Dear Mom,
I keep wondering since it's been a long time now since we were able to sit and talk--almost 10% of my life now spent without you around--but, are you proud of me? Am I doing all right?
I suppose I know the answer, and I know how Julie would respond. I know how the kids would respond, and I know what Pete would've said, though he's been gone now 16 months, too. I can hear you, "You're fine, honey. Are you happy? You should be because Julie is great and the kids are wonderful. If you're happy, then screw everyone else."
Hah--I know you would've said some more though: "Though it would be nice if you guys tidied up the house more. I swear, the kids are slobs, and the clutter is through the roof." Yeah, two of the three kids are messy--but is that any different than we were as kids? Do you remember Debbie having a glass in her room that got crusted over with mold-stuff? Hah--I do. I remember you letting me just stack clean clothes on the floor, as long as they were in my room--it was my room and I could do what I wanted. I appreciated that. It's why our upstairs looks like Ground Zero--because we've handled their rooms like you handled ours.
You do realize that we've done a ton of things in the spirit of what you taught me, right? We didn't push Erick into engineering, nor either him or Brigitte into studying abroad. They wanted to and we let/are letting them. That was scary, but you were gone by then.
I guess that's why I'm writing--you knew you were dying, didn't you? That's the heart of it. I know you had COPD. You said there were stages, but I trusted you to tell me everything--and you didn't. I know now you were 'end-stage' and what that means. You were a nurse, the best possibly to ever walk the halls of Mercy/St. Luke's/Genesis East and West, and on a pulmonary unit, you would've seen those cases for years. Bronchial drugs, your body burning its fat for daily needs, and oxygen assistance to get up and down a flight of stairs or to merely walk into a grocery store. I know you knew and I wish you would've just told me.
Then again, you did, didn't you? It's why you brought a couple of sentimental things down to us. It's why you made the pointed comment about if you died while Erick was in Poland that he was not to be brought back for a funeral. The end point for the last stage of COPD is four years tops--see, I've learned. I know when you started losing weight even when you didn't want to. I can do the math. You were probably in Year Four already when you came for that last visit, weren't you?
You knew and didn't say anything, damn it. I'm still upset by that, but you know what's worse? Realizing you did it to not upset me, as well as the fact that if we reversed places, I would've done the exact same thing you did. So here I am, still upset three years later, even though I would've done the same thing, made worse because I'm upset--why? Because I'm glad you did what you did. Telling me would've ruined my memories of that last week, your last visit with you and Pete. It was an amazing week--laughing at Zombieland, you finding that you liked playing Pandemic (a geeky boardgame!), and those baby e-trade commercials and finding crap on YouTube.
The goodbye was wonderful, too. If you're going to have last words from a parent, I think "I love you so much" is the best possible thing to hear, even if you already know your mom feels that way. And I hope you know that I love you still. I hope you saw that in the values we've tried to share with the kids, how we put family above everything, that I am honest with everyone, that I will not compromise my ethics--you taught me well. All of that was wrapped up in those last three words I said to you: I love you.
I'll write more soon, but I've got volleyball, writing, and Jolly Roger stuff to do, and then get Brigitte from school when they are done with senior assembly...three days of class remaining until she is done with her senior year. Time goes so fast.
Love,
Your son.
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