Anniversary
Dear mum,
It's the 21st of September today, 2023. It's three years to the day you moved on.
I decided to start a blog today, to write you little letters and keep you updated on the things you haven't been able to be around for. In person, because I know if you can, you will always be there in spirit.
This post is about that day. The day we were called to come to the hospital to, maybe, say goodbye to you. I say "maybe", as I clung fiercely to hope that you'd open your eyes and greet us "hello". Maybe.
I was playing Fallout 76 with Kevin on the PS4. My heart was in my throat the whole time, anxiously waiting to hear something from you. I don't know how many times I called, but none of them were answered, and I figured you must be with the doctors and couldn't pick up. This was Sunday night, the day you went into hospital, and Kevin stayed up with me the whole time, as Sunday became Monday. Early hours, still no word on how you were.
It wasn't like other times you had been to hospital, and not just because you kept in touch with me the whole time then. This one was just more painful. More desperate, praying - when I hadn't prayed in a long time - for you to be okay.
I can't remember the exact time I got a call from you, but I remember feeling some sense of relief that I had, even though you didn't sound well at all. I remember telling Kevin, "I'm sure she will feel better after a sleep, and I'll hear from her in the morning."
I never thought about that being our last call. I never imagined, sitting with you on the couch that Sunday, where we linked pinkies and you promised you'd fight to come back, would be the most devastating promise I'd ever have made to me. The last time I'd see you. As you were.
"Goodnight, love you millions. Byeeeeeeee," your last words to me. The end, said like Alaska on Rupaul's Drag Race. Our thing, every time we ended a call.
I remember that giving me hope, you're fighting strong, you're holding on.
* * * * *
Did you hear it, mum? The howling when the call from the doctor came, telling us to get to you... I never made a sound like that in my life, not even in my worst injuries. Worse than a wounded animal, it was uncontrollable and it was coming from me.
I was still in my pyjamas, running in to walls as I tried to find my clothes. "No," I told dad. "No, we are going to go and bring her home. No."
No.
We - dad, Mark, Jason, Demi and me - sat in the waiting room, for what felt like a decade. Making small talk, trying not to cry and, I imagine, all talking to God in some way; asking that he don't take you. Not now. Not ever, mum.
I stared out the window the whole time, trying not to look at anyone so not to suck up their sadness and let it out for them. It was too heavy. There was a tree right in front of the window, and I started a little game with it. Whether it was through wishful thinking, pareidolia, or some miracle, I saw the leaves form your face a few times. Perfectly. It was you. And every time I saw it, I stacked more hope on top of the little I was holding on to, telling myself it meant that you'd be okay - you were sending me that message.
No. Instead, I think it was your goodbye.
I held your hand for a little while, mum. Did you feel it? I squeezed, maybe a little too hard, and I begged you to squeeze back. When you didn't, I promise I never took it personally. I hope you heard me when I told you how strong you were, and how hard you fought. I hope you heard me telling you it was okay. I remember as I said it, that's when you went - so maybe you did hear.
The most loving mum anyone could ask for. My best friend. Gone, and I'll always wonder where, and how I can visit. But until that day, when we are able to meet once more and link pinkies... mum, I wish you were here.
Wish you were here...
It's the 21st of September today, 2023. It's three years to the day you moved on.
I decided to start a blog today, to write you little letters and keep you updated on the things you haven't been able to be around for. In person, because I know if you can, you will always be there in spirit.
This post is about that day. The day we were called to come to the hospital to, maybe, say goodbye to you. I say "maybe", as I clung fiercely to hope that you'd open your eyes and greet us "hello". Maybe.
I was playing Fallout 76 with Kevin on the PS4. My heart was in my throat the whole time, anxiously waiting to hear something from you. I don't know how many times I called, but none of them were answered, and I figured you must be with the doctors and couldn't pick up. This was Sunday night, the day you went into hospital, and Kevin stayed up with me the whole time, as Sunday became Monday. Early hours, still no word on how you were.
It wasn't like other times you had been to hospital, and not just because you kept in touch with me the whole time then. This one was just more painful. More desperate, praying - when I hadn't prayed in a long time - for you to be okay.
I can't remember the exact time I got a call from you, but I remember feeling some sense of relief that I had, even though you didn't sound well at all. I remember telling Kevin, "I'm sure she will feel better after a sleep, and I'll hear from her in the morning."
I never thought about that being our last call. I never imagined, sitting with you on the couch that Sunday, where we linked pinkies and you promised you'd fight to come back, would be the most devastating promise I'd ever have made to me. The last time I'd see you. As you were.
"Goodnight, love you millions. Byeeeeeeee," your last words to me. The end, said like Alaska on Rupaul's Drag Race. Our thing, every time we ended a call.
I remember that giving me hope, you're fighting strong, you're holding on.
* * * * *
Did you hear it, mum? The howling when the call from the doctor came, telling us to get to you... I never made a sound like that in my life, not even in my worst injuries. Worse than a wounded animal, it was uncontrollable and it was coming from me.
I was still in my pyjamas, running in to walls as I tried to find my clothes. "No," I told dad. "No, we are going to go and bring her home. No."
No.
We - dad, Mark, Jason, Demi and me - sat in the waiting room, for what felt like a decade. Making small talk, trying not to cry and, I imagine, all talking to God in some way; asking that he don't take you. Not now. Not ever, mum.
I stared out the window the whole time, trying not to look at anyone so not to suck up their sadness and let it out for them. It was too heavy. There was a tree right in front of the window, and I started a little game with it. Whether it was through wishful thinking, pareidolia, or some miracle, I saw the leaves form your face a few times. Perfectly. It was you. And every time I saw it, I stacked more hope on top of the little I was holding on to, telling myself it meant that you'd be okay - you were sending me that message.
No. Instead, I think it was your goodbye.
I held your hand for a little while, mum. Did you feel it? I squeezed, maybe a little too hard, and I begged you to squeeze back. When you didn't, I promise I never took it personally. I hope you heard me when I told you how strong you were, and how hard you fought. I hope you heard me telling you it was okay. I remember as I said it, that's when you went - so maybe you did hear.
The most loving mum anyone could ask for. My best friend. Gone, and I'll always wonder where, and how I can visit. But until that day, when we are able to meet once more and link pinkies... mum, I wish you were here.
Wish you were here...
