The Answer at 3:07am

The answer came to me at 3:07 am after untangling my cpap tube to make my nightly trip to the bathroom . The answer I had been looking for was “you get used to living naked, until people no longer notice”. Just a few hours before, a close friend revealed to Cathy and I that their mother was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

Cathy, tearful and with a hint of defiance, asked me “what am I supposed to do when my mom dies?! Just go on living without her?!” Her mom had just spent the entire holiday season with us. From Thanksgiving to New Years Eve, a month of home cooked meals, shared laughter and trips to the Vietnamese food market. Cathy had been feeling a bit empty since Ma left.

The short answer to her question is “yes”, but in the two and a half years that I’ve been dealing with the loss of my own mother, I knew that wasn’t the answer I was ready to give. At the moment I didn’t have an answer. In that exact moment, I was in search of an answer myself.

I was lying in bed reading Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. A book written by one of the most prolific writers of recent memory, and even she was trying to find the right words to explain how the death of her husband made her feel. She, too, was searching for answers.

Not many people talk about the delay that comes along with grief. How your reflexes aren’t as quick, how your wits are dull or how questions and answers come to you weeks, months or even years after the moment that changed everything. And then, one night, in the middle of sleep and silence, an answer appears.

You go on living without them — and suddenly realize that you’re bare. Fully exposed. The body that you carry around, the one with the love handles and the stomach you’ve been promising a six pack to, is on full display. You walk around with your scars and you’re most intimate parts in plain sight. And not just your naked body, it feels like the entire world can see all your thoughts too. Some days you work hard to tear away the guilt, other days you cloak yourself with shame. No matter the day, your mother is no longer there to cover you and you just have to live with that reality.

When I returned to bed I thought about one of my old coworkers. Her mother had died when we were in our twenties and I remember thinking how unfair it was to lose a mother so young. Then it dawned on me that this was January, the same month that her mother died over 20 years ago. What day was it? I couldn’t remember, but I knew she posted on Facebook every year on the anniversary of her death.

Turns out it’s January 6.

She was still naked.

I just didn’t see it anymore.