That? That is something I'm trying really hard to forget. So when a relative calls and says she feels like she had no closure when my mother was dying, because no one told her what was going on, and no one thought to call her (that 'no one' being me), I understand her pain, I do, but when she adds that she wants (needs) me to tell her what happened during those last nine months of my mother's life, and I open my mouth to oblige her, but the words won't voice themselves, not because there are too few but too many, well, that shit is hard.
I could tell her that I nearly went crazy myself. I could tell her that my mother told me I was no kind of daughter at all because I wouldn't take her out of the nursing home. I could tell her that on Christmas my children watched, mouths agape, as my mother crawled on the carpet of her room and screamed, "If you won't get me out of here, Sarah, I'll just have to do it myself!" I could tell her that my family was forced to make a choice between having both my mother's legs amputated and letting her die, and that I continue to be wracked with guilt for choosing the latter. I could tell her about having to wipe my mother's bottom. I could tell her what my mother looked like less than one hour after her death. I could tell her any or all of that.
I could. But I don't want to.