Dear Mom,
Today is a really hard day without you... not that saying so separates today from all of the other really hard days without you.
My soul knows you're in a better place, my heart wishes you were still here, and my mind is furious at everything and nothing-- all at the same time-- because you're not. And I know that's selfish. I just want to call you. I keep wanting to call you. I miss your advice. I miss your nagging. I miss subconsciously rolling my eyes at everything I already knew you were going to say before you opened your mouth to say it. I even miss you telling me when I'm wrong. Because it was still you. Weighing in. Being present.
There are so many big decisions in my life right now... and little ones too... like, "How long do you think we should wait before we set the date?" "Wouldn't 'Tiffany blue' be a lovely color for the baby's nursery?" "What would you do if..." "Which outfit fits better on me?" "How would you handle this important situation?" "Should I use spaghetti noodles or rigatoni?"
For all of the birthdays, Mother's Days, Valentine's Days, Thanksgivings, Christmases, and other special times throughout the years when I've told you you're irreplaceable... I couldn't have meant it more. You truly are.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
The visitor wristband from September 24th came apart in the shower this morning.
I guess it was time.
I miss you; I don't see that ever changing.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
Both magazines you subscribed me to each year for the past lots of years arrived in the mail today. I remember how excited you'd get every Christmas reminding me to keep my eyes out in the mail for another part of my gift from you and Dad. Every year. And every time a new Guideposts would show up, I'd steep a cup of tea and call you.
Sometimes we'd talk about the articles we'd read... usually "His Mysterious Ways"... our favorite. Other times, it was just another reason to talk. Another "thank you" for the gift that spread itself out throughout the year. I kept telling you how one of these days, I'd submit a piece of work or poetry into one of the Poets & Writers essay contests whenever I could find the time and focus to write. I still haven't.
They've never arrived on the same day before. And today it was all just too much. I couldn't even flip past the cover. I seem not to be able to bring myself to do a lot of things these days ... I still haven't even listened to that last voicemail, still haven't taken off the hospital bracelet from September 24th, and now I can't even open the cover of a magazine because I know it'll hurt too much... so much for being strong, right?
...I made the girls grilled cheeses for lunch today... with tomato soup. I thought of all the little ways you made everything so special... even down to the way you'd cut our sandwiches into butterflies and sneak in an extra piece of cheese. I know this has nothing to do with magazines.
I thought maybe it would get easier after a little while... that maybe I'd adapt somehow... or be able to cope better... but I've realized that grief seems to strengthen the longer it continues... because I find myself thinking, "okay, it's been a month... I should be handling this better by now..." but I'm wrong and I'm definitely not handling it better by now... not today at least.
I don't know if it hurts worse to open the mailbox and see our shared subscriptions, or if it'll be so much worse when they stop coming altogether.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
It feels weird to say “happy birthday” to him when I know that it’s not natural for him to be happy without you. You’ve never missed a birthday since the two of you have known each other… over 40 years.
I’m happy he was born. Without his birthday, he wouldn’t be here (obviously), I wouldn’t be here… the girls wouldn’t be here… and our lives wouldn’t exist as we know them… but it’s difficult to see silver linings when the sunshine is hidden away from the clouds. Reflections need light.
Today also marks Norah’s 20 weeks… and as Bon Jovi would say, “Whooooah, we’re half way there… whooo-OAH… livin’ on a prayer!”
20 more weeks (give or take) until we get to meet her. She’s 10 inches long and about the size of an axolotl (I had to look it up).
I wonder if you’ve somehow ‘met’ her already… I’m not quite sure how that works exactly, but I know you’re looking out for us. I can feel it.
We already love our mini-girl so much and were able to feel her rolling around and kicking last night.
Machaela said that she’s going to teach her everything she knows and train her to be her protégé. Aria said that she’s going to be the best big sister ever and she’s going to be nicer to her than Machaela is. I think they’re both going to do just fine when she’s here and holdable. They are always sure to include her in conversation… it’s the sweetest thing. You’d be proud.
I started knitting Norah’s blanket the other day… I work on it one row at a time when I can sneak a couple minutes away from life’s typical chaos. I hope it’ll turn out alright.
It won’t be as comforting as your lullabies or as warm as your hugs, but it’s a start.
Narration. [sorry about the baby farts in the background…*spoiler alert*]
Dear Mom,
I tried to alter my perspective a bit this weekend. I've been sad so often... and I still am... but instead of dwelling on all of the moments in life we are forced to experience WITHOUT you, I've been trying to focus on all of the subtleties and joys in life I'm able to notice and appreciate BECAUSE of you. Time with family... silly jokes with the girls... bonding with my sisters over your favorite recipes... they're not to be overlooked.
