Mom,I’ve tried talking to you. Sometimes, I pretend to call you up on the phone, and I even hear your responses ring in my ear. But lately, it hasn’t been enough. I’ve got so much I want to tell you, and pretend-talking to you just isn’t fulfilling my needs. So, I’m writing to you. I’m handwriting to you. And somehow, I feel you with me. So I thought, if mom were here, she’d say, go share this with the world. Other grievers might like to know that writing to their loved one might bring a sense of peace. You are always finding ways to inspire me.Which brings me to what caused me to start writing to you in the first place.I’ve been thinking about you in different ways than I was when you first passed. By the way, it’s been almost four months since I last saw you. It’s been more than six months since we last had a conversation that wasn’t about cancer. And it’s been nearly eight months since I started having real problems.Before your cancer, my life was easy. Of course, I didn’t know it was easy – though you were sure to remind me here and there. I decided my life became hard when you got cancer eight months ago. This is a real problem, I’d tell myself, over and over again until I was sobbing on my bedroom floor, unable to breathe, teeth clenched with anger and resentment at God, at the universe, at you. This went on during your illness, especially during those last three weeks of your life. And especially after you passed. This is a problem that won’t go away. This means my life is bad, wrong, messed up, there is no going back to normalcy. These thoughts ruined me for a while.I know the last thing you’d ever want is for your illness and your death to be the reason my life is not okay or easy anymore. And that’s mainly what I’ve been thinking about lately.I remember so clearly and painfully, the day I rushed home to Pennsylvania. You had just gotten emergency surgery, one that would change your life forever. At the time, we were told that you still had a full life to live. The worst part about everything for you was your colostomy bag. We were told it was permanent, but that it saved your life. Oh, what I’d give if that were the only worry to this day. Still, deep down, I couldn’t shake the idea that this would somehow go so wrong, and that I might lose you forever.I came straight to the hospital. Everyone had gone home to rest, so it was just you and I. We stayed up late, crying. Me, imagining a world without you; you, imagining a world with a poop bag attached to your side, or worse, not surviving this. You told me your fears that night. I remember them word for word:”I’m not afraid of dying. I’ll be dead, it won’t matter to me. What I’m afraid of is what will happen to my kids. I’m afraid one or more of you won’t be okay. I’m afraid one of you might not survive this.”I cried in agreeance. It was true. The thought of you dying for me was unbearable. It paralyzed me. No eating, no drinking water, no smiling, so long as the thought of you dying was anywhere near my mind. I told you this, but I also assured you that I would be okay somehow. I couldn’t say the same for my siblings, but I would be okay. However, I in no way believed that. I was terrified, stunned, numb at times, but torn apart for the most part. I would never be okay, I thought. But again, I heard the words exit my mouth, “I’ll be okay, Mom.”You responded with, “I know.”I overlooked your confidence in me in that moment. In fact, your response almost angered me. How dare her think I could live without her. Doesn’t she know how important she is to me? I held onto that anger throughout the last few weeks of your life. How dare her refuse to eat. How dare her not want to talk to us, knowing she might not have very long. How dare her choose this! How dare her die! I redirected that anger to other areas of my life – the doctors, my relationship, my career, my friendships, my family. Of course, in the end, that anger was only truly hurting myself.Since you died, anger filled me up every morning, and I spent each day finding ways to expell it. It was very difficult for me until recently, when I started thinking about what I’ve been thinking about lately.Your fears were just. None of us are okay. How could we be okay, Ma? We lost the one person who made us feel okay. There have been days where I want to stop living because you are gone and I need you. That is what I tell myself over and over again. And the thought drives me crazy. I need her, she is not here, so I should go.Don’t worry. I’m not going to stop living. I assure you of that, and this time, I mean it.I just want you to know that your passing has had a huge impact on me.The good part about it, though — yes, there is a good part — is that, that very impact that drives me towa

Source: A Letter to Mama, if you’re reading… | The Grief Toolbox