Friday, May 10, 2013
I see you sometimes. I sometimes dream that you're trying to tell me something. My most recent dream was we were standing in someone's yard and you were smiling at me. Then you got on a bus and you'd look at me through the window as you rode away and I was helpless to tell you what I wanted to tell you. I'd wake up with a sadness pulling on my heart that I'd let a rare opportunity slip away.
I just want to let you know that I get it. I'd always felt a little out of place growing up, as I was shoved from one household to the next. I know you had no control over that. I also understand how hard it must've been with a new baby, your own daughter, and two stepdaughters and to have to raise us all on your own while Dad was away must've been horribly exhausting. I know that wasn't easy for you. You must've felt pulled between wanting to push on or give up every day. I understand the divide of your own children versus your stepchildren because I'm a stepmom, too. I don't fault you for that. You did the best with the hand you were dealt. It wasn't always easy for either one of us but you were there when my birth mom wasn't and I appreciate that. I also appreciate that you never once spoke ill of my birth mom and even encouraged my contact with her. You wanted to preserve that innocence I had about her, you wanted to allow me to form my own opinion of it all, and I love you for that more than you'll ever know.
Some of my favorite memories came when I found out I was pregnant with my first son. The look on your face when you found out (and the ecstatic scream that ensued thereafter) made me so happy. I was so looking forward to my boys being with their Nana. I'm sorry I was mad at you for missing my baby shower. If I'd known that I was going to lose you that night, I would've gladly skipped my own baby shower to spend time with you.
I show the boys pictures of you. I tell them stories about us, even about the time short, little you, prevented my cocky, teenage self from leaving the house. "She was like a miniature linebacker," I tell them, and we all laugh, though it makes me a little sad. I feel a little bad for them. I see the people around me and how they have these wonderful, fulfilling relationships with their grandchildren and my boys don't have that. I sometimes imagine what it would've been like the last 7 1/2 years if you'd pulled through that pulmonary embolism. I hate that the last memory I have of you is of Michelle weeping over your body as the machines jerked your body in an unnatural form of breathing. She was petting your head and begging you not to go just yet. And then I felt my baby kick and it was almost more than I could bear.
When Zachary was born, you were supposed to stay with me for a few days to help me get adjusted to being a new mommy. Not having you there was horrible but there was this balloon we'd brought home from the hospital... it comforted me to think that maybe you were in the house anyway, that even death wouldn't keep you away. That balloon was really weird; it moved by itself all over the house, even passing through door frames, and mostly it stayed by the bassinet. It could've been the central unit but it was nice to think that maybe you were making that happen.
In any case, if it isn't clear. I miss you so much. I don't know why, but this seems to be one of the hardest Mother's Days that I've gone through since you passed on from this world. I just want you to know that I still love you, that I still think about you. Though I admit that I don't visit your grave often, you are still in my heart. I love you. Happy Mother's Day.