Dear Mom,
This letter is a two-fer. I volunteered to write for a community diary about grieving at Daily Kos (I told you about them) and my grief therapist suggested I write a letter. As a matter of fact, when this appears, I'll be in a session. This was bad planning on my part. I suppose I'll just rush home after. People are cool in The Grieving Room diaries.
Part of me feels silly writing this because you're not going to read it. You died. On the other hand, I can see how this could be helpful to me to work through my grief. On the other hand (I have three?), maybe you will read this. It helps to think of you as in the audience.
I hope that wherever you are and whatever you're doing, you have time just to listen. You don't have to send a reply. It gets a little creepy when you send messages.
Welcome, fellow travelers on the grief journey
and a special welcome to anyone new to The Grieving Room.
We meet every Monday evening.
Whether your loss is recent, or many years ago;
whether you've lost a person, or a pet;
or even if the person you're "mourning" is still alive,
("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time),
you can come to this diary and say whatever you need to say.
We can't solve each other's problems,
but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
Unlike a private journal
here, you know: your words are read by people who
have been through their own hell.
There's no need to pretty it up or tone it down. It just is.
I mean, it's o.k. if you want to pass along information. I'm not too sure I'm stable enough for visitations or anything like that, but little hints here and there would probably be fine. I saw Dad in a dream about two weeks ago which was interesting since I haven't dreamed about him in a long time. Actually, I was really excited to see him but, oddly, I stopped myself and asked him, "Wait, are you here to tell me something?" That's when I woke up. Then your sister passed away a day or so later.
Was that really you? I mean, Dad said, "I'm your father." Dad never referred to himself as my "father;" it was always "Dad" just like Granddad was his "Dad." You were the one who called Dad "your father" whenever you talked about him.
I found that article you wrote about working at that achealogical site along the Housatonic River. It was in a pile of stuff in one of the girls' rooms. I found it while cleaning in anticipation of having them at home. You made a point in the first paragraph about being fifty-six when you went on that adventure. I got it; I shouldn't keep feeling like I'm taking too long to do stuff like you did since I'm only fifty-four. On the other hand, I really ought to get started. Oh, bother. Anyway, you talked about how it was o.k. to take a trip without Dad. Lori says it will be o.k. for me to take research trips though if I want to go to Boston, she wants to go.
She also said if I plan to spend all my time in tiny libraries, then I should definitely go on my own. You went on all those trips without Dad because you knew he'd be bored. He knew he'd be bored, especially after the first couple of trips. You two just figured out how to make that work.
Hey, Mom, I'm sorry it took so long for me to grasp all that you were doing. Now I get it and it's really interesting to me. Well, not the genealogical ancestor hunt. I'm really into the history connections and I'm sorry I didn't help you with it years ago. I suppose I did something when I set up your email account and showed you how to use search engines but, really, you had a son who was a history major in college and he didn't have open ears when you talked about family history stuff.
Now I look forward to going to the UC Irvine library to look for books. By the way, I've noticed that I'm alone in the stacks. Sigh...students don't seem to use books. Oh, hey, did Teedyuscung and Sam Evans and his brothers leave Elizabethtown because Jonathan Dickinson, their cousin and founder of Princeton, died? Geez, the stuff you left me to figure out. Oh, and there's some professor from Philadelphia who's writing a chapter for a textbook. She's writing about great-times-something grandmother. I haven't heard from her in a while. I'm a little suspicious because she hadn't heard of your book and a quick google of great-grandmother's name has your book at the top.
Hey, Mom, I didn't know what to do when you were so sick. I didn't know what to do when you had your first stroke. I didn't know what to do when you had more of them. All I wanted was for you to get better. I didn't want to see you that way. I hated how weak and lost you were. And I scared myself...I scared the crap out of me because I created that story about someone trapped inside themselves after a stroke. Oh my God, I hope you weren't trapped that way. I've always explained to people that it was like you had left but your living body was still here. I hope...I hope you were already gone. I hope, during those last months, that you weren't aware of what happened to you. Lori's Mom is getting deeper and deeper into her Alzheimer's or dementia or whatever. She doesn't seem to be aware of what she was before. Is it o.k. to hope that was what was going on for you?
What's really scary, Mom, is that I think you had the original idea for the story while you were still here and communicating.
Hey, Mom, I missed you on Mothers' Day. I concentrated on Lori and the girls (girls...geez, they're both over twenty-one...) and it was a good, family, day at the Grand Canyon. And I'll miss you on your birthday this Friday. So many firsts...
And, Mom, I hope you understand why I felt relief when you finally passed away. I told people that I felt like a great spirit was finally allowed to be free. I'm really, really glad I went to see you that Monday. I almost decided to go Tuesday and you would have been gone. And I'm sorry I didn't give you a hug when I left. We were never big huggers anyway.
I'm glad you waved good-bye when I turned and waved good-bye at the door. That's more like us.