A Letter To My Best Friend

Dear Mom,

Today marks the two year anniversary of your death. It has been a long two years without you physically here. There have been so many things that I have missed about you over these months but most of all it's been your wisdom, hugs, and acceptance. You always loved me no matter what- I never realized how secure you made me feel until you were gone. How I miss that.

I know that we had many conversations before you died. I know that I asked you if you knew how much I loved you, which you assured me you did, and I tried so hard to show you. I tried to be there for many of the treatments and all of the major appointments. I always did my best to be honest about how I was feeling without upsetting you. I came down once a month for a week at a time- and I still wonder if it was enough. We would talk about the past, your worries, and your wishes after you were gone.

I know that I missed your last major medical appointment. I should have been there when the doctor told you dad that it was time to let go of treatment, that hospice was the next step. I should have been there to support the two of you instead of dad having to make the awful phone call. A phone call that we will never forget. Afterwards, I want you to know, all I could think about was getting home to the two of you. I know I was there the following day but it wasn't soon enough for me.

I will never forget coming into your room where you laying on the bed and I just lost it. I apologized to you for crying, you patted my back and said, "You always tell me it's okay to cry." I think of that every time cry I now.

Right before you lost the energy to speak I held you hand on the couch and told you that I had to go home to go get my first u/s pictures of the baby. That I would come back and show you the pictures. I told you that I knew you would be there the day I graduated with my Master's and the day the baby was born. You closed your eyes, smiled a little, and nodded your head.

I never came back with those pictures because it turned out that there was going to be no baby. I had a blighted ovum and I was so devastated. I don't remember the 8- hour drive back to see you and dad. By the time I got back, you could no longer open your eyes or hold my hand... you weren't able to give me that mom hug that I so desperately needed. I couldn't tell you about what happened- what the doctor had said. I was worried that you would leave this world being sad and upset for me. I couldn't bear the thought of that. Although, at the same time I imagined your spirit hoovering over us, watching and hearing us. I think in the end you already knew. Still, we all sat up with you holding your hand, laying next to you, trying to make you as physically comfortable as possible. Dad putting all the Christmas lights up early because he knew how much you loved to look at the living room tree. God, how he loves you still.

I remember K shouting up the stairs that I had better hurry back down to your bedroom. By the time I got there you were already gone. I could tell the moment I was in the room- you weren't there anymore. I knew instantly what people meant when they said, "That didn't look like so-and-so...." I wasn't brave enough to help the hospice nurse clean you up. I wasn't brave enough to watch the funeral home take you away. I think there was a part of me that just couldn't and the other part knew that it wasn't you. I still hated hearing the the doors of that black van slam shut. The turning over of the engine. You were physically gone. I wasn't brave enough to make any phone calls except to my very closest friends.

Three days later I started my first miscarriage.

It wasn't until several months ago that I realized how angry I was at you for leaving me at a time when I needed you so much. I was living in my own personal hell, watching you and the dreams of baby leave me within days of each other. I am sorry I was mad. I know you and I know better then to think that you would leave me in a time of need.

Since your death, I have had conversations with you. I have mostly wondered if you were even there listening, caring. It wasn't until the last couple of months that I realized how frustrating the last year and half has probably been for you. I was in a therapy session after my 5th loss and we were talking about the things that you would say to me. All of a sudden I could hear you shouting at me, while stamping your foot in annoyance, "I am right here!" It was then it hit me. All these months- if I could have set aside what our previous relationship was, if I could have set aside my idea of what I wanted our relationship to be- which was our old relationship- I could have heard you talking to me this entire time.

I am sorry I wasn't listening. Since then I have wondered if things would have been better for me if I had told you about my 1st loss while you were still physically here. And while I certainly believe that the conversations we had were needed, we never talked about how our relationship would change. What it would look like after you were gone. Maybe things would have been different if we had, but here we are. We made it.

One of the conversations that stands out the most to me is when I told you it didn't feel right to laugh or be happy again without you. You told me that it was okay and that's what you wanted for me. I want you to know, I have been trying. The loss of the physical you coupled with the five miscarriages... it hasn't been easy mom. There have been so many days where I have struggled. It's been a tough 3 years if you include the year you diagnosed. But I am trying, I am getting there. It makes me happy to know that you care caring for my five little beans in heaven. I imagine you playing with them while they learn about you, maybe you even tell them stories about me when I was growing up. I have to say though I hope you let me and L keep bean number 6. I know that he or she has spent time with you and it would be nice to have a little bit of you back. Sometimes I think that you actually get the best of both worlds. You get to be with the ones who have gone on and you still get to be with us. Lucky them and you.

The only good thing that has come out of your death, is that I have gotten to know dad better. When I was younger I didn't think that I would be friends with him if I met him on the street. But now... he has a very sweet soft side, a generous side that makes me so proud to say that he is my dad. If I could call a person like him a friend, I would be a lucky lady. So being related is even better. I can see why you married him. I think that he still blames himself for not being able to save you. He told me about a dream he had about you the other week. We were able to bring you back from the dead, but you still had cancer. You were crying in front of him because you were upset that we had brought you back. He just chalked it up to his unconscious. I told him that maybe it was your way of telling him you were happier where you were and to let you be. I hope that I am right.

Mom, people have asked me "How much time would have been long enough with your mom?" The answer is always the same, there could have never been enough time with you. Even if you have lived for another 20 years, I will always feel that I was cheated out of time with you. I am not sure how I can be a mom without you physically here, but I will do my best. If I can be half the person and mom that you were I will be doing just fine. I never feel that anyone can ever give me as great as a compliment as when L says, "You are more like your mom than you think." It always makes me smile.

I miss you and love you more than words can say. While I know that I will never be able to truly show you how much love that is - I will have to trust that you know what I mean since you are a mom.

I am not sure how to end this letter to you so I will just say one final thing...

I hope that our new relationship continues to grow, I love you very, very much, and I still think of you everyday. Love, Your Daughter