Three Years Without Mom

My mom died three years ago today. I still don’t fully know what to do with that.

Then

I can still feel the exact moment my brother called to tell me she was gone. That specific kind of raw. I remember thinking if I just didn’t believe him, it wouldn’t be true. I told him they must have mixed her up with someone else. There had to be a mistake.

She had symptoms of a heart attack days before it happened. Days. Nobody caught it. That’s the thing I circle back to when I get angry, which isn’t often anymore, but it’s still there. None of it had to happen.

She had just finished remodeling a house for Dad and my youngest sibling, moved them closer to family, got everyone settled. She drove herself to the hospital that day, and somehow parked decently for once in her life.

I can’t fully explain what to do with all of that. I’m still not happy it happened the way it did. And somewhere underneath that, I believe it unfolded the way it was meant to. Both things are true at the same time. I don’t need them to agree with each other. I just need to stop expecting them to.

Now

Three years later, I can still find my way back to that exact feeling like no time has passed at all. But most days it isn’t that raw anymore. It’s something quieter that just lives underneath everything else.

The first anniversary, we all gathered together. It felt necessary. The second anniversary, we didn’t gather. I thought that would be easier. It wasn’t. I was surprised by how hard that day hit me, alone with it in a way I hadn’t been the year before. This year, I’m hoping for something a little different. Not less love for her, just less weight. Though I don’t think I ever want that day to stop being heavy. I just want to carry it better.

Dad is stronger now. He smiles more every time I see him. But there’s a shadow behind his eyes, a subtle loss of light, so faint you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. I look for it. It’s always there. He had just semi-retired when she died. This was supposed to be the good part, the part where they finally had all the time together they’d put off for years. I know Mom was looking forward to it. Instead, he’s spent his time raising a teenage girl on his own, not the most fun thing I can think of. It’s not easy for anyone, and it’s one more thing Mom should have been here to help carry.

My grandma lost my grandpa this year, without my mom here to help her through it. That one still gets me.

I plan most of our family dinners now. Mom used to do it, and I had no idea how much work that was until it became mine. I enjoy it, most of the time. We continue to do fun things together as a family, but there’s guilt under the enjoyment. She’s still the heartbeat of our family. Every time we’re together, there’s an emptiness where she should be sitting.

I make sure my phone passcode and passwords are written down somewhere. If I open a new account, my kids know within the week. I’ve basically turned my own death into a project I manage. Is that healthy? Probably not. There’s a balance between being prepared and being present, and I haven’t found it. Maybe that’s just what it looks like to have watched someone leave without warning.

I still regularly watch videos of her laughing, the kind of laugh that made everyone else laugh too. I’m lucky for that. Going to Hobby Lobby on a Saturday and watching moms and daughters shop together still isn’t easy. Something in me tightens, a flash of why her, why so soon that I don’t fully control and don’t try to anymore.

What’s Still Coming

My son is getting married. She won’t be there. That one stings more than almost anything else. It takes the air out of me for a second, and what’s left after isn’t sadness so much as anger at the timing. Just the timing. Nothing to do with anyone but the calendar itself, and the calendar doesn’t care.

My brother and I are starting a podcast. She would have been our biggest fan, more supportive than anyone else in our lives. It’s strange to build something I know she would have loved, knowing she’ll never hear it. She’s missing grandchildren she hasn’t met yet, and a family group chat where, unlike some people I could name, she would have actually responded.

She’s not here to remind me to watch for deer on the way home. So I say it to my kids now, because that’s just one small way I keep her with us.