Missing My Mom
Missing My Mom
From the day I lost my mom, I knew that one day, when the time came for me to have another baby, it would be one of the hardest part of losing her.
When I finally saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test, I was overjoyed, but felt a little bit like a ticking time bomb. I knew it would hit me eventually, but if there is anything I’ve learned about grief, it’s that you can never imagine WHEN it will hit you.
Would it be when we told our family, and she wouldn’t be there to scream the loudest?
Would it be when I don’t get her daily texts and calls, checking on her little momma and grand baby?
Would it be the first time I had a weird symptom that I wanted to ask her about?
The first time there was a questions about my medical history, that only she would remember?
Would it be the first time I held my baby, and knew that they would never meet their Mimi?
But it first hit me when I set up the baby registry, when I really began to dream about standing in the babies room, seeing it all come together, and imaging my wee one in that room, and I’d flashback to walking through Hobby Lobby with my mom, who couldn’t control herself and kept piling my cart full of all the cute nursery items. I flashed back to standing in the nursery next to my mom, both of us beaming with joy staring at our hard work…decals on the babies wall. The first time I had just begun to walk a mile in her shoes, the first time I began to understand her better than I ever had before. The first time in ages, that I felt like a little girl who needed her momma. The first time, we had felt reeally close, in a long time.
I don’t know yet who this little baby is. I know that no matter what, they will be fiercely loved. The last time I talked to my mom over the phone, and I knew it was goodbye, I couldn’t possibly think of all the things I really wanted to say, so I just did my best to express my love and appreciation of her, and I said one last goodbye. But after our phone call, I knew I had one last request. I texted my sister, who was sitting next to my mom, and asked her to tell my mom to go up to heaven, and pick out a little baby for us.
Over the years I’ve wondered if my mom was anxiously wondering why we we’re quite ready for that little baby yet, but now that this time has come, I’d love the satisfaction of imagining that she’s met this little one, and hand picked them for me. Because it’s really damn hard to imagine having a child who doesn’t know my mom.
It’s hard to know exactly how you would reacts to a bad situation, until you’re in the thick of it.
When your mom is dying of cancer,
When the toll it’s taking on your dad is so severe that you wonder if you will loose both parents,
When your parents are facing losing their home because the medical bills, and finding time to go to work has been too overwhelming,
When your husband is working odd jobs with crazy schedules, because all the jobs in the oil field dried up,
When the responsibility of fixing it all rests heavy on your shoulders,
When your toddler is so sensitive to your emotions, that they react to all your stress with ATTITUDE,
then you see a bit of what you’re made of.
And I think I’m tough.
But I realized tough isn’t not crying, and not feeling.
Tough is embracing all your emotions.
Know that you’re angry that instead of sitting next to your mom for hours and hours, and talking about everything you could possibly think you needed to discuss before she’s gone, or reading to her, or watching a movie with her, there were too many things to do. Nurses to talk to, insurances reps to fuss at, bed sheets to be changes, food to be prepared, medicine to be administered, a toddler to care for.
Angry that if things had been done differently in the beginning, they would have never, should have never, gotten as bad as they did.
Knowing that you feel ripped off, that you feel robbed of what was going to be the best years of your relationship.
Letting yourself have an ugly cry, or even a yell.
Then getting up, letting it all go,
So here I’ll sit, building my Amazon bay registry through a this pool of tears, and I’m thankful for the emotions. Getting through that first moment, that realizing I’m having his baby without my mom, punched me in the gut. And realizing that I’m okay, I can do this. I can be happy, there can be so much joy, but I’ll always have these moments, these moments of good hard cries, and painful, bittersweet memories. Moments of healing, and moving forward.
Probably so many more to go.