January 1, 2015
First Chapter
I see horrible things
where I work. And I drive home on that
ridiculously steep curvy road after being up for 25 hours straight. This one morning I envisioned another car to
coming just far enough left of center to cause me to swerve to the right, and
off the road. My mind went to a crash,
and then me, covered in blood, calling your dad… to say goodbye.
No sleep and working in the trauma ICU has
done this to me. I could create
non-accidents all day long.
Shaking my non-accident out of my head, I then
had a very real, very overwhelming fear (what I think is the closest I’ve come to an
actual panic attack) of never having done what I’ve always wanted to do, but
have always been to scared/busy/full-of-excuses to actually commit. My mind momentarily grieved, thanks to my non-accident,
my non-writing to my little girl.
Near the end of the
year, I read one of those “if you died today, what would you regret?” queries …
Again, not writing to you is my instant,
constant, answer.
I do not have a story
of addiction or depression or rock-bottoms or abuse. I
really am not that special – save this – that I am your mother. I can give you myself. My
story. Our story. Your story.
As my
mother was mine, I am your first chapter.
My mother’s story is
remarkable. But I know only parts and pieces.
The details may be lost forever.
Her commentary and feelings about too much of her life are gone
forever. And they matter, if to no one
else -- they matter to me.
As I navigate
my life without my mom, I long for her words. For her advice, her instruction,
for her heart to connect with mine. In her absence, I find myself longing. Lacking. Wanting.
It pains me to write
for (essentially) two reasons:
- I worry
that in writing like this, I prematurely accept that you will be living without
me as you grow into a woman. (This is
sad and can’t be true… but it leads into reason number two).
- If I am
around, you won’t care.
Putting my own fears
aside -- if I am gone, I can only assume you’re heart will long for words that
will connect us. And if I am here, I hope
these words bridge any gap or explain any conflict – or shed light when I
inevitably put on my rose-colored glasses of old age.
My words may embarrass me, may have to be eaten, or could be thrown in my face. But I will bare myself to you, so you can know my heart and, in turn, fully know yours.
My words may embarrass me, may have to be eaten, or could be thrown in my face. But I will bare myself to you, so you can know my heart and, in turn, fully know yours.
