The kids are writing a letter today to somebody they’ve lost.  After I played Elton John’s, Goodbye, England’s Rose for them, I prompted them to write about somebody no longer in their lives.  Assuring them that this didn’t need to be a full-blown tearjerker about every stage of Grandma’s cancer debilitation, we talked about all the forms of goodbye.  Perhaps a best friend moved away, a teacher retired, or even a sibling left for college.  Goodbyes are hard in any form.

As I was watching Elton John’s video and subsequently explaining their assignment, I started crying.  Usually more stoic than that, I couldn’t help the flow of tears when I explained that sometimes we lose somebody even when we are both very much alive.  Hoping that I didn’t wake a dormant curiosity in them about why I don’t ever mention my kids or grandkids, I guaranteed them that they would feel so oxymoronically cleansed yet vulnerable when they were finished.

How could I share with them that all of my kids left me, one at a time, with nary a goodbye?  How could I share with them that my mother died, and nobody told me?  How could I share with them that this energetic burst of happiness who greets and teaches them every day is irreparably broken and emotionally gnarled?

It’s important to note that I try to write with the kids whenever they write, as I need for them to know the intrinsic and therapeutic reward of putting our thoughts to paper, regardless of our age or position.  When I began this yesterday, I had no idea that the day would turn into another emotional day of relentless turbulence.

I received a phone call from a woman named Maria Fletcher at Mount Sinai.  As you all know, Mount Sinai is where Marissa endured 8 surgeries and where we spent over 10 weeks of our lives.  She told me that she was from the Financial Department and that she would be sending my overdue account to Collections.  I informed her that I was never a patient there, but that my daughter had been for many years.  She then told me that Marissa was there in 2022, that there was an unpaid balance, and that I was the guarantor.  

My body’s all-too-familiar pose of shaking like a leaf took effect, and I just struck a deal with God.  I told him that, if he would let Marissa be okay, I would pay the bill.  My panic paralyzed me, but I decided to reach out to my two besties to ask them if they knew anything.  They both know that, if there is ever anything I need to know in terms of the kids, I need to hear it from them.  Neither one knew anything, but, before too long, one of them learned that Marissa had a C-section in January and the visit to Mount Sinai was probably just for a minor complication.  It broke her heart to have to tell me that.

From the fear that something was wrong with Marissa, to the relief that there wasn’t, to the sadness that enveloped every cell in this body upon learning that there is another grandchild I won’t see, I am running out of glue to even temporarily fill these chasms in my heart.  Grateful that my daughter was able to give birth a second time after all she has been through, I marvel at how miraculous life can be.  I also know so well how cruel and inhumane life (and people) can be.

The bottom line is this.  My daughter had an ostomy bag for a year of her life.  What that poor child endured, nobody should ever experience.  Caring for the stoma was no easy feat, and I was the one who took care of it with her.  Of course I was, as I was her mom.  I helped her clean it, care for it, deal with all of the yuck that came out of it, and, when her bag exploded, I was the one who always went running.  I was the one who told her she’d make it through.  I was the one who promised her that she’d be a mom one day.  

As for my ex-husband, he gets to enjoy grandchildren.  For me, well, I got the literal shit and I get the figurative shit, too.  All of the pain and none of the pleasure for me.  It hurts, it stings, it burns, it lacerates, it bleeds, it mutilates, and it crushes.  I’m not okay.

For those of you who want to help me, please don’t tell me I’m a warrior and you admire my strength.  Please,, please,, please don’t tell me again that if it was you, you would have killed yourself.  Please don’t tell me that I don’t deserve this persecution.  I know I don’t deserve it.  There is no humanity here, only a level of brutality that is taking my last trickle of energy.  Just tell me you’re here, that you love me, and that you’re not leaving.