Tsunami

In the movies, disaster strikes and the people panic. There’s a 75-foot tsunami rushing towards New York and people decide to scream and run. Because, really people? Your three foot long legs aren’t outrunning that water. Your car can’t move fast enough to escape. What you should be doing is gathering the people you love close and saying what you feel. All that running does is rob you of the opportunity to say what needs to be said. Which, in reality boils down to three simple things. I love you. Thank you for being in my life. You are a treasure.

Grief feels a lot like a tsunami. It’s rushing at me and I am utterly powerless to escape it. Sitting next to the bedside of my mama as she sleeps and begins her transition to the other side of this world is so simple but so monolithic. The very idea of a world without her quick wit, her purple hair or her friendship is not something I can even comprehend. Remember those pictures of islands after tsunamis, where the landscape is unrecognizable and stripped of anything lovely? That’s all I can picture when I think of life without my mom. I want to climb into that bed with her and ride this wave alongside her. I want to make it easier for her and I want to be far, far away from the barren left-behind when she’s ridden beyond us. I’d rather just die with her than live here without her.

The realist in me knows I’ve been given a gift. The very fact that she woke up yesterday and told me what she wanted is a gift because I don’t have to second guess that I’m doing something she wouldn’t like. That she was lucid long enough to call my brother, to say goodbye to his beautiful kids, to tell my sister in law and my wife how much she loves them, to kiss my daddy and thank him for 45 years together… That is a gift. That she is surrounded by so many people who love her and have been lifted up by her love is a gift. Being her daughter is a gift.

So, my mama, if this is how we end, let it be so. May God grant me the strength to stand still and let the tidal wave of grief sweep over you and I without regrets. May we have loved so fully that there can be no doubt of a life well-lived. May your last days here with me be peaceful ones and may I spent the rest of mine making you proud.

As the waters rush ever closer, let me hold your hand and say what matters most. I love you. Thank you for being in my life. You are a treasure.