On Friday night, we went to a drive-in movie with friends... even sang in the car with the windows rolled down on the way there... like we used to before. When I packed the car to get ready, I tried to think ahead and bring enough blankets, pillows, and snacks for everyone... plus a few extra sweatshirts... just like you would've. "Be prepared for everything," right? It had me thinking about how you made motherhood look effortless.
When Aria wanted to snuggle instead of watch parts of the movie (even though I had never seen it before), I remembered your selflessness... always putting your children first... even in the little things.
On Saturday, we started gutting our pumpkins to prepare them for being carved (the girls were grossed out by the sliminess at first... it was amusing) and accepted an invite to our friends' house for a BBQ.
As the girls were eating baked beans that night, they started singing the "Beanie Weenies" song that you taught them... even though there weren't any hot dogs. They thought of you. Your granddaughters miss you a lot too.
I also started knitting Norah's blanket--or trying to. I know I could just buy her one... that it would take much less time that way, but the true gift is in the sentiment. The first baby blanket I ever made was when I was pregnant with Machaela, the second, with Aria, and now this one, for Norah Jane... each using different materials and techniques to symbolize the uniqueness of each child.
You taught me fairness. You taught me that love and effort is more precious than superficiality. You taught me that life is beautiful in all its many forms.
Yesterday, we went to church together. We were a few minutes late, but for the first time, I didn't mind. Nathan surprised me with being able to sleep in and instructed the girls not to wake me up until after he finished making us all a nice hearty breakfast. We sat down to eat together and talk for a while. It didn't even bother me this time that we were a little late for church... I was surrounded by God's love in our home.
Afterwards, we came back to finish our pumpkins. Nate taught Aria how to use an electric leaf blower and she helped him with the yard... even raking a few leaf piles to run through and jump in. Machaela helped gather some pecans from under the trees and grumbled at the squirrels for wasting food [They'd chew holes through the tops of the shells and toss them aside]. I loved hearing them laugh and giggle.
It was sunny and beautiful. At one point, Nathan found a lovely shell by the garden and showed it to the girls... but there was a catch... it wasn't empty! They rinsed it off to discover the biggest garden snail any of us had ever seen! You'd have loved their fascination with their newfound creature friend. They named him "Gary" and he's going to stay with us for a while. You'd approve.
We hear the wind chimes a lot when the breezes trickle through... the girls say, "Hi Nonnie! We love you too!" every time. Sometimes Aria even chimes them back. It's a comfort. You loved the outdoors more than anywhere else. So many things remind me of you. Even in my children... even sometimes in myself, too. More comfort.
I'm learning that perspective relies heavily on our choice of preposition. Some days, I'm sure I will still feel like we're without you... but even on the loneliest of days, your presence, love, and memory is still within us and around us in all of the little things we do.
This week, we'll be following your home roasted pumpkin seed recipe.
I miss you, Mom. We all do.
Love always,
"Pookie"
[P.S.- I shared your recipe for my friends to try too. I know you wouldn't mind... you loved being able to help others.] ♡
Dear Mom,
I think you'd be smirking at my facetious antics. The girls, Nate, and I have been spending time the past couple days carving pumpkins together.
Aria's has flowers, hearts, and a peace sign, Machaela carved a chinchilla into hers, and Nathan said his is going to be Mario.
I had no idea what design to cut into my pumpkin canvas. Nate suggested "Peach" to go with his Mario Bros theme. The girls agreed. I didn't have any better ideas of my own, so I obliged.
I worked really hard on it and was honestly kind of impressed with the outcome. Smooth lines, decent shapes... it was easily the best one I'd ever carved... but when I showed them the finished result, they didn't seem as thrilled with my efforts as I was. They rolled their eyes and said it looks nothing like her. 😆
I hereby present to you, "Princess Peach" (and your favorite fruit). I still think it's my best pumpkin masterpiece to date, regardless.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Norah Jane at 13 weeks... back at the beginning of September, before we knew her name.
I took this video of my ultrasound because my family wasn't allowed in with me.
I wanted to be able to show the girls their baby sibling, our parents their new grandbaby, etc. and of course Daddy needed to see his little one too. ♡
I sent this video to my Mom right after I showed it to Nate and the girls... it was the last one she saw of the baby... then I updated her when the lab results came back saying she's a girl (we didn't know at the time of this ultrasound). My Mom was overjoyed to be able to see her grandbaby in motion... "so active!", "I never got to see you girls quite like this when I was pregnant with you."
It baffled us both that there are still people in the world who could witness such a miracle of life and see anything but. Life is precious.
So while I'm heartbroken that my Mom isn't here for the rest of this journey (and goodness how it aches), I am thankful that she got to 'meet' our blessing in her own way and that little Norah was able to bring extra joy and love to her life... even while still in the womb.
