Living Without My Parents

When you’re a kid, you don’t expect your parents to die. You expect them to live forever and be there whenever you need them. Well, that’s not what happened. When I was just 6 years old, my mom died 3 days after my grandma had. I remember being in the back seat of a vehicle crying my eyes out, wanting my mother and being told to stop crying and to shut up. I was 6 and I didn’t understand what was going on. I was scared. My mom had diabetes and had contracted an infection that spread so much that no matter what the doctors did, it wasn’t enough. She had both her legs amputated because of this infection but that didn’t work. It spread further. So much further that she was only given a little more time before she passed. No one knew she would pass 3 days after her own mother. I didn’t even get to say goodbye, or I love you. I miss her every single day. She is always on my mind. I think about my mom all the time. I know she’s not in pain anymore but losing her has been hard and it hurts. It has been almost 15 years since she passed and I’m still not over losing her. I loved my mom so much.

I do have some good memories of my mom before she died. Like my brother and I at my grandma’s house in Tennessee out in the field picking some corn on the cob for dinner that night with her. That’s how I learned how to actually peel off the husk and clean the corn cob. That memory always makes me smile. That’s when she was ok. I was 4 then. I’ve heard so many stories about how I used to always help my mom when she had to take her insulin for her diabetes and how I used to help her do so many other things that had to do with her diabetes stuff. One of my favorite memories is always helping her cook. I guess you can say that’s how I had gotten pretty good at cooking. In kindergarten, I was able to bring cupcakes to school for my home room class for my birthday and I remember watching the cupcakes cook then catch fire in the oven. My mom ran in telling me to leave the kitchen, so I don’t get hurt. But 15 years later, I know she’s not in pain anymore and that she’s at peace.

When my dad died, I was 7 and he had passed on my brother’s 10th birthday. He had died of cancer. The last memory I have ever had of my dad was him lying in a hospital bed looking at my aunt and trying to tell her that he loved my brother and me. And what I mean by trying to is that he had a tube down his throat to help him breath so because of that, he couldn’t talk. It hurt me to see him like that. To know that he was in pain and not be able to really talk. Thinking back to that, it reminds me that I know that even to his last breath, he loved my brother and me. Since my dad died, I haven’t talked to my aunt about that day because I don’t know exactly how she feels about that.

I also have some good memories when it comes to my dad. My dad, brother and I were out running errands and my dad had stopped somewhere. My dad had went inside leaving my brother and I in the truck. So I moved over to the driver’s seat and pretended to drive. I even tried to turn on the windshield wipers, but the truck was off, and my dad had taken the keys which was probably good thing since my brother, and I were so young. I remember being at my family farm with my dad and my brother and one of my aunts had came out and taken a picture of my dad, my brother and me together. It’s been 15 years since he’s been gone.

Losing my parents has been really hard on me and I haven’t let go of my parents. A good part of me believes that it’s my fault that they died. This part of me believes that if I wasn’t born then maybe they would have survived, maybe they would still be here. I know that it’s not my fault, but it hurts to just let go and move on. I know that I’ll be ok eventually and that I’ll heal but as for right now, I just need to heal at my own pace.