Mom

“Though we didn’t know right from the start, you reserved a place for me at the forefront of your heart. The day we met when I was six years old is still memorable to me, like the wind in the bitter cold. You wanted me for so long, but I was unaware of how much I needed you to always be there. Though we faltered in our time, I always thought I loved you more. I guess it’s taken me a while, but now I see it’s me that you adore. You were born to be my mother, that much is clear, and now, saying goodbye, I can’t help but shed these tears. Your time with me is ending and I know that you’ll be great. But…what about me? How do I live with this heart break? Death is hardest on the living, because we must keep going, but you get to rest now, which is what you’ve been needing. I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living…my mother you’ll be.” Letter to mom — Emily Welch

Sigh. Hello friends. I’ve put off writing this for over two months now and I don’t think I can do it anymore. If you’ve been attempting to keep up with me, you’ll have read my last post and you’ll know that my mom was on the verge of passing away. Well, as the story goes, our miracle had already happened ten years ago, when she was able to come home, and mom took her last breath in the early morning hours of February 17th 2021.

My dad woke me up at 4am to give me the news and, through my sleep filled eyes, I clung to my father and I cried. I cried for her. I cried for him. I cried for me. I cried for my grandparents. I cried for every person that my mom had touched with her light in her 53 years on this planet. Yes, you read that right, 53 years.

I’d like to get into that part now. It didn’t really hit me, and I didn’t really lose it, until I saw that in writing: 53 years old, November 2, 1967 — February 17 2021. What a short life. Can you believe that? Someone as beautiful and amazing and resilient as my mother…only lived to be 53 years old. And the thing that gets me, and absolutely devastates me…is that that number will never rise. That’s it. That’s the end. Does that make sense?

Well, even if it doesn’t make sense to you, it makes sense to me.

That morning, I came out of my room, I sat on the floor staring at my feet while my mom’s brother, my dad’s brother, my grandparents, and my dad sat around discussing next steps. I let silent tears roll down my face because the finality of it all was coming to fruition. And then, as we discussed, I went back to my room at my dad’s so that I didn’t have to watch my mom’s body being taken. We discussed this with our hospice nurse a week prior, how I was afraid to be there when she went because I was afraid to see her. Afraid. To see my own mom. But I was supported, and I was allowed to go back to my room and talk on the phone with one of my best friends.

That day was a blur. I didn’t know what to do, the house was so empty and quiet. My dad’s brother took care of everything while my dad and I sat in the living room in silence, not knowing what to do or say. How could we know what to do? I am very grateful for my dad’s brother that day. He didn’t have to stay, but he wouldn’t leave his twin to fend for himself. I have so much respect for him. And his wife, who showed up later that day with cleaning supplies, ready to clean the crap out of the house, anything to help my dad.

We went over what she would wear (so unimportant to me), we went over what would be said at the funeral, who would be saying it, and when it would be, because my mom passed away in the middle of a blizzard. A beautiful sentiment, as she was born in one as well. My best friend called me multiple times that day, gave me her password to her amazon account, and told me to rent as many Harry Potter movies as I wanted to dull the pain. A true gem she is. My other best friend sent me a text that perfectly embodied the feelings I felt, and I truly appreciate the care that exuded from my two closest friends.

I wasn’t ready for what came next: the wake, where I would have to see my mother in a casket. God, she looked so beautiful, so painless, she was finally at peace. But that didn’t keep me from collapsing. No matter how prepared you think you might be for the passing of a parent, just know that you aren’t ready for that. I placed my birthstone necklace on top of her chest (I have her birthstone necklace around my neck) and the hat that I made her next to her and allowed my grief to overtake me.

I’m reliving that feeling as I type this, and I am overcome with the same feelings I felt in that moment. So powerful and all consuming, but how lucky am I to have been loved by someone so much that I get to feel this pain? I could see it in her eyes, she didn’t want to leave me, but I told her that it was okay. My last words to my mom were, “I’m leaving the room now mom, I love you, be happy.” She knew she had to go, and she knew that I could handle it because she knew that she would live on through me, until my last breath, that will remain as true as the north star.

And how lucky am I to have felt this love so deeply for someone that I get to feel this grief? And how beautiful and lucky is she, my mom, to have never had to feel the pain that I am feeling right now? She never had to watch her mom or dad leave this earth. She never had to watch her husband or child suffer or say goodbye to us, while she remained broken and left behind. She got to go before anything of the sort happened to her, and I think that she is the lucky one in this scenario. Who’s to say how many more deaths I will have to experience in this life? But one thing remains true and that is that my mom will never have to feel this pain and I am so happy for her.

You’ll never understand what it’s like to lose a parent until it happens to you. You’ll come to realize that the condolences sent to you and the sympathies thrust upon you start to be more annoying than consoling. Like, “Thanks for saying that you’re sorry for my loss, but that means nothing to me. My mom just died. My MOM just DIED. What am I supposed to do with your sorrys?” I don’t mean that disrespectfully, what I’m trying to say is think about that for a moment: what is a sorry going to really do for me? Nothing. It’s going to do nothing but make me want to run and scream and bang my head against a wall because it’s so…generic. It’s so…not heartfelt. But also, what else are you supposed to say to me. It’s a lose/lose situation. I love you for thinking of me, but also, please just…don’t say anything.

Her funeral was beautiful, just like her. The songs that were chosen were perfect for her and the song that I chose was perfect for us. The chorus of the song goes like this: Oh, I’m in pieces, it’s tearin’ me up, but I know a heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been loved, so I’ll sing Hallelujah. You were an angel in the shape of my Mom. When I fell down, you’d be there holding me up, spread your wings as you go and when God took you back, he said Hallelujah, you’re home.

She’s home. With her grandparents and Skidles. Waiting for me and my dad to join her, just like her grandparents and Skidles were waiting for her to join them. I’m holding out hope that there is life after this so that I can see her again and thank her again and apologize again and again for how awful I was to her a child and a teenager and hug her until my arms fall off because…that’s what I want right now.

I want my mom.

Albus Dumbledore said a few amazing things about death and dying that shine for me right now and I’d like to leave you with them: “Do not pity the dead. Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love.” “It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.” “After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” And all these quotes strike me as relevant to this loss of beautiful life and I’ll be holding her memory close to me for the rest of my days, while simultaneously picturing the life she now leads in her own beautiful Heaven.

All the love, from your fave.

X — Your Welch

Original post from my website yourwelch.com