Rough Weeks

It's been a rough few weeks.

I might as well talk about this, because it's part of the whole journey.

Last year, a few days after I bought my ticket to see Hamlet, I called my mom and told her about it. I had been hesitant to even mention it.

I took a trip with a friend to Phoenix in college and I never told her about it until after I had already graduated and moved out. She was pissed! More pissed than she even let me know. But she sure as hell told everybody else about it, as I found out later.

The thing is, she was very protective. All through high school, I think mostly because she had already raised three kids before I even came along, I was very much sheltered. And when I went anywhere or did anything remotely dangerous, it kept her up at night, worrying.

Which is why I didn't tell her I was going to Phoenix until I had already survived it.

She also didn't hear about the trips to Dallas or the trip to San Antonio until later. I nearly got my car taken away after I took my niece and nephew to a movie in Tulsa, and that was just over an hour away. When I said I wanted to move to Tulsa, she said, "People get shot just walking down the street there!"

So, I could only imagine what she was going to say to the idea of me going to London alone.

But she shocked me. She said, "That sounds like it would be fun." She did ask me if I planned to get someone else to go with me. I said I'd like to, but I didn't know if I could talk anyone into it. Maybe I would ask my sister. I said I would go either way, if I could. But I softened the blow and reminded her I probably couldn't afford to do it, anyway, and I could always sell back my theater ticket, if it came to that.

Anyway, she was positive about it, and didn't try to scare me out of it. She might have at some point down the line. But I'll never know, because just a few hours later, she had a heart attack.

And before you think it, no, I don't think she had a heart attack, just thinking about me going to London.

The next time I saw her was that night in the hospital. She was sitting up and talking. She was joking about fixing me up with the obviously gay phlebotomist. She was asking for sweet tea. It seemed like she'd be going home in a couple days and she'd be fine.

But we got a call that night that she'd gone into cardiac arrest and had to be revived. She was intubated and out of it after that, and she died two days later.

That was April 13, 2014.

So, it's been a rough few weeks.

It's been a rough year, really. I finally, just a couple months ago, broke down and talked to a doctor about depression. I was, in fact, diagnosed with major depression, and I've been on a prescription for long enough now that it's starting to work. And I'm going for my first counseling session soon.

I think planning this trip is helping me come out of it. It gives me something to look forward to. And it gives me a reason to want to better myself. But mostly, I like to think that Mom would have wanted me to do it, even if she'd also be relieved that she's not alive to worry herself to death while I did it.

Maybe that's wishful thinking, but the idea emboldens me, either way. Which, frankly, is really needed, at this point.