If words could make wishes come true

Dear Mama,

Today is Mother's Day 2023.

I'm writing this from the chair in your hospital room. We've had a truly hell of a day. Grammar be damned. But that's not for this post. 

This post is about how much I love you. How grateful I am that you're my mama, and that you're still with us.

On Tuesday I brought the kids, and we told you how much we loved you. I held your hand, and told you it was OK for you to let go, if that's what you needed to do. I said we were strong enough to help you stay, and strong enough to survive if you go.

I told you that I'm the mother I am because of you. That my kids are as terrific as they are because they've grown up with you.

I said these things and more, and I told you that if you were ready to go, to please know that we would be OK.

And you said, "As far as I know, I'm not leaving now, but I will one day."

I hope and pray that that day is far away. Or at least far enough away that you get some joyful time at home with us again first.

You know, my kids don't remember a minute of their lives without you living with us, and this has been such a treasure. How cozy, how beautiful, to know that whenever you wanted to, you could walk upstairs and find your Nana. Crawl into Nana's bed. Watch TV and chat. 

I'm grateful that you've been an everyday part of our lives.  

The kids are kinder, more understanding humans because of this. 

Jordan walks to the store with you so he can carry the heavy bags. India loves going on outings with you to CVS and the cute store. She takes the wheelchair so you can walk as much as you can, but you've got the wheels when you need them.

Just a few weeks ago you and India were goofing around on the kitchen floor like you used to.

I think about all these activities that we considered so prosaic, and I wonder if they will happen again.

Now I'm focusing not even day by day, but hour by hour. 

Sometimes in smaller increments.

I've had that line, "Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours..." running through my head. Also, Time in a Bottle. But I can't really think about it much because even on a non-sad day, that song makes me cry.

And I can't stop crying. 

Absolute strangers have comforted me in the hospital hallway. Yesterday I cried at a lovely woman doing wine tastings in Whole Foods. And then she told me her mom had a broken shoulder.

This Mothers Day, I know a lot of people grieving or pre-grieving or hoping but truly scared.

We send each other love all the time.

I have an incredibly loving community, and for that, I am grateful.

You still have your humor, in starts and fits. Yesterday I was playing you healing mantras up by your ear while you slept. And at a certain point you were like, "OK. Enough with the mantras."

Last night after a bit of a crisis, when you were hooked up to blood in one arm and a drip in the other, Nick said that if those gave you superpowers, he would just ask that you only use them for good.

And you said, "I really wish you hadn't said that."

The Wednesday before last, our last normal day, I drove you to an appointment. And on the way home I referred to another driver as a "fucking asshole" and you giggled.

I knew why. When I don't swear while driving you'll say things like, "Well. I guess there aren't any fuckers on the road today?"

Which is all the better because you never swear. 

Today is not the Mother's Day I would wish for you, or for me. In fact, I would wish it on nobody, with perhaps one or two exceptions.

Even though I believe in karma.

But on the whole, I'm kind and generous, and I'm this way because of you.

Thank you for everything, every gift you've given me. Everything you've shared.

I know I won't always have you right here, but you're always in my heart, and always will be.

I love you five. I love you almost more than I can bear.

Love,

Lisa