Dear Mom,

We did it. We went to Chicago. We had a wonderful visit, but I can’t seem to kick this feeling that I failed you. That it wasn’t enough.

I dreamt of this trip to your city. Envisioned taking the kids to all of your favorite spots. To show them the view of the city from Promontory Point. The very spot you drove me and Jeremy to directly from the airport during his first visit to Chicago. I planned on showing them Millennium Park. The Bean, the fountains, the epic playground. Scotland wanted to go to the Art Institute. We never got the chance. I wanted to take them to Wrigley. We never got the chance. I wanted to take them on a train ride. Never happened. So many plans we couldn’t get quite right. Even the deep-dish pizza experience I dreamt of was a bit botched. Not how I had seen it in my mind.

On our last morning in the city, after Scotland and I came back from our morning walk for coffee (not for her as she refuses to drink the stuff), I sat on the balcony and cried. It wasn’t a sob. Just a soft cry looking out at the view of the neighborhood you’d look at every day for all the years you lived in the condo. So much has changed since you died. So many more apartment buildings blocking our view of the surrounding neighborhoods.

I told myself, and Jeremy, that I was bummed. A bit sad that this trip didn’t go as planned. I talked myself off the ledge of self-pity. Reminded myself that there were unforeseen roadblocks. A big one being that a massive section of the city was blocked off for NASCAR. Seriously, don’t ask. We simply weren’t able to get to Millennium Park. We couldn’t get to Navy Pier or to the water. I also reminded myself that, despite only having two days in the city, we still did manage to cram in a lot of wonderful memories. Dad took us to the Museum of Science and Industry and the kids had a blast walking through the airplane and the old trains and seeing the chicks hatching. The kids played three different times in one day at the playground behind the condo. They watched the Fourth of July fireworks from the balcony. Idris got his donuts and chocolate cake and pizza. Scotland got her giant cookie and walked with me each morning as we explored the West Loop, and also dodged the plethora of dog poop on the sidewalks. Both kids got quality time with Grandpa and Roz. They even learned how to play, and promptly fell in love with, Rummikub. We had the chance to spend time with the extended family. The kids met aunts and cousins. They bonded with the next generation. I had the chance to talk about you with relatives who loved you and miss you. It’s always nice to be reminded of how loved you were by all. 

As I sit here, currently on the plane back to LA and crying in my seat while I type these words, I realize that it was never about the plans. It was never because of what we all missed out on. It was always who was missing. It has always been about you, Mom.

I love going home. I love seeing the family. However, if I’m being totally honest, it’s never been the same without you there. I think I’ve been scared to type those words. I never want to make the living feel like chopped liver. But missing you doesn’t diminish how I feel about the living. I love the entire family. I want to spend time with them all. I simply want to be with you as well. 

When I really think about it, I find that being around family reminds me of your absence and it becomes absolutely overwhelming. Perhaps this is why I was so bummed. Why I was so disappointed. Why I can’t seem to be happy with the way things turn out. Ever. Maybe it’s because, no matter how well things do go and how much fun the kids have and how much love they feel around them, it can’t ever be enough without you. The puzzle can never be completed. It never could be. Pieces were missing before the box was even opened. 

Maybe it’s also because I end up comparing my life to those around me. Watching relatives raising their kids with their mothers still around. With their mothers living nearby. With their mothers being wonderful grandmas. Babysitting. Having sleepovers. Helping out in all the ways. And maybe I’m jealous. Maybe I wish I could make plans and not have to worry about a babysitter because of the built in one that is a grandmother who lives down the road. Maybe I wish you could just pop over to my house and watch my kids and be in their lives.

Sitting on the plane, on the tarmac of O’Hare about to take off, Scotland asked how old you were when you died. She then said she wishes you never got cancer so she could have met you. 

It was then that I realized that maybe what’s bothering me more than anything, what’s causing me to continue to wipe my tears, is that we never made it to the lake. We never waved to you. I never said hello. I never said goodbye. Taking the kids to the water was going to be their opportunity to connect to you. To have their moment with Grandma Janis. To visit my mom for the first time. But I have to remind myself, no matter how symbolic it is, you are not in that lake. Sure, your remains are. Somehow. But your physical body is gone. Your soul is off someplace or nowhere at all. 

I do believe that the essence of you is still in the city itself. The kids stepped on the very sidewalks you walked down. They sat at your kitchen counter. They looked out at your neighborhood from your balcony. And as much as I like to tell myself all of this, I know the actual truth. That you. Your love. Your adoration. Your pride. It’s all within us. Living inside. Breathing and growing and expanding. Sure, you can’t babysit. You can’t help. But I refuse to discount your huge power to guide me. That even after death you are still here to show me my way. And yes, I will never stop wishing you hadn’t died. I will never stop wondering how my life would be different without your stupid tumor. I will never truly get over losing your massive impact on my future. 

I do think, in many ways, I have gotten over your death. Moved past the act of losing you. Your physical departure from this world. But I have not, and I doubt I will ever, get over your absence. It’s simply too hard to stop imagining what my life could have been like if you had never gotten sick. What my kids’ lives would have been like if you had never gotten sick. It’s impossible to know all of what it would be like. But I can say with absolute certainty it would have been better. Fuller. Easier. 

As you would say, it sucks. 

As Dad would say, it is what it is.

Perhaps I need to find my in-between. Find my acceptance of what I’m left with. I don’t want to wallow. I don’t want to live in this heavy and uncomfortable realm of what ifs. I don’t want to walk through life full of resentment. At the same time, I don’t want to brush it all off. I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to pretend like it’s no big deal. That so many people lose their mothers. That it’s normal. That I should simply get over it.

You’re not here. You will never be here. And I have to learn to live with it. In some capacity. I can’t avoid going home and I can’t sustain visiting and leaving feeling sad and disappointed and envious and angry and all the other emotions that are wrapped up in my ever-changing ball of grief. It’s not fair to the people in Chicago who are alive and well and waiting for us to visit. It’s not fair to the kids who just want to have a fun trip and not be reminded of what they are missing out on. And it’s not fair to me. It really isn’t. I don’t deserve to live in this constant state of feeling like life is unfair and that my life could be better if you never got sick. I can’t change what happened. What I can change is how I react to it. How I decide to live going forward. 

Ultimately, your absence matters greatly. It’s a massive void that can never be filled. You were larger than life, therefore your death is a gaping blackhole. I refuse to ignore that. I refuse to fill that hole with empty promises. But I must acknowledge my reality. I must face the truth. My truth. That I have so much to be grateful for. That it isn’t all about the what ifs, but also the what is. That I do have a wonderfully full life and that I am truly so lucky.

You might be gone, but you managed to leave behind all the tools I need to survive and to thrive. What I got from you before you died. Your love. Your support. Your belief in me and my own abilities. You provided me with everything I need to be a good person and a great parent.

Ultimately, even if I could in actuality pick apart your parenting till the end of time, you were a great mom. And yes, you would have been an even greater grandma to my kids, but that’s not the way life worked for me. That’s not the hand I was dealt. And I do have to accept that. For the sake of me and for my kids. They deserve better. They deserve a mom who isn’t consumed by sadness and resentment and envy. They deserve a mom who puts all of her life’s energy into loving them and showing them the world and teaching them about all that life has to offer. They deserve someone like you. 

And luckily, I had a great role model. I can be you for them.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel

P.S. Next time, we will go to the lake. We will wave. I promise.