Monday, March 24, 2014
Dear Mom
Today isn't the anniversary of your passing, I know. It's the anniversary of an equally painful day for me. A day made more painful because it's importance was only realized in hindsight.
You asked me to come help you wash your hair. That's all. You rarely asked me to do anything for you anymore because you felt like your medical condition made you a bother. But your hair, your beautiful, long locks, needed washing and you asked me to help.
But I had better things to do that day. Sitting here right now I can't remember a damn thing about what those things were. I just know at the time they seemed more important than coming over and doing what I said I was going to do.
I eventually showed up at your house, late in the evening. I bolted up the steps, with a feeling of resignation, obligation, like it was, in fact, a burden to be here. Halfway up the steps Tyrone said, "She's already out for the night. Took her night meds."
And I stopped. In the middle of the staircase, I stopped. I didn't proceed up the stairs but I stopped. And I turned around. And I came back down the stairs.
Why? Why did I do that? Why didn't I go upstairs and kiss your forehead. Why didn't I hold your hand? Why the hell didn't I at least peek in on you?
Because I was relieved, that's why. I was relieved I didn't have to wash your hair. I was relieved I dodged the bullet.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Words can't describe how much I regret how I treated you those last few years. I didn't believe your pain. I didn't want to believe it. You were invincible in my mind. I needed you to be. And even as you crumbled before my eyes, I thought you were "faking it."
Even if the outcome would have been the same, I'd give my right arm to go back to that moment and yell, scream at myself to go up those stairs and kiss your forehead. The next time I'd get to kiss your forehead you would be on a cold slab in the mortuary of a hospital, your eyes half open, your mouth agape, with a breathing tube protruding from your lips.
But that night...I bet you looked like an angel, your long locks your halo, sleeping peacefully. Breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Chest rising. Your mouth emitting that slight moan that you gave that meant you still felt the pain in your sleep.
I'm not angry you died. In hindsight I am so glad for you to be free of that failing body. You didn't deserve it after all you came through. All the battles you fought and won.
But I do wish I had filled your last days with the love you deserved. I wish I'd had the chance to celebrate you home. I wish I'd had the chance to hold your head and kiss your forehead one more time.
But I gave that away. You taught me not to believe in regret. To honor you I'm choosing not to regret this decision but to learn from it.
I love you and I miss you but I honestly believe we'll see each other again someday. We'll meet at the gates and I'll tell you wonderful stories about your granddaughters and great-granddaughters and maybe even great-great granddaughters.
Until then, I pray I become a good enough person to deserve the spot in heaven I know you are preparing for me. You taught me to love God and strive to be a better person.
To honor you I will do these things. But in order to be the entire person you intended me to be, to be a true and accurate reflection of the woman who raised me, I have to take responsibility and say...
I'm sorry.
You asked me to come help you wash your hair. That's all. You rarely asked me to do anything for you anymore because you felt like your medical condition made you a bother. But your hair, your beautiful, long locks, needed washing and you asked me to help.
But I had better things to do that day. Sitting here right now I can't remember a damn thing about what those things were. I just know at the time they seemed more important than coming over and doing what I said I was going to do.
I eventually showed up at your house, late in the evening. I bolted up the steps, with a feeling of resignation, obligation, like it was, in fact, a burden to be here. Halfway up the steps Tyrone said, "She's already out for the night. Took her night meds."
And I stopped. In the middle of the staircase, I stopped. I didn't proceed up the stairs but I stopped. And I turned around. And I came back down the stairs.
Why? Why did I do that? Why didn't I go upstairs and kiss your forehead. Why didn't I hold your hand? Why the hell didn't I at least peek in on you?
Because I was relieved, that's why. I was relieved I didn't have to wash your hair. I was relieved I dodged the bullet.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Words can't describe how much I regret how I treated you those last few years. I didn't believe your pain. I didn't want to believe it. You were invincible in my mind. I needed you to be. And even as you crumbled before my eyes, I thought you were "faking it."
Even if the outcome would have been the same, I'd give my right arm to go back to that moment and yell, scream at myself to go up those stairs and kiss your forehead. The next time I'd get to kiss your forehead you would be on a cold slab in the mortuary of a hospital, your eyes half open, your mouth agape, with a breathing tube protruding from your lips.
But that night...I bet you looked like an angel, your long locks your halo, sleeping peacefully. Breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Chest rising. Your mouth emitting that slight moan that you gave that meant you still felt the pain in your sleep.
I'm not angry you died. In hindsight I am so glad for you to be free of that failing body. You didn't deserve it after all you came through. All the battles you fought and won.
But I do wish I had filled your last days with the love you deserved. I wish I'd had the chance to celebrate you home. I wish I'd had the chance to hold your head and kiss your forehead one more time.
But I gave that away. You taught me not to believe in regret. To honor you I'm choosing not to regret this decision but to learn from it.
I love you and I miss you but I honestly believe we'll see each other again someday. We'll meet at the gates and I'll tell you wonderful stories about your granddaughters and great-granddaughters and maybe even great-great granddaughters.
Until then, I pray I become a good enough person to deserve the spot in heaven I know you are preparing for me. You taught me to love God and strive to be a better person.
To honor you I will do these things. But in order to be the entire person you intended me to be, to be a true and accurate reflection of the woman who raised me, I have to take responsibility and say...
I'm sorry.
