Dear Mom

 

Dear Mom,

I’ve written and re-written this letter in my mind so many times.

Its true the old saying - You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til its gone - because I now know that you were one of my very best friends on this earth.

Ironically, I have a terrible memory.  My memories of childhood are patchy and very specific. Most of my memories with you are when I was very young, once when I was in an especially intense bit of trouble, and moving to Alaska is a strong memory as well. I think however, most of our friendship was formed as I was an adult.  Gosh we had fun.  You always were fun.  You enjoyed being with people and you seemed to sincerely enjoy being with us. 

You didn’t necessarily always give advice, but you definitely always listened.  Not everyone does that.  You were wise and you were kind, which meant I trusted you.  And you knew me better than anyone else.  And now you’re gone.

I remember the first time we spoke about your illness.  It was a moment of brutal honesty from me.  We were sitting in my car alone on the airstrip in front of the house for some reason.  “You’re changing, Mom.  You need to do something about it.”  I know now that you tried to do something about it.  You tried.

I remember calling the Alzheimer Association out there for advice when I first realized this was likely going to be part of our story.  But at that point it was still just words.  Just abstract phrases.  They didn’t hold any meaning for me. Not yet.  I didn’t know how much of you it would steal.

Fast forward thru some uncontrollably busy years and there it unmistakable was.  We were losing you.  We knew it.  But still we didn’t know what it would look like.

Mom, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry we weren’t more involved.  I’m sorry we weren’t closer to know the questions to ask.  I’m so sorry we didn’t know.

Mom, I remember you running at me in the airport.  It was during Covid and we both had masks on and I was so thankful you knew me.  “There she is!” you yelled as you ran to me.  I knew you couldn’t think of my name, but you knew WHO I was.  We had a hard trip that time.  You loved being around your grandkids but many times you didn’t know who everyone was.  And most activities were too confusing.  And the world was confusing and you would get so very upset. 

And then the trip came that you did not recognize me.  It was in the fall and I was coming home for you and Dad’s 50^th anniversary.  Oh, Mama.  We celebrated you but I don’t think you knew it was for you.  But you loved watching Esa.  We would go for walks and push her on the swing.  You were still the perfect Omi for her.  You would eat breakfast right next to her, and sometimes eat hers too but she didn’t mind.  You would read with her and snuggle her.  You would tell her you loved her.  When I left I knew that I was now just another confusing person in an ever-increasingly confusing world to you.  You needed help with everything, but did not want it.  I was just another person telling you what to do and helping you in ways you didn’t understand you needed help in.  I’m so sorry, Mama.  I thought we could be enough if we all worked as a team.

I remember when I got the call I fell to my knees.  I prayed. I don’t know what for. Comfort for you? A miracle? Guidance?

When Stacey and I got to Omaha and saw you, my heart broke.  How did we get here?  You didn’t respond until Dad came into your room.  As soon as he walked through that curtain you opened your eyes.  I couldn’t believe it.  I’d been sitting there with you for hours.  They told us you were paralyzed and likely blind.  Over the next 48 hours I was sure you could see and you did begin to move your legs.  You were so strong Mama.  But you hated that you weren’t strong enough.  You hated the help.  You hated people touching you without your consent or control.  I remember it bringing out a primal protectiveness in you.  It broke my heart again to have to watch you endure this.

Oh Mama.  I hope we all made the right decision.  I won’t know for certain this side of heaven…

You tried to talk while we were in that ICU room.  You talked as well as you could on the phone to your sons-in-law and your grandkids.  You told us you loved us.  We held hands. How did we get here?

I rode with you in the ambulance to Tecumseh.  They didn’t want me to, but I talked them into it with Dad’s support.  I held your hand the entire ride. You laughed at a joke I made.

It was Thursday when we brought you home.  Your bed was in the living room.  We took turns sitting with you and holding your hand.  We learned how to nurse and care for you.  I sang to you and we played music for you.  You smiled and tried your best to talk back to us.  You told us you loved us.  We used the small sponge to give you tastes of both coffee and wine.  We pulled the couch up right next to you so Dad could sleep right by your side. I’ve never seen a love like I saw that week.  It was like we had a peek back in time to your first years in love.  Dad had so many dreams – dreams about you, about heaven, about Vietnam, about your babies when they were babies. 

Family and friends came. A constant steady stream of them.  They told you how much they loved you.  And many times you told them back as best as you could.  Your home was the perfect space to so many that came to visit you.  A woman from the hospice program came and played the harp for you.  It was beautiful.  The sun was shining in through your sheer curtains and it was so glorious.  The priest came.  Many times.  We were losing you and knew you wouldn’t be long with us.  We talked a lot about you and about God and about life.  I remember him performing the Last Rites for you and just thinking – “How is this real?  How am I here and you are laying there?”  I didn’t want it to be real.  I remember praying The Rosary over you.  I remember holding your hand.  That’s what I remember the most, holding your hand.  I remember the last hug I gave you.  You were gone but I needed one more.

I remember the night you were leaving us.  It was terrible.  They said it might be peaceful, but it was not.  I hated it and I still do.  Maybe that is blasphemous to say.  I’m happy for you Mom.  I do believe you’re in a better part of existence.  The part without sin and pain and death, but gosh do I miss you.  I wanted more.  I want you to be friends with my kids.  I want to be able to call you.  I want your advice. I want to hear your voice.  I want you and Esa to know each other.

The priest said we have two “birth” days – the day we’re born into this world and the day we’re born into heaven. It was Tuesday when you had your second birth day.  And just like the first it was painful, dark, scary, confusing.  But I hope and trust that the result was a beautiful thing that we just can’t understand on this side of it all…

I remember they came and took you away.  And I remember looking at that room and thinking, “What the hell just happened in here?  Surely that wasn’t all real.” 

But it was.

Your service was more beautiful than anything I could have imagined.  It was beautiful.  But not as beautiful as the living, breathing you.

I don’t know how to grieve you Mom.  No one teaches you how.  We have to move on quickly and start making decisions and choices and planning.  I shamefully do not remember you grieving your own Mom.  I was in my own childish, self-important world that my own kids are in now.  I still cannot talk about you without crying.  Songs often will suckerpunch me into tears.

I honestly hate looking back at the photos from the week we lost you. I hate them. Except for a small few that will always remind me what a gift it was to be able to touch you and talk to you and feel your living love once more before you left us.  

I miss you.  And I always, always will.