2004-05-13 @ 7:41 p.m.

this letter, which will never be sent, is spurred on by a comment from the boys father while we were in florida this weekend. the gist of the conversation was how lucky i was to be able to say goodbye. because when his father died, it was sudden. if theres one thing i have learned from these past two months, its that no two experiences are the same when it comes to the death of a loved one. and it has proven to drive me nuts when someone comes up to me and says something like ‘you know, when my parent/child/husband/whoever died...and at least you...’ i dont know, i just dont like it. there is no comparison. your pain is not worse than mine.

my pain will always be worse than anyone elses. thats how grief works. dont try to one up me. its just not nice. let me grieve in peace without your two cents about how much better i had it for whatever fabricated reason.

dear s,

i am sorry that you think i am lucky. i do not see my mothers death that way. yes, i got to say goodbye.

i dont think i was lucky to have stood by her hospital bed, holding her hand and watching her body seize up three times before her final breath. each time wondering this is it, this is it, is this it? i dont think i was lucky to have watched her slowly die in front of my eyes. to spend two days awake and in the hospital. waiting. i dont think i was lucky to have to be the one who had to make the decision to either send her down to icu and keep her alive through possible artificial means or let her go peacefully. i dont think im lucky to never know if i made the right decision. to have to live with that. or never know whether or not she did go peacefully. even though i was there, i dont know. i dont think i was lucky to be there by her bedside, telling her how much i loved her. and that it was okay and to not be afraid, when i wanted so badly to grab her and tell her to please hold on and come back to us. and to just get up and hug me and tell me that none of it was real. i dont think i was lucky to see the fear in her eyes when her fever spiked and i called the ambulance. and the fear in her eyes as they carried her out of her house for the last time. and then the fear was still there in the emergency room. i didnt think i was lucky when i kissed her lips just minutes after she died and she was already cold and stiff. and i will never forget how cold her lips, her forehead, and her hands were. and i dont consider myself lucky that i saw the nurses pry her hands out of the fist position they were in to get her jewelry off, because they were already rigormortised. and i had to turn away. i dont think i was lucky to one day, a couple of days before she died, see her in so much pain that i fainted at her bedside. i dont think im lucky that i had to call my grandmother that night to tell her she would probably not make it until the morning. and listen to her sob hysterically.

i dont think im lucky that i will always hold the immense guilt of the fact that, while ovarian cancer is what killed my mother ultimately, what she died of was an infection. and that infection had to have happened while she was home and in my care. even though i tried my hardest and i know i did my best. i will have to live with that for the rest of my life. and i dont know how i will do that.

i am lucky, however. i am blessed with having spent thirty two years with her. i am blessed with having been born to her. i have the honor of being her daughter. as contrived or unbelievable as it may sound, i am sure that i was sent to her for a reason. a painfully shy, timid, overly emotional, insecure girl blessed with a strong independent woman as a role model, and thus i became who i am now. i am lucky in one way, i am lucky that she is my mother.

honestly, i could go on. but there is no point to what im saying and i know these words wont mean anything to you.

as much as all of this pains me, i wouldnt have changed a second of my time with her. i only wish for more. im glad i was there with her. holding her hand and stroking her hair when she died. im glad i was able to take care of her when she was home. i am glad i stayed at the hospital for two days straight. with the nurses setting up makeshift beds for us in the hallways. even though none of us really slept. i am glad i did what i did. but please. do not tell me that i am lucky.

sincerely
arbus