Dear Mom

I’ve tried to organize my thoughts for two months. I can’t. Then I realized the only way it comes out straight is if I talk to her.

Dear mom,

You lied. Probably the only lie you ever told me. When I was a little girl and told you I was scared you’d die, you said the anxiety of the anticipation was much worse than actually losing you. I thought you knew what you were talking about because it had only been a number of years since you’d lost your own mom. You told me that so that maybe I wouldn’t worry as much and maybe it would soften the sting that wasn’t even real yet. Why suffer in advance for something that hasn’t even happened yet? I think you told me that, too.
I now know that was a lie; you being gone for over a year now is worse than any of the worrying I ever did. But I’m not mad about the lie. I would protect my kids with that lie, too.

Mom, I bet some people look at me and find me dramatic. I wonder if they think I should shut up about it by now. But you know me, I don’t care what people think anymore. I mean, I talked to you every single day of my life for over 36 years. I had you as my foundational support system for 3 decades. Now I’m supposed to be over it and have new habits and different expectations after only 1 year? No.

You know what’s crazy? We never talked much about what it was like for you to lose your mom, or about what I was going to do after you were gone. Those would have been good conversations. While you were sick, and even for a while after you died, I kept saying, “I don’t know why we never talked about this.” I regretted it. Still do. I know you didn’t want to make me sad (you told someone that), and I thought maybe I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t want to make you sad.
But that wasn’t it. And now I do know why we never talked about it. I figured it out.

It was because I wanted to pretend it wasn’t real. If we talked about it, then it meant you were really going to die, for real. It meant that biggest fear I could imagine as a kid was actually coming true.

I know as an adult the biggest fears shift to losing a spouse or a child. Unimaginable. I was thinking about when dad died and how sad you always were. It seemed like no matter what was happening, you still carried a sadness along with you. Joy was never fully invited anymore. I mean, I was sad to lose dad, too, but I think I still felt like I had a connection to him through you. But when you left, it was like losing dad again, and therefore both of you. I didn’t realize that would happen.

So now I get it. I bring sadness along with me in a little pouch wherever I go. Apparently, it is permanently attached, like it’s sewed on. Joy can come, too, but has to sit in the corner. Maybe get up and walk the room a little. But is never the guest of honor anymore.

I hate that. I’m scared. What if I’m always sad. What if I’m never able to fully feel joy again? Like I said, I’m sure it sounds dramatic. But there’s an explanation for it. I told someone the other day that it’s just that when you begin losing those closest to you, life seems so trivial anymore. What really matters? What’s the point of all this? They told me that they’d heard a lot of people who’d lost someone close express that feeling.

Not only that, but I get scared of what could be worse. It makes me scared to lose again. So I think about the “what ifs…” a lot. That’s heavy.

Also, something is always missing, and my heart knows it. That’s the other reason joy sits in the corner but can’t lead the room. No matter what is going on, even the best things, there is a little void fluttering in my chest. I know we should be sharing these moments with you and dad.

Like Thanksgiving and Christmas, for instance. They’re coming up. Last year were the firsts without you, but I knew I was still in an adjustment period of “navigating the first year after loss.” Now rolling into the second year? It’s worse because this is permanent and I have to face that realization. No holiday gatherings with “my side of the family.” Ever again. Even though my kids are so little. I mean, I know I’m always welcome with the aunts, uncles, and cousins, and I do take them up on the invites sometimes. But it’s not the same. You know what I mean.

I decorated for fall and Christmas last year, just like you always did, and I did fine. But this year I struggled with the motivation. I got half of the fall stuff up, started thinking about how you were the only one other than me who really appreciates those decorations, and then I just didn’t feel like doing anymore. I already don’t want to decorate for Christmas, but I will because you’d probably show up to haunt me if I didn’t.

The thing is, you always made an effort to make everything magical for us as kids, and even as adults, too. The cute little fairy lights adorning all the spaces, and the abundance of thematic decor. The warm and comforting foods. The crafty and creative ideas. Not just holidays, but even the ordinary, every day things were better because of you: the way you did everything seemed perfect, like you were a professional at everything. Now it’s up to me to create that feeling, and I don’t want it to be up to me. I wasn’t done letting you make life magical. I wasn’t done being your kid.

But I realized you did that for us growing up even before we ever appreciated it. I appreciated it then, but didn’t know it. So that’s why I care about and cherish that magic as an adult. I know you would still do that for my kids if you could, so I know you are expecting me to do that for them now, even if I don’t feel like it sometimes. I know for sure that there were many times you set aside your feelings to make sure you made the most of the holidays and the moments and just life for us. So I will, too.

But man, my kids are missing out on so much love. It hurts me so much to think about it. There was just something so special about your and dad’s love and support. It was unconditional and constant. It was so reliable and unselfish. I know, I know, at least they got some for a while. But it could have been so different. Sometimes I sit and imagine what it would’ve been like.

That’s what makes life so lonely now. So lonely. You all were always there. I’m still on the verge of tears all the time, but I just act like I’m strong. Probably not a surprise to you.

Momma, you wouldn’t believe what all has happened since you’ve been gone. So many things you wouldn’t even believe. Honestly, sometimes I’m really happy for you that you aren’t in this old, crazy world anymore. I know you’re not suffering anymore, and you don’t have to even fathom some of the terrible things in this world that would have hurt you. I know you told me many times while you were sick that you were ready to meet Jesus. And you meant that. I don’t know exactly how it all works. I know what we believe, but I don’t know what it looks like, how it happens, what we know after, or any of that. I so, so wish I did. It would help. But I do trust what we believe, so I know you are better now that you’ve ever been.

The other day Steele asked if you had a choice, would you leave Heaven to come back here to be with him. That was a hard one to explain, that nobody would leave Jesus to come back to this world, even though you loved him so so much and would love to be with him. I tried to help him understand that we can be happy for you while also still being sad about missing you.

To talk about how the kids have grown, all the things they’ve done, and how much I wish you and dad were here to see all of it like we expected would take its own day.

Tanner started his own business. You’d have lost your mind during the startup process! You’d have thought he was crazy, and he knows that. One day in the middle of the startup he asked me, “What do you think your mom would say about it?” And I said: “Honestly, I’m glad I don’t have to go home and tell her about it right now!” We got a good laugh about that. You’d have been giving us more unsolicited advice than ever, and no doubt we’d have butted heads on all of it. I know a lot of people probably frown on your level of involvement in my (and Tanner’s) life, but he and I loved you and appreciated you, and we all made it work because of that. We know that everything you did or said was always out of love, and it was never pushy, controlling, or selfish.

You’d be happy to know that he is doing very well in business, and you’d be so very proud of him. I know you always saw all of his potential and had so much respect for him, and I do wish you could see what he’s doing.

Speaking of being proud, you’d be so amazingly proud of Ginger, too. She grieves too, but she has stepped up so much for me and been there for me.

Momma… I hate this. I really do. I ain’t the same. I can’t believe I have to live the rest of my life without you. This all went by so fast. I think a lot about the last year we were together when you were sick, and I still cannot process it and believe we went through that. My memories from before you were sick have finally started coming back, too, so I’ve really been missing you, the you I had for all my life. Your absence is felt in everything.

You always told me that no matter how old I got I would always be your baby. You meant that from the perspective of how you would always mother me whether I liked it or not, but it is also true from the perspective that, even as adults, we will always want our mothers because we will always know we are someone’s child. I’m only 37 and you were right: I’m still your baby.