Best Friend's Mommy

My childhood best friend called me Friday. Just as we're entering the critical staging period for our annual Halloween/Harvest/HappyBirthday to Oldest Son Party. More about that later, as the party is over and I can only say that it was one of those parties in which articles of clothing were left behind (Okay, Truth: a kid took off his/her socks and shoved them under the trampoline and I found them on Monday).
Am tearing around awful, sticky, who-set-off-the-crap-everywhere-bomb house, mostly trying to hide initial bad impressions and my dear friend called. Her mother had just passed away. Like not 30 minutes before. Of dementia. Remember how dementia makes those clever, clever lungs eventually forget the in and out act that makes them so important? yeah. And remember how snivelly (sp?) and self-centered I can be (am) in situations where big-girlness would be well-regarded? yeah. Crap. So I didn't go home for the funeral. Could Not Face It. Nope. Did my Apostles on Maundy Thursday Act.
The two things I couldn't face (not justifying, just listing) were that I would have to see my own mom and I would have to see how it ended for bf's mom. It was the really that first one that I couldn't do. Am (me, me, me) in pretty bad shape down here all by my lonesome. And no one up north has to know. (shhh....ROBERT THAT MEANS YOU. Sweetie.) I did confess all this to my beloved friend and she was (too tired, maybe?) perfectly understanding about it, but I know I dropped the ball here. Yeah, we sent flowers and yeah, I am extending all the sorry-for-your-loss sentiments, but I know I should be there. I grew up around her mom. When the skies shook on 9/11, when my bf had just birthed her last child while stationed in Israel, I called her mom. Pulled that phone number waaaay from the back of my memory and dialed it just like when we were two white trash-ish high school girls working out some zany 80s scheme. Her mom and I spoke for a bit about whether anyone had heard from bf...was she coming home? Did she need baby stuff? (Oh, I was all over that, let me tell you.) And bf's mom, a rather colorful character summed the whole thing up very tidily. She said, "Osama My Ass!" Those three little words. I offered them to bf's dh who is doing the eulogy, but he declined. Anyway, I (me, me, me) am distracted and out of whack (have new doc who is horrified by my general situation and demeaner--more later. About Me.) and deeply shaken by this turn. And I can't think of any more stuff to write. And I have stupid insurance survey to take before bell tolls midnight. So I should go. Oh hell, who is kidding whom? Right this minute, I suck. And I'm hiding. There.