Unresolved...

A few days after my mom passed away, I went out and bought a beautifully ornate box that I could fill with memories of her. I didn't want to put things away deep within a closet or in a plastic tote that would be stored in my basement. I wanted someting that I could keep within my reach...something I could open when I needed immediate comfort.

This box sits within close reach in my living room, side-by-side with the scrapbook I have put together of my mom's pictures. In the first year that passed after her death, I took comfort in that memory box and scrapbook more than I want to admit. I haven't opened that box in a few months...until last night.

A few months ago I read an article in a magazine about a woman whose father had passed away from cancer. The last passage in that piece struck my soul so deeply that I clipped it out and put it in the memory box. I knew that someday I'd want to explore exactly why these words meant so much to me. Last night after I dusted off the top of that box, I decided to open it and re-read that passage again:

When my father's cancer became terminal and we learned that he'd be going to the hospital for the last time, he insisted that none of his four children travel to be with him.

"I don't want you moping around my deathbead," he said over the phone, mustering a raspy laugh. That was his wish. I didn't care. If he thought I would sit across the country at my work desk while he died, he was crazy.

Once I arrived at the hospital in Michigan, we didn't talk about the fact that I'd come uninvited. Instead, we turned on the TV and watched the Detroit Pistons beat the Chicago Bulls. My dad held my hand and we rooted for three-pointers.

On the plane out to see him, I had imagined there would be dramatic deathbed speeches. I would tell him how much I loved him, and he'd give me advice for living the rest of my life.

Now he just said, "I'm glad you came." That's all I needed to hear.

After reading those last two paragraphs, I sat down on my couch and had a good cry. I had wanted that, too...a long heart-to-heart with my mother, where we'd put to rest all of our unresolved issues. I had wanted to pour my heart out to her and let her know that I was sorry for all the teenage grief I had caused her and for all the biting words a mother and daughter exchange through those formative years. I wanted to tell her how strong I thought she was, having fought valiantly for two years against a disease that took her own father and mother. I wanted to tell her that it was the most unselfish act of kindness to have endured extended lengths of chemotherapy and surgeries to prolong her life for the sake of her kids and grandchildren. I also wanted to thank my mother for all she did for me throughout my life...and most importantly, I wanted to tell her that after she was gone, I would think about her every day for the rest of my life (which I have, faithfully). But mostly, I wanted her to give me advice for living the rest of my life. I longed for a conversation filled with her years of wisdom. I wanted her to tell me how to take care of my father after she was gone. How to keep the family relationships going. How to purchase my first home. How to endure the trials and tribulations of planning a wedding. How to soothe the cries of my first child. All of the answers to these questions still lie with her. Unanswered.

In return, I wanted my mother to tell me that I had turned out ok. That I was a good person who would go on in life to do great things. I wanted her to tell me that I was going to be ok. That my future was bright.

Even if we couldn't have had a conversation, I wanted her to have left me a heartfelt, long letter about all the things she wished for me. In my mind, this would have been something she would have done as she prepared to die.

Mostly, I just wanted her to tell me without a moment's hesitation that she loved me.

But none of this ever happened. There simply wasn't enough time. I honestly think she thought she would have made it out of the hospital just one more time. One more time to tie up loose ends and make life right. It didn't happen.

What I am left with is the memory of me sitting in the hospital the night before she died. I had just been told that my mom had taken a turn for the worse, and I needed to make the call whether to keep her alive or not (we had discussed this as a family, but never in a million years did I think that I would be the person who would actually have to shake my head no when asked if she should be put on life support). I made the calls to my dad and my brother. And as I waited for them to get to the hospital (Dad waiting for Casey to pick him up, and Rob making the 3 hour ride down from Boston), I went back to my mother's room and told the nurses that I need some time with my mother. They were so kind and understanding.

After I closed the door, I looked at my mom in that bed-- so frail, weak, and slowly dying--not able to speak at all...and in a coma. There was no hesitation...I went over, gingerly climbed into bed with her and softly told her everything I needed her to know. How sorry I was that she had been afflicted with this horrible disease, how angry I was that she was being taken away from me, how she didn't need to worry--that Casey and I were going to be happy and that I'd finally found my soulmate, how I'd promise to look after Dad, and how much I'd miss her every day of my life. I can remember sobbing aloud that nothing would be the same without her.

And lastly, I told her how much I loved her. Whether or not she knew I was there or could hear anything I'd said, I wanted her to know that. I didn't get a hand squeeze, like you'd see in the movies...or a clear moment when she was able to tell me she loved me, too. But I did get to tell her.

And maybe that's enough...