I'm sharing this special moment because it's one of those little happy thoughts I cling to when discouragement tries to keep me focused on my Mom's absence instead of all the ways she was present. ♡ And still is... just a little differently. Keep reminding me, please.
Dear Mom,
They say that you have some of the most terrifyingly bizarre dreams when you're pregnant. I remember that with Machaela, I couldn't even watch scary movie previews or the dreams were unbelievably horrifying. I learned my lesson by the time Aria was being formed...(incubated?) ... or so I thought. Last night, we watched "The Twilight Zone"... you read that correctly... I must've jolted straight up from my sleep about three or four times... such terrible nightmares... from watching "The Twilight Zone". By the fifth time, I was almost used to it... but that didn't make it any better. Our minds can be such intricate and easily impressionable things.
The last nightmare I had was about you being in trouble. Someone was chasing you and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I woke up in a cold sweat, tears in my eyes... and for a split second, I groggily rationalized that it was just a bad dream and I'd call you in the morning so we could have a cup of tea and laugh about my silliness together. I stepped out of bed to check on the girls, doors, and windows (like I usually do whenever I wake up in the middle of the night) and that's when it hit me. While the nightmare wasn't real, the present reality is far worse.
I couldn't go back to sleep.
I keep wanting to call you for advice. For reassurance. To ask about recipes. To share updates with you about the girls and the baby. And I realize I can't. I realized I'm never going to hear your ringtone again... The Goldberg's theme song. Our show. We still didn't watch the last season together.
I don't think I can ever get used to this. It hurts so much.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
The theme song from our favorite show to watch together…and the song I turned into her ringtone.
Dear Mom,
You know how I am. Not everything I write is flowery or tickled with flecks of sunshine. Sometimes it can be downright hurtful to digest. But that doesn’t make the words any less significant. When it comes to healing, subduing thorns tends to be more constructive than embracing petals.
I needed some time after the last letter. It was packed with confrontation of human frailties that stung to admit. I had to reevaluate the “why". Why am I writing these letters… why am I sharing them publicly if you don’t even need to read them anymore to know how I feel? I didn’t want to be sharing for the wrong reasons.
But writing is the way I process everything going on around and within me. Some people can process emotions by talking them out. Others by simply thinking them over. My thought processes are somehow tethered to the tangible byproduct of written language. To this day, I’m unsure as to whether the clarity of understanding comes more so from the actual process of documentation, or from hindsight analysis of penned introspection. Perhaps a bit of both.
I know you don’t log into social media anymore to read my letters or posts. You can’t. But you also don’t need to. So why share them? It’s not for you… you aren’t in need of anything anymore. You’re being well taken care of by the One who made you … who made us all. No pain. No suffering. No tears. So why? For me? If that were the case, they wouldn’t need to be shared at all—let alone with the world, or at least whoever might stumble upon them from time to time. So why? A cry for attention? I don’t believe so. You know how I squirm and fidget when I know eyes or ears are on me.
While some can speak their emotions to offer a voice to their psyche and others can organize themselves through other outlets, such as art, music, or writing… there are still those who have trouble untangling themselves at all… or even who simply haven’t discovered their how. I think that my hope is that by sharing the deepest struggles and vulnerabilities of my heart and of my mind, it might help others find pieces of themselves along the way, too. No one likes feeling alone. And see… I didn’t even realize the answer to my own questions until I spelled them out for myself with words… what a strange little idiosyncrasy to have. I don’t even understand myself until I read my own scribbles.
This letter won’t be any easier. I noticed I’m still wearing the orange “VISITOR" bracelet from the night of September 24th. The one that had to be renewed every day just to pass through security. I couldn’t tell you how many times it’s been through the shower, washed along with my hands, or gotten inadvertently soapy from the dish sponge. But it’s still there… worn and faded, with “71384” printed on the side like a reg number for an inmate. When it caught my eye earlier, I realized I’m still there too—even though you're not… at the hospital, chained to those moments by your bedside… reliving the loop because I can’t seem to let go even though you already have. Who am I visiting now? Guilt? Hypotheticals? Irreversible outcomes? I need to write it out. All of it… before a different type of sentence tries to consume me. But first, I need to gather my thoughts.
I miss you.
Love always,
“Pookie"
My Mom loves the Carpenters. I always think of us listening to this song whenever it’s rainy… or a Monday… and especially when it’s both.
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”
A photo still of the last video I have of my Mom and me together.
This. Song. Will Always. Always. Make me cry. I remember my Mom talking about it and verbally imagining if that’s what it’s like… and now she knows. And I miss her.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 