Letters to Mom 000: I Promise

Standard

I don’t know what to say. I said everything I needed to while I held your hand, running my fingers through your hair like I have for the past two weeks. I told you how much I loved you and how I knew you raised me to be strong. I told you that I knew you loved me that that I knew you were proud of me.

 

I know all of these things. I was so fortunate to have two more weeks with you. I know I am lucky that you made it through the surgery and that you fought through the antiseptics and that I got to talk to you one last time. I’ll always remember how you answered my question of “Do you know who I am?” with your typical eye roll as if to say, “Of course I do. What type of question is that?”

 

I will always be grateful that I was able to be your “water fairy” as I dipped those awful tasting sponge swabs into cups of water for you.

 

I am so fortunate that I was able to give two weeks of my life to you for the lifetime of love and support you gave me.

 

We’re lucky that the family was able to be together one last time. That you got to see Jace one last time. We got the “One Last Time” that everyone wishes that they had. The last goodbye, the last hug, the last “I love you.”

 

I’m sorry I left the hospital to go home and sleep. I’m sorry that even though on the inside it felt wrong, that I did it anyway because everyone kept telling me to go home and sleep and eat, and all of these silly, mundane, everyday things that could have waited while I held your hand just a little longer.

 

I will always cherish the memories of falling asleep in that horrible hospital chair next to your bed, listening to your breathing as if it were my very own personal lullaby.

 

I love you so much mom and I know you raised me to get through this. I’m sorry that it hurts right now and that I can’t seem to stop crying even though my eyes burn, my head hurts, and my nose can’t take much more abuse from all of these stupid tissues.

 

You were and are so loved. You cared about so many people and helped everyone that you met. Lio said the best comment today in the car as we drove home from the hospital. You took in more kids then you took in stray cats. And that’s saying a lot for how many cats we had.

 

That comment made me smile so much because it’s so true and the perfect picture of who you are. You loved unconditionally. You gave freely. You were the kindest, most generous person I have ever had the honor of meeting. And how awesome is it that I get to say that you were my mom? Pretty freaking awesome, right?

 

You were my best friend, my mentor, my confidant, my role model.

 

I know I will make it through this, and I’m so sorry that right now I don’t understand how. I’m sorry that I don’t have a plan or road map and that I don’t understand how to deal with these emotions because I can’t figure out what they are. It’s just this giant rat’s nest of a ball inside my chest.

 

Thank you for everything you ever did for me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being there and carrying on when dad left. Thank you for taking me to marching band practice and making turtle bars and proof reading my essays and listening to me bitch about relationship drama and whining about John being a jerk. Thank you for always letting me come visit when I needed to get away from my life. Thank you for going out to Moe’s with me, always, no questions asked. Thank you for the million, countless things that I never thanked you for, for the things I don’t know about, for being you. Thank you for being awesome and for loving me.

 

I miss you even though I know you’re not really gone. I know with time it will get easier, and I know that if you were here you would hug me and tell me that it will be ok. I’ll get better. I promise.

 

I promise I’ll keep making you proud. I promise I won’t give up or fall to pieces. I promise to fight through the depression I know will follow the first time I realize I can’t call you for advice.

 

I’m not going to say goodbye because I know you’re still with me. I’m not going to let myself feel alone or lost because I know I’m not even though part of my brain feels that way. It’s like Aunt Brenda said, you and I come from a long line of strong women and I will honor that line by being strong as well. I will continue on and I will bring you honor in everything I do. You made me who I am. You prepared me for life, and you gave me the greatest gift anyone could ever have.

 

You gave me “One last time.”

 

I love you so much, mom. Forever and always. Thank you, and be at peace knowing that I will be ok. I promise.

 

mom1

Linked to the Daily Prompt to
share with my fellow writers. 

Advertisements

4 thoughts on “Letters to Mom 000: I Promise

  1. Oh, Jen… I thought I was just going to check in to see how things were going. I’m so so sorry the situation turned this way. No promises needed. You will make your mother proud as long as you live, because you are a wonder to behold. I’m grateful that you were able to spend time with her. I wish it could have been longer. My tears and thoughts are with you, friend. Be kind to your mind and your heart and your body. They will get you through this, but will need your kindness to recover.

    Liked by 1 person

Greetings traveler! Leave your tidings here.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s