I'm busy in spurts of activity interspersed with intense tv watching during which I'm busy baking and/or cleaning (there's no cable in my mom's room yet). I can't sit still, but I desperately want to do nothing.

Mom in Los Angeles Park, California. 1970.

I've been putting off, for a month now, looking at the clothes my mom was wearing during the accident. So long, in fact, that the clothes have badly molded in the plastic bag they were tied up in. I got the standard bloodborne pathogens warning regarding the clothes so I took precautions. I thought what an odd sight I must've made out in the backyard with my pajamas on, a rag tied around my nose, clear woodworking goggles, and latex gloves on with bare arms and exposed feet, cutting up large plastic garbage bags and then unwadding and carefully laying out blood stained clothing covered in white mold. I wasn't sure if I was being overly cautious or not enough. The mortician kept saying how many people are in and out of the coroner's office and I was concerned about what that might mean (did that mean my mom's clothes were hanging out with other dead people's clothes? Did that mean the clothes might've caught something from passerbys? I don't know nearly enough about this.) I felt awkward leaving her bra and panties out in the open like that, but I wasn't going to let those clothes lay around inside -- not with my delicate little sister in there inhaling god knows what emanating from the clothes. Even with the nose hanky, the clothes smelled none too fresh -- a mixture of blood and mold and general staleness with a hint of something malodorously hospital-like sans disinfectant.

And as the sun was setting, all I did was roll everything back up and put it back in the plastic bag from which I'd rescued them in the morning. Right after her death, when I had to practically beg the mortician to give me her clothes, I needed them. I wanted to see them. But when I really wanted to, I didn't have time to -- there were always people around, and I wanted privacy when I took them out. And I didn't want anyone walking around in the backyard when her clothes were lying about. When I got back from Mountain View 2-3 weeks ago, I had the privacy, but I worked all day -- I didn't want to leave the clothes outside without me around to keep an eye on them. Yesterday I thought about it, but couldn't, and today in a manic rush of cleaning, I tore open the box and untied the first of two plastic bags, then I started to smell the faint odor coming off them and panicked. Then got my makeshift "safety" gear together and hauled everything outside.

Anyway, it's done. Now I don't know what to do with them. I wanted to call my dad and ask him what I was supposed to do with those clothes. I badly want to wash them. I sort of want to throw them away, but don't feel like I can. It feels a little morbid to keep the clothing around. I'd feel less creeped out if they'd been washed. There wasn't nearly as much blood as I thought there'd be, but seeing the clothes was hard nonetheless. Just thinking about her wearing them that day and the clothing she had on her -- a couple of things that I recognized as things she frequently wore. They forgot to give us her other shoe. We only have one -- the clean one. The other one was soiled. I think they must've forgot to put it in the bag. I was upset about that earlier today. Seeing the one shoe in the bag...

I don't know how people deal with grief. Sometimes I feel like I'm going mad.