8 October 2020: I got a phone call.

Dear Mom,

Dad called me today. He said that he’d been on the phone with one of your specialists. Dr. Lisa. She stressed that there was nothing any of us could’ve done differently. He wanted to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault that you’re gone. As he’s tried to do many times. My sisters have, too. I hear the words and I understand what they mean. “It wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t a thing you could’ve done or been differently to prevent her death.” I tell myself too. But it’s not that easy, is it? Denial can function in reverse. I hear the words and sentiments… but I’m stuck inside my own head. It gets dark in there sometimes. “She’s gone from us because you failed.” 

I know it’s not what you want to hear. I know it’s not what you want for me. I know that you would be taking my hand right now—tears in your own eyes—pleading for me not to ever think this way for even a moment. But I also know that you understand.

I can’t pass a mirror without noticing. The scars haven’t faded completely from the catheter that was installed with hopes of collecting pieces of me that would save you. Even when the wounds vanish, I’ll still know. Whenever my fingertips glide across my neckline to adjust a clasp or chain, they graze the two shallow divots near my right collar bone where hope once lived. Evidence of effort, marks of love, traces of failure. Don’t cry, Mom… 

The last time I reached to hug you before your eyes closed was the night the hospital kicked visitors out because the pandemic reached the city, and everyone was in a panic. The transplant was only halfway through—my part wasn’t even over yet. 

The last video I have of us together captured a melancholy, but hopeful “goodbye” … forcing back tears trying to be strong for you while you forced back tears to be strong for us. I didn’t know it was the last time our voices would occupy the same space. “Don’t worry—I’ll see you again soon, Mom. I love you.” 

The last time you saw me, I was wearing a mask, but not even a mask could hide the pain in my eyes… not from you. Months later and just a few rooms from the left, I saw you for the last time—but you couldn’t see me. You wouldn’t open your eyes again. “It wasn’t meant to be.” We didn’t know.

I should have ripped the mask from my face back in March and held you tighter. I should have smiled another memory for you, so the room didn’t feel as lonely, cold, and empty without us there. I should have refused to leave your side… I should have said or done more of something—anything… but I didn’t. Instead, I left. Just like they told us to do. I didn’t know any better… none of us did. I know people will say none of it would have made a difference. They want to be reassuring. “You did all that you could.” And they’re probably right. I hear the words—trust me, I hear them. And I know they should compute. But grief doesn’t always make sense. In fact, it rarely ever does. But I’m new at this.

Everyone says it’s a process, but it feels more like a Möbius strip… I can’t pass a mirror without being reminded… without it all replaying in my mind… the strip tightening into a noose. “Focus on the good memories… she will always be in your heart.” I see the words. I identify the sentiment. They want to reassure, and I want to believe. I know you’re in a better place now, Mom, but I’ve found myself in a worse one without you… it gets dark in there sometimes. 

I forever miss you.

Love always,
“Pookie”