Three Years Gone

I haven't written anything in a long time. Tomorrow marks the 3rd anniversary of my mom's death in Houston and I've been dreaming of her, and crying, and having heart palpitations, and bursts of anger and memory overload, among other things.

Sometimes I hesitate to talk about it too much anymore to most people. Everyone wants to be happy, to focus on the positive, and it's just not a happy story. Then I feel bad for feeling bad, which then makes me mad.  It is acceptable for me to feel bad, and it's okay for me to say so. It's okay for you to not want to hear about it, as I'm sure you've got your own things you feel bad about, so feel free to pass.  As a society, we are so uncomfortable with feeling bad. Here's what I'm going to say about my need to feel bad on March 3rd:

I do celebrate my mom's life. We tell happy stories on her birthday. We share memories at Christmas. I think of her multiple times, every single day of my life, laughing, talking, just being. I have beautiful photos of her in my house. But deeply mourning someone's death doesn't mean you don't appreciate the life they had and there is a time for everything. March 3rd is the day when I fully allow myself to feel all the hurt, and anger, and disbelief that simmer below the surface on most days over her horrible, sudden, unnecessary, and utterly preventable death. It's the day I will write to my friend Officer Cooper of the Houston Police Department, to tell him thank you again and that I'll never forget his patience and help. It's the day I will let myself really cry while the kids are at school, sometimes so hard I literally get sick. Or scream myself hoarse into pillows so I don't scare the dog.  It's the day when I look at her things, open the ziploc bags where clothing still holds her scent, touch her lock of hair from the funeral home, and feel the loss completely.

A few years ago, I read Missing Mom, by Joyce Carol Oates. I recently picked it up again, to see if anything resonated differently, now that I am actually an adult woman missing a mom myself. The mom in the book was murdered and my mom died in an accident. So while my mom wasn't taken by an overtly hostile violent act, there is a lot of similarity. So much regret. I'm haunted by all that will forever go unsaid. I will never be able to ask certain questions of her, and as she was the only one with the answer to some of them, that door is closed. Now that I have a teenage daughter of my own, I want so much to call her for advice, or commiseration, and most importantly, to apologize again for being such a complete nightmare when I was a teenager (and again during much of twenties, and several awful months in 2009-2010).

I want to tell her that I'm still sober and that I appreciate all her heavy handedness and "meddling" that maybe saved my life more than once. I want to tell her that her grandsons' voices have changed and they are both taller than their moms. I want to tell her that her granddaughters are all lovely and smart and hilarious and that the 5 cousins are best friends. I want her to know about Kelsey's beautiful wedding, and that I've finally been to Europe and that I love it too, and I wish I'd gotten to travel there with her. I want her to know that her parents are healthy and happy together and doing their thing at the Lake and being there for all of us and that we wanted another 30 years with her too.

I want to tell her that Barack Obama was reelected and Osama bin Laden is dead and that Clay Aiken is going to run for Congress and that marriage equality is a rolling tide. I want to tell her that I am in touch with her best friend Steve's brother and mom and that we share memories about them and that Steve's great-nephew is a huge Hollywood star. I want her to know that she was right that Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony wouldn't last and that Brad Pitt is still married to Angelina Jolie, even though that wouldn't make her happy at all. I want to tell her that her sister has been wonderful to us in her absence, and that I love talking to Auntie Syd on the phone about some of the same things I used to talk to her about. I want to tell her that though she prepared us for life and all its unpredictability, that the hole where she is supposed to be in our lives is bottomless and permanent. That we are doing well, that we have love, and friendship, and family and beauty and joy in our loves and that because we love her so very much, it hurts forever that she doesn't get to be a part of it anymore.

So I can say it all, but I don't get to hear her answers, which is what I really want the most. Truly, I don't know if she hears it, though I hope so with all my heart.

From Missing Mom:
"Something ruptured and began bleeding in my chest when I bent over my mother, when I saw my mother in that way. It will happen to you, in a way special to you. You will not anticipate it, you cannot prepare for it and you cannot escape it. The bleeding will not cease for a long time."

My rupture came with the words, "your mom died in a car accident this morning." And I am still bleeding inside.

I miss you horribly mom, and on March 3rd, I refuse to pull my punches about it.