Death

Dear Mom, The anniversary of that terrible day the negligent doctor killed you is close at hand. It will be six years this July 3rd. I remember getting the proverbial 4AM phone call and being emotionless. I guess in shock would be a better way to say it. I calmly walked into the kitchen where Jeff was making coffee. I looked at him and simply said, "My Mom just died." I couldn't comprehend, I didn't want to comprehend. In a few short hours I was on a Texas bound plane. I miss you.

I laugh as I remember you hanging up on Karli when you found out the babies she carried were boys because you really wanted a girl. You did call back after a few hours and apologize though.

When Josiah was born three months early you called every day three or four times to check on him. His birthday is always a sad day for me because you were killed when he was just two weeks old. We were celebrating his quick progress in the NICU not knowing you would soon be killed.

Now you have a totally girled-out great granddaughter, Anna-Grace. She, also, was born three months early but she's kicking butt and is a nail polished, lipsticked, tu-tu wearing princess. You would have loved her to death. And Facebook! Oh my, how you would have relished keeping up with the kids on that.

I was thinking the other day how Joel, Eric and I put loads in your cigarettes and hid outside of the bathroom door waiting for them to explode. I'd never heard such language from you. We ran our legs off and hid for the day, but we were caught after you originally blamed it on Dad. He really should have taken the fall for us. 

Remember the trip we took to South Carolina when Aunt Joan's husband died and Dad fell between the back seats of your Navigator and couldn't get up? We laughed and laughed at the site of that big belly struggling to regain its upright position.

That entire trip was fun. I'd never laughed that much before. When I think of the toothless security guard at the casino in Lexington trying to pick me up using the line, " I have my own trailer on the river," I burst into laughter each and every time.

What about when Dad found that hair in his drink in that little cafe and when he told the server she looked at him with disdain and shouted, "Well it's ISN"T mine!"

It was a great trip and I'm so glad the three of were able to enjoy the long drive from Texas to South Carolina and back again. 

It wasn't too long after that you were taken from us, taken from me.  I miss you. I miss your laughter, I miss our twice daily phone calls, and I miss the friendship we shared. Mostly I just miss you being alive.

I'm still in shock. I still haven't grieved, I can't even look at your pictures. The day will come though when I can look at them and remember the good and forget the way you were taken.

I love you Mom and I always will.