We made it home safely. I know that if you were still here you would have wanted me to call you and tell you that. You would have thanked me for another wonderful weekend, and made me promise to come back again soon, because you couldn’t stand to be away from your grandbaby for too long. She misses you already, but even a three year old understands that you are better off now that you’re free from a body consumed by cancer.  

We checked on dad before we left today. I don’t know yet if he is going to be ok. He stands alone in the life you both built together over the past 36 years.

It’s time to return to “normal”, but everywhere I turn is a void that only you could fill.  All the family has gone back home, the flower that filled your room have wilted, and the medical supplies have been stripped away, making me question if this really was all a nightmare and I am finally waking up. This time is supposed to be the calm after the storm, but I can sense a cloud chasing me, and I feel like if I stand still for a moment it will engulf me in it’s darkness.

You would have loved your service. I want to call you and tell you how precious your sunday school group was as they stood and sang “Jesus Loves Me”, and how it shattered me as the voices of 200+ adults joined in their song for you, but I kept it together. I kept it together when my sister told me that you had passed while she sat by your side. I kept it together while we told your granddaughter that even though you love her so much, and would always love her, she would never see you again. I kept it together as I watched a multitude of people pour through the church doors to thank you for being a blessing in their lives. I held it together as your husband shook with sobs while your daughter sang “Don’t Cry For Me”.  I’ve never seen dad cry before, and for some reason I kept it together. Now we’re home, and I can’t call you and talk about how pretty all the tulips look blooming in front of your house, I won’t be able to call you  and tell you when we’re finally having another baby, you won’t be there to help your sons plans their weddings, you aren’t going to see Mia grow up, and I am falling apart.

 

I wrote this almost a year ago, the night after my mothers memorial service.It’s taken me a lot of time to sort through my emotions, and back then it was just too raw to share how I was feeling. I am sharing this now, because I know there are millions of others who have experienced something similar, or who have friends who have gone through this. I think it’s important to share stories, to bring encouragement, healing, and understanding. I know it is therapeutic for me to write it, and maybe it will be therapeutic for someone else to read it.  I am sending this out with lot’s of love, and I can say almost a year since writing this, that things have gotten easier in some ways. I welcome your stories, and questions. This is a safe place to share.

 

Xoxo,

-Anna

 

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