A Letter to My Mom

It’s been eight years, and life just isn’t the same without you

Taken seconds apart at an impromptu birthday sleepover for my mom the night before she died (more about that in a future letter). I can still feel the raw, deep emotions of that moment—the joyful soul of my mom and the reality of hovering grief. (Family Archive)

Hey, Mama.

Eight years ago today—wow. How can that be? When your final breath slipped out, and your big, beautiful, joyful heart beat its last, a part of me died, too. Since the very beginning of me, you were there—the only person who never left my side, even when we weren’t in the same state. The one person who—even when we were quarreling—always had my back. The one who saved me from the hell of my choices by saying, “Just come home.”

I considered telling you about your two-year-old great-grandson—the light in your life—covering you with his blankie near the end, but you already know that, don’t you? Even though your organs were shutting down and you were unconscious, you were aware that we sat around your recliner, holding your hands and feet and letting tears and sorrow isolate the last minutes we had with you. I know you were aware because a tear rolled down your cheek when Dad told you he would meet you on the other side. And then my husband—“911 Rodney,” who you trusted more than any medical professional—told us you were gone, that your heart beat no more.

The hospice nurse arrived a little later, and we still held you with cries and moans filling the otherwise silent room—a room that earlier in the day had the sound of your voice, the laughter of loved ones, the hum of your oxygen machine, and background noise from the television. We held you for almost two hours as we waited for the funeral home to arrive. The nurse stood in a corner and cried.

Were you still there? Because as the stretcher with your body moved toward the door, your great-grandson started crying from his bedroom. Did you go and tell him goodbye? He drew a picture of you and still talks about you. He will be 10 next month. You would have enjoyed watching him grow up, maybe even picking him up from school like you did for his daddy.

A lot has happened while you’ve been gone. Both our sons moved away to other states not long after you died, and they stayed away a long time. I officiated the wedding for three other grandchildren, including your granddaughter—we still laugh about how you tried to set her up with every doctor visiting you in the hospital. She married a good man, Mom, but I suspect you know that, too, and even had a hand in sending him her way.

As for your children, Sister divorced her cheating husband and has been seeing a person you love very much from our childhood—even though they both are too stubborn to admit it’s a relationship. Brother’s wife died, just as we worried for so many years—Did you see her arrive? As for me and 911, we’re still going strong after 36 years, but losing you dropped me headfirst into bottle after bottle after bottle. I can put a humorous spin on it and say, “I got that from you,” but you were stronger back then than I am right now. You stopped cold when a drunken night ended badly. While I’m not drinking as much, there’s room for improvement.

Dad misses you every day. Losing you broke his heart—a heart he will never give to anyone else despite your blessing that he do so. His health has declined, and Sister and I fear that he will leave us, too. You would be together again, and our hearts would shatter. But that’s part of life. To live means to die.

You have a great-granddaughter on the way—a girl! Can you believe it? She will be named for you and is due in May. We’re all hoping she arrives on your birthday.

A couple of months ago, Sister and I finally went through the last of your belongings that we shoved into closets—“We’ll deal with that later.” Dad decided for us—“It’s time.”

We found that green dress you wore to my wedding—the dress I snidely told you was flashy and a little much—I was a hateful brat. Regret is horrible to live with when you can’t apologize. I tried until the end, though, even when you were unconscious. I brought that stupid dress home with me. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ll be able to work that out in a future letter. Or perhaps I’ll just let regret—and the dress—go. As my mama, I suspect you know which one I’ll do.

I recorded you telling stories a lot in the two years after you got sick, but I didn’t capture the one most important to me—my birth story and being three months premature. Regret.

I didn’t realize until after you were gone how much we are alike—except for our propensity to argue, which was pretty evident to everyone. We could really get into it, couldn’t we? With our matching bullheaded attitudes and my mouth, those teen years were tough to get through. We also look alike—I didn’t see the similarities then, but lots of things get clearer as I age.

This may not be a surprise to you, but I got old when you died. First, it was my spirit that suffered, but in recent years, I have heard the echo of your physical complaints and finally understand. Your hips—I wake up nearly every morning with pain in my right hip. You thought yours was arthritis, but I wonder if you would have been able to get some relief if you had seen a chiropractor like I do now. Pain when you walked—I’ve had three surgeries on my knees, two of which were full replacements. And in recent weeks, that old friend of yours—“Arthur”—has been visiting me. I never imagined how excruciating arthritis was, and you dealt with it for decades. I should have been more serious about helping you solve your aches and pains. Regret.

Surgeries—besides my knees, I also had a hysterectomy. Each time I’m in the hospital, I remember the operation I had in 2004. You didn’t leave my side. You sat and wrote notes to me as I slept. You gave me ice chips. Were you somewhere watching over me as surgeons cleaned and replaced my knees? Or when I had the hysterectomy? Mine was much less invasive than yours—in fact, my surgeon said, “This isn’t your mom’s hysterectomy.” (No, Mom, you don’t know her; it’s figurative—Geez, I’m still correcting your language.)

I haven’t stopped missing you since that last breath, Mom. I don’t think I will ever fully bounce back after losing my mother. You know how that is—the year before you got sick, Grandma died. That’s another thing I took for granted. I thought it was silly when you stuffed a t-shirt and used it as a pillow because it helped you feel like your mom was hugging you. I get that now. What I wouldn’t give for one of your amazing, soft, tight hugs and to smell your comforting scent. What I wouldn’t give to hear your laugh and even laugh with you—I don’t do that much anymore. I should have checked in on your grief. Regret.

Even though I miss you, Mama, I wouldn’t bring you back to the pain of those last two years—chemo, blood infusions, tests, hospital stays, broken arm, intubation. Every step of the way, though, your spirit was bright, and you laughed through almost everything. You had no worries—“I gave it over to the Lord.” I want to be like that, but I’m not. Regardless, I will get through today like yesterday and the days before—the sting will become more bearable. Each day, I get a little stronger. Sometimes grief surprises me with a gut punch, but I know whose daughter I am, and I will stand up and carry on.

Well, Mama, it looks like we might make it through another death-iversary. I was just writing to check in and tell you I miss you. Maybe I’ll write again someday. Until then, I love you, Mama.