Last week my oldest daughter had to write an unsent letter for school. The letter was to be addressed to the author of a favourite novel, and at first I thought it was a bit of an odd assignment. But as she worked on it, I realized that there was a lot of learning going on. She was called upon to think about a number of things she would like to say to someone she admires but will never speak to in person. Knowing the letter would be unsent meant there would be no response, so questions were not an option. And that reminded me of a number of one-way conversations I’ve been having in my mind lately. Conversations with my Mom.
As the months pass since her death, I don’t find myself as overwhelmed by the simple, unbelievable fact of her absence from my life anymore. I am coming to terms with that. But it’s that selfsame coping that brings on a whole new kind of sadness. I am moving on, living life – without her. And although I’m often struck by things I want to ask her (did she get hot flashes at night starting at 40? When did it end? Is it part of menopause?) I am more often struck by things I want to tell her. My oldest daughter toured her new middle school last week, my youngest is reading fluently, I just started a new job…
So instead of talking to her in my head (usually in the wee, wee hours of the morning), I’ve decided to take a page from my daughter’s schoolbook and write my Mom a letter.
Dear Mom,
It has been nine months to the day (indeed, almost to the hour) since you died. During that time I have come so far and accomplished so much, and because I know you would be proud of me, I want to tell you all about it, as though you were still able to listen and hear and smile.
I remember, just a few days before you died, when I was sitting at your bedside, you asked me if I was going to be able to manage. “Manage what?” I asked. “You know, all this: everything,” you replied. I knew what you meant. You meant that I was losing my mother, my marriage was struggling, my children were still young, I lived far away from the rest of my family and when the chips were down, was I going to be able to cope with it all?
I told you I would, but at the time I doubted it. I said, “Of course I will. I mean, what else can you do?” And in the end, as fatalistic as it sounds, there were days when that was true. Days when I just wanted to curl up in a ball under my covers and never wake up. But I couldn’t. So I didn’t. I got up, I got help, I got moving, and Mom: I’ve come so far.
I’m teaching again – and I love it so much! Each day that I work I wake up excited and come home invigorated (if a little weary). I have started running, and I’m keeping up my yoga lessons, too. The girls are doing great, and even C. is going off to school happily (pretty much) every day and hasn’t had a temper tantrum in ages.
You’ll never believe it, but I’m happier now than I can remember being in…well…years. Not pretend-happy, not too-afraid-of-the-alternative-happy, not denial-happy. Just: happy. I’ve made a lot of changes in my personal life, not the least of which is learning how to say “no” (yes, even to my children!), which I hope is a page I copied from your life’s book. I’ve also begun to let go of much of the fear and need for approval that held the old me back from pursuing my own happiness, and that in turn has freed me to let go of expectations so I can take everyone (including myself) at their own worth. One piece of wisdom you passed on to us while you were sick was this: “don’t judge people,” and it wasn’t until now that I was finally able to see how to do it. We judge people (including ourselves) by expectations: ours, their own, other people’s. When we ignore those expectations, we’re free to enjoy small joys in every day and in every person, including ourselves.
I want to thank you, Mom, for everything you taught me…for those lessons I learned in the good times (when I didn’t even know I was learning them), through the terribly hard lessons learned by your illness and death. Without all of those lessons (good and bad) I wouldn’t be where I am today.
And where I am today is (if a little – well, a lot – lonelier without you) the best place I’ve ever been. I’m comfortable with and confident in myself, my choices, my life and my future. I feel strong, able and, best of all: happy. And I know that, in no small way, I owe it to you.
I only wish you were here to share it with.
Love,
your ever-loving daughter Katherine
Beautifully expressed, thank you. Makes me miss my mom too!
Wow Kath….just wow! I didn’t know your mom, but I feel like she’s hanging with my mom somewhere and cheering us on….and you’re doing great!!!! I realized this weekend that I’ve now lived a quarter of my life without her physically being here – and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Keep up the fight!!!
Oh, Kath. This is awesome. I am so proud of you. Mom would be proud of you too. But not because of all of this, but because she always was. That was the gift she gave us all. I love you.
God I barely got through “Dear Mom” before my tears started.
This is a great idea that I may have to implement myself.
I lost my best friend 9 months ago. She’s been gone longer than she was sick. Everyday I can’t believe she’s gone. Sometimes it takes my breath away and I have to remind myself to just breathe.
Your letter to your mom is a beautiful tribute to the woman she was and the woman you’ve become.