10 years

My mom died ten years ago today. It was unexpected and sudden (Doesn’t all death feel sudden?)  She stopped breathing in her sleep after her medications didn’t mix right. The night before we took her off her breathing machines, I had a moment to be alone with her. My cheek was pressed to the cool tile floor of the hospital room. I was thinking about this exact day. What my life would look like in ten years. At fifteen, there was so much ahead. None of it was clear to me. Maybe I’d be in a big city working on a graduate degree. Married perhaps. Interning with some publishing company or traveling the world.

I’m here now. Though my life is much smaller than I imagined, I am proud of it. I can hold it out to her like a precious object and show her all the shining facets. I’d turn it in my hand to point out the best parts. “Here’s Tyler. You have the same taste in music and laugh at the same jokes. You’d love him. This is my son. Your grandson! He is careful and silly and has your eyes. I have a job I really love, a house I try to keep clean. I’m a good person, who tries hard to become better.” 

Being proud of my life doesn’t take away the deep pitted ache I feel when I think about what she has missed out on. She died before I went on my first date, before my first kiss. She wasn’t there for any speeches or art shows or graduation. Wasn’t there to drop me off at my college dorm. She didn’t meet many of my closest friends. She wasn’t there for the hard parts — the sickness, trauma and loneliness. She died before I healed from that too. She never met Tyler. Missing from all the pictures and celebration of a wedding. Wasn’t there to cheer me on when I got my dream job. She missed the birth of my son. That one hurt the most. 

As I’ve transitioned into a parent, the ache has bloomed into a sharp twisting. The loneliness of motherhood was shocking to me. The strain and relentlessness. I have felt terrible jealousy as friends had their mother’s help. Someone to continue mothering them while they took care of their babies. Someone that adored their child as much as them. Someone who fawned over the details and milestones. A mother to watch the baby so they could take a nap or go on a date. I can’t even think about writing a will, as the blank space of grandparents for our children to live with causes terrible panic. 

But I have felt more connected to her through parenthood as well. A true, “Ah, I get it now. I’m sorry if it ever felt like I didn’t.” A real awe at how she did it alone, without the help of a husband. A deeper understanding of her being and choices. She taught me that it’s okay to have things that are just yours. To make space for yourself as a woman and mother. 

In some ways, death makes someone more expansive. She doesn’t feel tied down to time and space. She can be right next to me in the middle of the night as I rock my son back to sleep. She can stand next to me at a concert. She can walk along the beach with me. I believe she is a real presence. I’ve felt her close. Her spirit lingering here somehow. There are times when that feeling isn’t enough. Things I’d like her to be a part of that feel inextricably tied to mortality. A curl cream I discovered that would help in her never ending battle with frizz. Talking to her about breastfeeding and the things that made it easier for me, when I know it was so hard for her. Teaching her how to sprinkle a bit of sugar shrimp so they would caramelize. A new illustration of mine she’d ask to turn into a tattoo. A silly piece of graffiti up the canyon that she’d snap a picture of. She would have loved the matching lounge sets of 2020. Buying one in every color she could. 

She died at 37. Terribly young. I didn’t realize how young that was until I started growing older myself. Now, I look in the mirror and see so many of the same parts. My long soft legs. A flat butt. Skinny wrists. The same wrinkles forming on my forehead. Gray hairs starting to frame my face. We have the same wide set eyes and toothy grins. I hope to be like her in other ways too. I’ve been afraid of losing the more foundational parts. The ones that extend beyond my appearance. Straining to remember what feels like a dream sometimes. I don’t remember her voice anymore. The way she carried herself. But I do remember her silliness. How our car radio was always loud. The footie pajamas she wore unironically. The blue hair dye. The Saturday garage sales. The ring on every finger. Never afraid to jump in the pool. I remember how the room would revolve around her energy. She created space for us to feel and be who we wanted. She was a safe place to talk freely and ask embarrassing questions. She taught me about God, and how he cared deeply. That I could pray and ask him what color dress I should wear today and he would tell me. She taught me how to look for the good in people and cling to it tightly. To let go of others faults, even if they seemed obvious. She taught me about nuance, how a woman could be wise and careful, while also being fun and sexy too. She taught me how to problem solve and own up to my mistakes. 

I don’t know how to end this. I’m not trying to create something concise and perfect. I don’t think her life and death will ever feel cleanly wrapped up. I’m just writing this to say that I have a mother. Even if it doesn’t feel like it sometimes. Her life encircles mine in ways I understand and ways that I don’t. I’m writing this to say that I miss her terribly. That I can’t believe it’s been ten years. That time is forgiving and cruel and I’m grateful to be living in a world where she did too.