A Letter to My Mother

Mom,

I remember the day that you sat Brighid and me down to tell us that you were sick. It was just after Christmas and we were both at home for the week. You and I had just gotten back from the store and I was holding these makeup brushes.

“Girls, I know you have noticed but I need to tell you something.”

And instantly everything seemed to change. I felt weightless. The makeup brushes I was holding all of a sudden felt like foreign objects and the bed I was sitting on seemed to float up to the ceiling. My mother, my rock, my controlled…organized…list making mom was about to change forever and what could I say?

“First my dog is dying, and now you.” Seriously, I cannot believe that that is what I said to you. Here, in your vulnerability you sat with your two daughters and told them information that took you months to say and I compared you to my dog. I am so sorry for that.

Forever you and I have had a special bond. I think in this family of loud, extroverted, Irish people we stood out for our reserved and introverted personalities. I remember taking naps with you—the only other person I know who can literally nap sitting up or mid-sentence (thanks for passing that down to me). I remember the first thing you taught me to bake and how you ingrained the importance of thank you notes into me. I remember singing the theme song of Providence together (In My Life, by the Beatles) and how that became our song. I remember how you held me when I cried during some of my darkest moments in high school and the time you held my hand in the car and told me I was the best thing you had ever made.

When you started to get sick this past month I was in disbelief. You were always such a strong and independent woman—always inviting me into your bed to sit and talk. On that Friday you seemed so tired. You reached for my hand and said, “I’m sorry. Just sorry. I need to sleep. I love you, baby.” You lifted your arm, something I knew was hard for you, and gave me a hug. “You’re so beautiful,” you said. And it was the last thing you ever said to me.

I got in my car to drive home and instead spent an hour crying on the phone with Jess. “Write her a letter, Kerry. It will make you feel better. Someone can read it to her, if you can’t.” I didn’t know that in a day you would be in a coma, and in three you would no longer be with us. I’d like to think that where you are you can still hear me so here is my letter.

Mom, you are loved. You are beautiful and strong and such an incredible role model for women and girls. Despite what you seem to think, you are not replaceable. I know that there were a lot of things that you wish you could have changed and that sometimes, I admit, I wish you would have done differently. But know that I don’t hold that against you and they are not my prominent memories of you.

I remember a woman who could make me laugh.

I remember a woman who made me feel confident and beautiful.

I remember a woman who was more organized and timely than anyone else.

I remember a woman who valued honesty…almost to a fault J.

I remember how it felt to know you loved me.

You are my mother; then, now and forever. I hate the idea of moving on without you, of getting married without you, of having children without you. But, in my heart, I know that you’re still here. I love you more, Mom.