Dear Mother,
On this day, four years ago, it was a random afternoon at work when I received a phone call from my grandfather. “Steven,” he said in a wobbly voice, “I need you to listen to me.” But like someone receiving a rejection letter beginning with the words “We regret to inform you,” I didn’t need, or want, to hear any more. Since then, on this day, I have received phone calls, texts, and Facebook messages from loved ones asking if I’m all right. They tell me that they love you and miss you. I’m grateful for these messages. I truly am. However, this is just the official date on which you passed on, nothing more than meaningless words and numbers written on a death certificate and headstone; but I don’t need a designated day to think about you, because I think about you all the time. Usually the memories are pleasant and joyful, like how Laura and I would snuggle up in bed next to you when we were little as you read the The Boxcar Children books, or how you extinguished my teenage angst with a hug, despite my best efforts to deflect your advance.
But then there are those days like today when at 4:00 a.m. I stir from sleep remembering how you suffered.
Looking back, I never think, “Why did you have to get sick? or “What did our family do to deserve this?” because I know bad things happen, and as unfortunate as it is, we will all experience heartache and sadness in this life. But what really pisses me off and makes me downright bitter is how you had to suffer. No one deserved that. I mean no one. For over two years, I watched that insidious cancer literally eat your stomach and intestines from the inside out. Yet you remained steadfast and courageous and never lost faith in your religion. I watched all your beautiful blond hair fall out; I saw your healthy, vibrant skin wither away until only a pale, emaciated skeleton lay there in bed; I watched the doctors touch you, poke you, and injected you with chemo drugs that were tantamount to a nuclear explosion within your body. I heard you moan in pain and cry out in agony. And during all of this, I couldn’t do a goddamn thing except sit there and watch. So yeah . . . I’m bitter. I’m really fucking bitter.
I’m sorry, Mom, because I know you wouldn’t want to hear this. I know you would want me to be happy and live my life. And I wish I could tell you everything was perfect. I wish I could tell you I have my life figured out and not to worry, but I don’t. It’s still a work in progress, and by my calculations, it will be that way for the foreseeable future. I wish I could tell you that I have that special lady in my life, and I did—at least I thought she was the one—but I screwed it up, and no matter what I do I can’t seem to win her back. I wish you were going to be waiting for me at the airport when I come home in a few days, and I wish you had a long list of chores for me to do. I wish we could have breakfast together and sit at the kitchen window drinking coffee and commenting on what needs to be done in the yard the way we used to. I wish you could have been a grandmother.
But let me try to give this a happy ending, since that’s the only thing we as a society seem to care about. So here I go: I love you, Mom, and although I would give anything to have you here, I’m incredibly grateful you aren’t suffering any longer. You will forever be on my mind and in my heart, and I will do my absolute best to release the bitterness that courses through my veins and coagulates my soul.
Your little boy,
Steven