“I was whole when all of my children were here with me ... now I’m just broken and I can never be unbroken again.”

Its been a year, and your now twenty-six.

Dear Mutty,

I know its long past the birthday you dreaded. Twenty-six was the year the health insurance would have ended. We all feared it. You weren’t alone.

I think a lot about you…about our talks… about us. The depth of our relationship surpasses anything I will ever again know on this earth, and very few will ever know it. I am thankful for getting the gift of knowing it.

But there is a dark side to it.

your death has taken the whole of me, and turned it to a ratio that few can rationalize.

Because we loved so wholly, your death has taken the whole of me, and turned it to a ratio that few can rationalize. I told dad on the way home the other day that I was so desperate to not be sad anymore… and the tears… oh how the tears fall every day… and lately, several times a day. I think about it, Heather. I honestly think about it everyday. I told someone that I don’t want to live to be much past 65. And they said “You don’t get the choice in that.” and I almost said “Ya wanna bet?” – I didn’t tho. But I Goddamn think about it every day. Every day.

And it has been one year, two months and twenty-some-odd-days since you left… and I think about it. And tomorrow I will wake and go about the day and try to stay busy and ahead of that “sad” and I will think about it!Enjoy this moment for this moment is your life.

But I never think about why I never come to find you…and if there will ever come the day that I make the choice and do. I told Dad that I think about it, but will never do it because I can’t leave Him and Josey and Willie with that kind of pain… That kind of loss. I’m willing to endure it for them and so that’s how I know I haven’t forgotten how deeply I love them too. Even dad. And it might seem like I have forgotten them… but the trouble is I’m terrified I will someday have forgotten you.

But I think about it.

And if I knew the joy yesterday then I have to believe that I will feel the joy again tomorrow. That’s what keeps me here. That belief. I haven’t let that go yet. That hope.

I remember telling Dr. Whaylen when you had your first liver transplant that for him to take away hope takes away everything. “This much hope”, I held up my hand and scrubbed my thumb and finger together as if pinching salt… “gives me something to hang on to. And as a mom, you have to let me have hope.” And so it is with joy. I have enough hope to hang on to see it again. But I will never love as deeply as I have loved my children. But especially in how deeply we loved. Kindred spirits. Multi-lifetime soulmates.

So I try to stay busy and ahead of the sad. Because I am so desperate to not feel sad anymore.

I love you, Mutty. So much, I love you.


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