The calendar tells me it's been one year. And since this was a leap year, that makes it 366 days. 527,040 minutes. 31,622,400 seconds. The larger that number gets, the further away it may seem from her last day, but for me, no matter how big that number is, it's too soon.
Too soon. My mom was barely 60 years old on the day she passed away. Just a few weeks earlier, we had gathered around the dining room table, a place where we had celebrated so many birthdays before, and we celebrated her. We sang. We smiled. We laughed. And each one of us, despite what we said aloud, wondered if this would be our last time to celebrate with her. Things had changed so quickly. Wasn't it possible they could change back just as fast? Wasn't there some doctor, some treatment that could bring our lives back to normal? It was too soon for this to be her last birthday. She had so much life left to live.
Too soon. Once we accepted that our time left with her was truly limited, it was terrifying how quickly it went by. Every day, hospice told us to expect it at any moment. So we didn't take any moment for granted. We sat by her side. We told stories. We sorted through memories. We each took turns having some alone time with her and sleeping by her side. We never left her. The nurses told us she would go when she was ready. So we waited for her to be ready, something we knew the rest of us would never truly be.
Too soon. It was before midnight when I fell asleep holding her hand, but the clock read just past 3 a.m. when suddenly I was woken up as if someone had tapped me on the shoulder. It was a gentle awakening, but I immediately sat up and grabbed for her hand; I had let it go in my sleep. The house was silent. My brother was curled up next to her in bed. Kayla and Lindsay were both asleep on the couch. My dad and uncle were asleep in the living room. It was just me and her. Her breathing was slow, and I knew it would only be minutes. I didn't dare leave her side because I didn't want her to be alone. I told her I loved her. I told her we'd be okay. And after just a minute or two more, she took her last breath. I sat holding her hand, watching that last breath and silently crying because it was just too soon.
Too soon. So much of the past year has been such a blur. The weeks that followed that last breath were full of details that I never dreamed I would deal with so soon. My brother and I choosing funeral arrangements. My dad and I learning about survivor benefits. My grandmother and I transferring power of attorney. So many details. Health insurance. Wills. Life insurance. Social security. All I could do was breathe. And think of her last breath. It came too soon.
Too soon. When I went back to work, it felt too soon. When the holidays came, it felt too soon. When my birthday passed without hearing her voice, it was too soon. Every time the phone rang because someone wanted to check in or share a memory they had, it was too soon. None of it felt real. Would it ever feel real?
So, as today grew closer, the realization that it would officially be one year washed over me. It should have been no surprise that it felt too soon. But my anxiety about this day has only grown, and I've been trying to figure out why. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it's because it IS too soon. I'm not ready for what a year means. I'm not ready to be in less pain. I'm not ready to be in less of a fog. I'm not ready because the pain hasn't lessened and the reality hasn't set in. I'm not ready to give away the remainder of her belongings. And I'm afraid that once a year passes, the world will expect me to be in a better place. And the truth is, I just don't know that I am. Because I still miss her with every breath. I miss her through every second. And it all feels too soon.
But here it is. One year. How did that happen? So much has happened. So many times I've reached for the phone to call her just to remember all over again that she is gone. So many times I've caught myself thinking, "I can't wait to tell mom," just to remind myself that I can't. So many times I've needed her advice and sat in silence waiting to find it within myself. Each of these moments leaves me thinking of all the moments she won't be here for in the future, and I crumble on the inside. It's just too soon. And while I know that she is still here with me - that she is with all of us - it just isn't the same. It will never be the same.
And while it's not the same, I know I need to continue forward and honor her life. I dare say that no one knew my mom better than me, so I know how she would want us all to shape our daily lives. She would want us to live each moment to its fullest. She would want us to embrace love and continue to enjoy each day. She would want us to believe that she is still with us, even though she is not here.
So, today, I hope you will all join me in a toast to my mom:
"I wish you could have been there for the sun & the rain & the long, hard hills. For the sound of a thousand conversations scattered along the road. For the people laughing & crying &; remembering at the end. But, mainly, I wish you could have been there."
Mom - I miss you with every breath, I love you with every heart beat, and I wish you could be here for every second. And though you were taken too soon, thank you for leaving this world and our lives a better place. Thank you for being the voice in my head that guides me through each day. Today and every day, I celebrate you and the legacy of love you've left behind.
No comments:
Post a Comment