Each year it’s different, the anniversary of the day you left this planet. 14 years ago. The day that you left your body. You were 54, I was 39. We had grown up together.
I have never woken up during the time that you were in your transition before. But here I am at about 2:30am wide awake thinking of you. Thinking of how there was a part of me that knew you were leaving. Why else would I have driven the long way to the hospital? Why else would I have sang you out the whole way there? Someone once told me that mother and child share an invisible umbilical cord until one of them leaves this earth-plane. I felt ours break. I felt me lose my heartbeat to the world. I have since found my own heartbeat.
I remember the phone call that said you were in the ambulance on your way to the hospital.
I remember being sent into a private waiting room to wait to talk to the doctor. They only put you in a private waiting room when its really bad news. Strangely enough I don’t remember the doctor telling me that you didn’t make it to the hospital. I don’t even remember if the doctor was a man or a woman. I would think that I would remember something like that. I do remember calling one of my mother’s sisters and hearing her scream. All I could do is hang up the phone.
They asked, if I wanted to see your body? I said yes. They asked, if I needed them to clean you up first. I said no. I remember seeing your lifeless body laying there. I needed to see you. I thanked you for being my mom and I was grateful that I didn’t feel that there was anything left unsaid between us.
I remember thinking, of course you would leave on Groundhog Day, lol. That was the sense of humor that you had. Makayla has your sense of humor.
Even though at the time it happened I didn’t quite know how to take it. I am grateful that you sent me a phone message after you died.
“This is your mother. I love you. You need to offer thanks. I love you”
I didn’t know what to do with it then. No one tells you how you should feel or what to do when you get a phone message from your dead mother. Now, I am just grateful.
There is always more to say but for now I’ll just say, “Happy angel birthday. This is your daughter. I love you. I am grateful. I love you.”
Quanita