family

But I Am Not Done with You Yet

May 5, 2013 - By 

In the end, you think about the many times she danced through the living room holding the cat, with those tiny cat antlers it used to hate. The times she dressed at the vanity in her room draping jewelry on and your eight-year-old eyes thought it was magic. You dreamed she was beautiful and then wished years away so you could grow fast forward. You asked her to twirl. She did and spun you around. She held your hand and said I love you and then she gave you a kiss before heading off to the dance with a friend.

no_done_with_you_yet

The grief fills you with an overwhelming sad stone in your chest you think you may drown in your tears. You miss her even before she is gone and then you hope a moment and you recall that she said just last night: “You are the best daughter. I could never ask for a better daughter. You have been so good to me. I am sorry I have been so much trouble.” You whisper: “You were never any trouble. You are the best Mom I could ever ask for and I love you,” and what you meant to say when all those nurses were crowded round with tubes and masks and questions was: “I would pick you every time and I remember every lesson you ever taught me, every time I brought home an A and you praised it, every byline you were so proud of when you read my name. I forget the arguments. I forget how mad you were last month when I forgot to call.

You hope you showed enough kindness and love and made the right choices for her at the end when she asked you to be the adult, take over for awhile if I cannot get better and speak. You wish the world had bent for her, opened up at her feet, offered her rose petals every time she walked down the hall to dinner in her retirement home. She was kind and caring and good. She built kids. She moulded brains and bodies and grade two spirits and showed them a world of possible pathways. She took their hands and coached them down this one, or that, depending on their jewels. And she had the strongest heart that ever beat. You remember your heart grew just under hers and you start to weep again. When did it start to function independent of hers? At birth? Nearing death? Did it ever?

Little Losses

You think then of the little losses mounting up. The grandmas now all gone. Your children will never do the things they planned with grandma. You remember the first time you made her Grandma. She never minded that name. In fact she loved it, embraced it, shook it, made it an excuse to shop weekly bringing grand-daughters new treasures. T-shirt here. Skirt there. So many pretty dresses, hard to resist.
Picture perfect the first time she met her first grand-daughter and she held her as if she were you again. She looked at her with awe, instant fully born love that never changed. The first car grandma promised to first grand-daughter, the moment she would come and see her grand-daughter graduate from high school. The times your baby said: “when I am a bit older I will walk to grandma’s retirement home after school and help her. “You wish it so hard for your kids that you are that eight-year-old wide-eyed girl again. You wish with eyes closed and pray to a God you haven’t spoken to in years because, why? Well, because she believed he is there. Maybe, you think, this will help.
You lose bits of future and it is now a different shape, a chair with three legs. You see someone at emergency looking like death is near and they are passing and then two hours later that woman gets up and walks away with her daughter smiling. You think this is some cruel joke. Two weeks ago your Mom looked better than her. She was all dressed up, surely she has more to give. How is this possible? Who chooses? Why? Anger courses through your veins. You feel ashamed because she taught you better than that. Even still.
There were days you were sick and she came by Greyhound, then city bus to hospital. You inhaled her before she was even in the room. You knew the sound of each footfall. These were hers, even and soft, determined. Clack, clack, clack, clack. Days ago they were a shuffle. Days ago you held her elbow in the rain and watched Stars on Ice and you wonder if she knew then. This is the last time I will be here.
But I am not done with you yet.

Was it Good Enough?

You think of every last time, hold it in your hand and turn it around: was that the last? was it good enough? was I harsh? Did I give her a good hug before I left? Maybe, but you don’t think so because she was coughing that day and you didn’t want a cold. You cry again and beat yourself with should haves, if onlys. You see futures dance away. Then you lift up one more pearl: the time we flew to Florida together, mother and daughter and ate clams and crocodile and laughed drinking vodka. It wasn’t perfect but it was ours. I was your daughter. When I was a baby you played Hide and Seek and I learned you were there even when I could not see you. I think maybe death is a bit like that. But the stone is back hard in your chest. You breathe each memory so hard it hurts.
But I am not done with you yet.

Mom of two beautiful active girls, traveller, fitness junkie, social media consultant, and keeper of the sanity.

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31 Comments on “But I Am Not Done with You Yet”

  1. I am so sorry for your loss. This post is beautifully written, almost poetic. I hope that you are able to find bits and pieces of peace and happiness as days move forward. I can’t imagine how tough this must be on your family. 🙁

  2. What a beautiful tribute to your Mom. It sounds like you two had a wonderful relationship. I’m so sorry for your loss.(((hugs)))

  4. Oh Paula, hugs, hugs hugs!
    It is those memories of the special moments you shared with your mom that will help during the difficult days to come.

  5. Paula this is beyond beautiful. Your mom was so proud of you and you were equally as proud of her. Every time you talk about her you can hear the love in your voice. I am so sorry for your loss. Much love and hugs to your family.

  9. I am sobbing… I feel your pain, you know I do. I am so sorry for your loss. That post was beautiful. Hugs GF. I will be home soon to help you through this.

    M.

    1. You are a true friend! I am so sorry for the loss of your dad last year. It is such a difficult time. I wish I had known and been there to support you. So very sorry. And grateful too for you and your kind family.

  10. Paula I am so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful post. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. XOXOXO

  11. Paula, this post has me in tears. Sending lots and lots of love and light your way. I am so sorry for your loss. It is so apparent in your writing how much you love your mom. Beautiful post. Big hugs being sent your way now. xoxoxo

  12. Oh Paula, I am so sorry for the loss of your Mom. Your beautifully written piece shared the closeness and mother-daughter bond that so many people dream to have. Hold on to those special memories and feelings and treasure them always. Your Mom did a great job!! And so have you’

  13. Oh Paula, I am so sorry for the loss of your Mom. Your beautifully written piece shared the closeness and mother-daughter bond that so many people dream to have. Hold on to those special memories and feelings and treasure them always. Your Mom did a great job!! And so have you’

  16. I am so sorry for your loss Paula. This is truly a beautiful tribute to your mom; the strength of your mother and your love for her shines through hun. *hugs&*

  19. Paula, that is one of the most beautiful tributes I have ever read. Your love for your Mom shines through in every word, every detail and I am certain she knew how very important, how very loved, she was.

    And I like to think that those we love and who love us in return never really leave us. Our hearts are always connected and just like the game you will find her again . She’s not forever gone, just hiding in the wings, her spirit watching over you.

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