… from the bungalow

Are You There, Mom? It’s Me, Your Son


Hi, friends! I’ve missed you. Writing anything at this point feels a bit moot, but we’ll give it a go.

Two years ago was my first Thanksgiving without my mom, and it kind of sucked. I didn’t even spend it with family. I spent it working on what would be a 23-page comprehensive literature review (for my first grad class! Ugh!), then eating at a friend’s house. Last year was spent with grandparents and relatives, along with my father-in-law right after we lost my mother-in-law. Not exactly conducive to the warm fuzzies. So, I’m working on regaining that sense of nostalgia and warmth that used to make Thanksgiving my favorite holiday. I spoke with my therapist last weekend about how to do this. My assignment is to write to my mom; it might help me lift some of the weight from my shoulders. I thought about this as I got ready for work this morning. As serendipity (synchronicity) would have it, a guest post I wrote for The Monster in Your Closet (three years ago!) popped up, right on cue, to get me started. Ready?

Dear Mom:

I miss you. Sometimes I think you’re here with me, but I don’t dare ask or hope. I don’t think I could handle the realization that you’re just … gone. It’s easier to keep it in a perpetual state of “I wonder,” you know? Like suspecting there’s something medically wrong with you, but never going to the doctor for fear they’ll confirm the worst. But when my therapist appeared to get a chill down the back of her neck and mentioned green bean casserole, I got hopeful. Pesky hope.

I’ll be honest. When you decided you didn’t want to be placed on a ventilator–and subsequently stopped breathing and died in your sleep–it made me angry. I mean, I’m glad the transition was relatively peaceful for you, but it gutted me. I couldn’t get there in time. I know you never wanted to cause me pain, but you did. Maybe you were OK with not living anymore, but I wasn’t. And maybe your family needing you wasn’t worth the high cost of living with a degenerative disease. I wish it had been. Still, I get it. Given your situation, I honestly can’t say if I would do anything differently.

But, Mom, life without you has been really f*cking hard. (Sorry. I know you hate the F-word.) Every time I think about you, I see a void. When I’m stressed and want to call you? Void. When I visit relatives? Void. Whenever Dad visits, I see a void: big and obvious and standing right there next to him where you used to be.

Where you’re supposed to be.

It’s gotten so I avoid visiting or even talking to family members. I can’t tell if the loss of you is getting easier because I’m accepting it or because I’m ignoring it.

The thing is, you’re more than a void, and my memories of you demand to be honored as such. More than dishonoring you, I’m choking off any potential joy I could be reveling in having been raised by you. So, hey, let’s go back, OK?

Remember when you read Ramona and Beezus to us at bedtime? Or Grimms’ Fairy Tales? Or The Five Chinese Brothers? Remember when you bought me my The Fall Guy lunch box? The bologna, American cheese, and Miracle Whip sandwiches you packed for me that stuck to the roof of my mouth? Remember the time I turned on the vacuum cleaner while you were holding the cat and she freaked out and clawed you up and you were bleeding all over yourself? How you were so calm and kind in telling me, “It’s OK; it wasn’t your fault”? Remember how you stayed up half the (all?) night to make that vampire Halloween costume so I could wear it to school the next morning and I was too shy/self-conscious to wear it? How you were disappointed, maybe even ticked off, but still validated my feelings and reassured me in my worry and guilt?

Remember when you saved my life?

I’m not angry at you, Mom. I’m angry at the disease that took you from me. The decision you made not to go on a ventilator was yours to make. I may still be angry about it, but that doesn’t mean I disapprove, necessarily.

I’m reclaiming Thanksgiving, Mom. It can still be my favorite holiday, I’m sure of it. I think I just need to remember you for You, not for the void you left behind. Instead of avoiding memories this week, I’m going to actively engage family in reminiscing. That’s the plan. I might even bake a green bean casserole.

I miss you. Sometimes I think you’re here with me. Let’s hope.


Your Son

This Thanksgiving, will you join me and love up the people you love? Tell them how thankful you are to have them in your life. Tell the ones you’ve lost how much they mean to you, too. And if this post resonated with you, please share. Maybe it will resonate with someone you know.

Thanks for letting me share.

Love and light,

sig 76


Author: Chris

Introspection to a fault. College employee, parent, soap-maker.

6 thoughts on “Are You There, Mom? It’s Me, Your Son

  1. There’s so much I feel I could say here, but the bredth of it leaves me baffled where to begin, so I will say instead: Happy Thanksgiving. May it be full of joy, both new and echoed from other days. ♡

  2. Man, those voids are so hard. Every time you see one, it rips out another chunk of your heart. In a way, I’m thankful that I was with her when she passed. I could feel her peace, and the absence of her pain and suffering. Those are the things I hold on to.

    This is the first Thanksgiving I have actually be able to look forward to since she passed, too. It’s been a while since I was surrounded by so many loving family members at Thanksgiving, and we all need that. I bought Mom’s favorite canned whipped cream to put on the pumpkin pie, so please bring the green bean casserole. ❤

    • I’m glad you were there, too. I’m only sorry we couldn’t all be there with her. But yay for having good things to hold onto.

      You got it! Green bean casserole is in the oven. I’m glad I’ll be able to spend Thanksgiving with you and your girls this year, and then even more family tomorrow. 🙂

  3. I’m so sorry to hear of your loss. Here I am, across the ocean, facing my first Christmas without either of my parents, and it’s going to be really tough.
    My Dad died in October 2013, and my Mum (Mom to you) followed him in February this year. I don’t know how I’m going to get through Christmas, except I will, somehow, for the sake of my daughter, husband, brother and his wife, and the support of good friends.
    We muddle on, as best as we can, and I send you my very best wishes, and do hope that you can have a Happy Thanksgiving.

    • I’m sorry for your losses, Linda. This time of year can be so difficult when you’ve established a lifetime of traditions and expectations, and then one day it’s all different.

      It’s so important to have some network of support. Ask them to check in with you every so often.

      And thank you for your comments. I hope you have a merry Christmas.

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