The Last Love Letter

It’s funny how you don’t always know when you’re doing something for the last time. Somebody once told me to ponder the fact that one day you’re holding your baby and you put them down AND THEN YOU NEVER PICK THEM UP AGAIN. That was the last time you carried your baby in your arms.

I pondered it. I didn’t like it (but it wasn’t terrible).

I don’t usually mind getting to the last of something. In fact, one of my favorite lines from a song is “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” Pondering the last time I picked up my baby just means that he is growing up strong & healthy and he is able to carry himself around until one day he’s carrying me!

Usually, I’m okay with endings. Usually.

If you know me personally, you have probably read a poem or story that I have written. Maybe you kept up when I blogged (occasionally). Maybe I left a love note on your window. Or maybe you’ve read a Facebook post that I poured my heart into. You know I enjoy words. I love to brew the perfect potion of words that conjures up long lost feelings and memories in the reader. It fills my soul when somebody I love savors the sound of my words and falls into my stories heart first. That is my love potion. That is my magic elixir that heals my hurts and heightens my joys.

If I have written to you or about you (or if you think I wrote about you – you’re so vain)…it means I love you. Even if I wrote mean words to you, it means I care enough about you to share my precious words. (Also, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. Sometimes, I get a little carried away with my words.)

I never thought my words would come to an end but on New Year’s Day of 2014, a chain of events began that left me with no words.

On January 1, 2014, I wrote the last love letter.

My sister called that morning and told me that things were not going well with my mama and I should probably get down there but she wasn’t sure if I would make it in time. She didn’t want me on the road while I was waiting for news like that. She told me to wait a little while and they would keep me posted. So, I waited and while I waited I wrote that last love letter with my whole heart and soul and all my beautiful words. I wrote it with stops and starts, with tears and laughter, with love and so, so much sorrow.

I totally understood that I should not be driving in that emotional state. Plus, I had responsibilities. I had a 3 year old son (The Boy) and a 16 year old daughter (LadyBug). My husband (Big Love) and I had a tire shop that we were ruining together (not a typo-I’ll tell you about THAT later). I couldn’t just hop in a car by myself and drive home. So, I did what any logical, reasonable person would do. I called my BFF and cried until I was out of tears. Then I got on my treadmill and ran until I was too tired to feel anything anymore, including my legs.

AND THEN…my BFF called me back and she said, “Let’s go. I’ll be packed by the time you get to my house.” I said, “Okay” and then I packed up myself and my love letter, Ladybug and The Boy, and we left.

We stayed for a week and I was so glad that I got to spend that week with my mom. The Boy sat on her bed and read stories to her. We sang to her and brushed her hair. We made a few more memories while there was still time. Then, she seemed to be stabilizing so we came back home. I tucked the letter away for another time.

You see, that letter…it was a love letter to my mom, about my mom, that she would never get to read. I wrote about her life and how there were so many things that she aspired to, really huge, world-changing aspirations. She planned to do great things but when it came down to it she decided to live a simple life and raise great children. I guess it was also a love letter to my siblings because I really do think they turned out pretty great.

A month later, I got the call that they were moving her to the Hospice House. The Boy and I made the trip again. Again, I brought the letter. I would have loved to read it to her but I couldn’t. It was written “In Memory” of her but she was still here. Only…she wasn’t. Not really.

My mom had dementia. She fought that filthy thief that stole the 4 or 5 languages that she spoke and the wealth of knowledge she accumulated from the many books that she read. Eventually it stole her ability to read. It stole her peace of mind and independence. It stole her away from me and it stole my words. That letter was the last time I sat down and wrote from the bottom of my heart.

Until today.

Sure, I’ve written stuff since then but my voice has changed. What used to flow so easily, suddenly requires so much effort. It requires a lot of thought instead of just pouring out of my heart. I’m untrusting of the words that were once so loyal to me!

There’s something about losing a parent that changes you. It’s like joining a club that you had no interest in joining but you have to because only people who have experienced it really understand it. Losing my mom was just the first of many events that continued to crush my spirit. It was a rough couple of years. I tried putting it down on paper to process it all but I just had no words. I’ve been a little broken ever since. I think I’m doing a pretty good job of putting the pieces back together except I still can’t listen to certain songs without crying. Actually, that’s not new. Music does that to me but I’m a work in progress.

That’s right…IN PROGRESS! I’m not done yet.

Usually, I’m okay with endings. But not this time. That can’t be my last love letter because what if Dementia creeps up on ME before I have a chance to tell my grandkids how I met their GrandPop? (It’s a great love story. I’ll tell you later.) What if after I’m gone my kids don’t remember how much I love them? What if before I’m gone, I don’t remember how much I love them?

That can’t be my last love letter because I have so much love left to write.