the bathrooms all have funny railings and weird shaped instruments for which I don’t even want to consider the uses.
This isn’t what bothers me though. The nurses is are friendly, but not too prying. There’s fresh baking that visitors to which visitors are encouraged to help themselves. There’s books and a prayer room and jewlery making and a poetry board. It should be a nice place to stay.
I guess it feels wrong because a house of death shouldn’t be friendly and comfortable. It should be…I don’t know. I’m scattered right now. I’d like to write something deep and philosophical about my mother dying, but mostly I’m just so lost.
Crying has given way to silence. Grief to emptiness. Sadness to resignation. This isn’t how I imagined it. Crippling pain? Yes. Red-hot anger? Sure. But not this emptiness.
What am I supposed to feel? Anything would be better than this blackhole in my gut.