Dear Mom,
Five years. It seems like yesterday. I had President's Day
off from school and I went to see you at the nursing home; February
16th, 2009. I brought you your belated Valentine's gift - a card, the entire
Harry Potter series (so you could reread it), Blistex and Green Apple Jolly
Ranchers. I wore a light blue shirt, make-up and straightened my hair that day
- I had a feeling it might be the last time I saw you, and I wanted you to
think I was pretty.
You were small and calm in that big bed. Calm. For once. Not
angry. Not fighting. Not sassy. You could even hear better than you had been
able to for over ten years. That's when I knew I was right...you were not long
for this world. You spoke of talking to relatives long-passed, your Grandma
Josie, Marcia, and Patty...I sat on your bed, held your hand, listened to your
stories and watched your expressions - cementing each one in my brain. You were
happy that day. I hadn't seen you happy since 1991. I felt a closeness to you
that I hadn't felt in years.
You begged me to take your birds. I didn't really have room
in my apartment or my budget for six birds, but I loved you (I still do), so I
promised I'd pick them up in Fairmont
and take them home the next day. There were only five left by the time I made
it there - David had already killed Sunshine. I held onto a lot of guilt about
that for awhile. Paco sends his love. He's the only one left now - but he has a
good friend, Toby, to keep him company.
I was supposed to see you again that Friday, but I had a
slight fever and the nurses encouraged me to stay home and not bring whatever
it was I was carrying into the nursing home. I texted you a lot that weekend (it
was our best form of communication, given your hearing difficulties) and told
you that I'd see you on Wednesday for your care meeting. Loie and I would both
be coming down and we'd be bringing you brownies with cream cheese frosting.
Though the battery has been dead for years now, I still have the phone that
carries that last message from you, "See u then. Love u."
You didn't make it to Wednesday. You died Monday evening -
February 23rd. I got my hair cut after school, went and picked out fleece fabric
to make Tess a tie-blanket (I still haven't made that damn blanket), worked out
and then went home and took a shower. The nursing home, Loie and Dad all called
while I was in the shower. I had nine missed calls by the time I got out...and
the phone was ringing again.
It was Loie. Not realizing I hadn't gotten any of the
messages on my phone, nor had I heard Dad knocking on my door, she immediately
began with, "The funeral home is going to transport the body tonight..."
My response paused her mid-sentence - a normal person may have asked it in
question form, but I just simply stated, "She died. She's gone." It
was followed by, "Oh honey, I thought you knew..." and she said some
other stuff, but my brain was swimming, not in sadness, not in confusion, but
in relief. You were gone. Finally. What a horrible thing to say, I know, but
your suffering was over. You were at peace, and after more than ten years of
you being sick, so was I.
I didn't cry when I told Chuck you were gone. I didn't cry
when I opened the door for the emotional disaster that was Dad and Karen. My
first tears came when I called Tess - not because I was sad (I'd get sad months
later...), but because she was so utterly devastated, my heart broke for her.
She had more guilt and unresolved issues than I; don't get me wrong, I had
plenty, but they were dwarfed in comparison to hers.
The guilt has dwindled a bit in the years since - mine and hers. Tess
still regrets running away; I regret keeping an emotional distance from you. I
had to, Mom. I was so damaged in those days, I didn't have much emotional
availability for anyone...especially you. I know that sounds harsh and I'm
sorry if that's hard to hear. It wasn't because I didn't love you - I did - and
I would have done anything for you, but the little girl in me who stood at her
bedroom window in 1995 and watched you drive away in your white Dodge Shadow, didn't trust you. She didn't believe you really loved her - in fact, she had a
hard time accepting love from anyone. It took time and maturity to realize you
did the best you could given your own life circumstances, and that you did
indeed love me and Tess as much as you possibly could love anyone. I'm sorry I
didn't realize this when you were still here...if it's any consolation, I was
never angry at you. I was just hurt.
On rare occasions I think about David; Tess says she never
does, but I wonder what happened to him. He called me once for money shortly after
you died. I told him I didn't have any to give him and he has never called
again. I wonder if he's back in jail, in prison or still dealing drugs. I
wonder if he still wears sunglasses with masking tape over the inside of the
lens, or if he's replaced his stabbed-out eye with a glass one. I wonder if he
has a job, a new girlfriend, if he moved to Texas
(Google says he lives in Brownsville ) or if he
still lives in Fairmont .
I wonder if he's still alive. I wonder if he ever visits your grave.
Five years. They've been short years. I still hear your
voice in my head. I remember the exact texture of your hair and hands, the
scowl you would make when you were angry and the way you would repeatedly slap
the table and laugh silently when you were really amused. I almost always think
of you able-bodied now...you're rarely in a wheelchair or hospital bed in my
memories. Sometimes I think I can still call you. I feel a twinge of sadness
when I realize I can't. I'm slightly jealous of people who still have their
moms...envious they get to share big life events with them - like milestone
birthdays, weddings (haha, yes, I am still holding out hope I'll marry
someone wonderful someday - despite my 8th graders telling me "Ain't
nobody got time to marry an old lady with three cats." That was my
Valentine's Day 'pep-talk' from them this year...kids, gotta love 'em.) and
births/adoptions (I figure if the whole marrying "someone wonderful"
thing doesn't work out, I'll adopt a kid or two...I think I'd be a good parent).
I think you'd be proud of me. I've grown up a lot in five
years. I'm more reflective than I am reactive and I'm much more even-tempered, patient
and happy. I think you'd be impressed with my independent spirit and
determination - but I don't think you'd be surprised. You always knew I was
more like you than I cared to admit. Tess and I laugh frequently about our
"Mom" qualities (you'd be thrilled at how well we get along now)...you
definitely left your mark on us. I'm glad you did. I never gave you enough
credit for the positive virtues you passed on to us: accept, appreciate and
celebrate everyone, pursue education, read, speak and write well, love animals,
cheer on - and help - the underdog, believe in something bigger than yourself, and
be brave and tenacious in the face of adversity. Thank you for instilling these
qualities in me, Tess and the countless students you taught over the years. We
were lucky to have you in our lives.
I miss you, Mom. Everyday. Time has eased the pain of losing
you...but there will always be a void that can't be filled and a dull ache that
won't go away. These remnants of loss, though invisible to the outside world, serve
as a constant internal reminder of the preciousness of life. If there is a
silver-lining to your death, it's that I gained a lot of perspective. I think I
became a better friend, a better daughter and a better sister. It took time - I
was in no shape to be very good at any of these things for quite a few months
after you died - but in the years since, I have put in much effort to let those
around me know they are important and loved. I wish I would've been better at
it for you.
Five years, Mama. Five important, life-changing years. You
may not physically be here, but you were a huge part of those five years...and
will remain a huge part of any and all that are yet to come.
I love you,
Josie Marie
