There Were Good Times

Mom,

To say I kept secrets would be a bit of an exaggeration. I omitted things I knew you didn’t care about. If I told you I cried on the bus everyday of junior year you would’ve told me I was being hysterical. Or if I had told you I felt like my life was going nowhere I would've gotten the generic parent speech. Or worse, a comparison to how trivial my problems were compared to yours. When I graduated high school you eagerly flipped through my overpriced yearbook, and you were disappointed with my picture. I hadn’t put a senior quote or done any of the electives because I hated school and I just wasn’t that kind of person. At the time you called me a loser. I never told you that when I'm at my worst your voice comes and pierces my rational thoughts with that word. You hadn't meant it as severely as I took it.

Our relationship was never bad, but I do think it stagnated when I got my first job. I couldn’t drive. Still can’t honestly. You hated getting up in the morning. You didn’t have to work mom, it was the only time you ever left the house. Those were the heavier depression years for you, while I was just finally getting out of mine. If it snowed you wouldn’t pick me up. It was easier to let me walk home than brush off the car. I hated that you did that. Dad hated it too. You stopped doing housework and you complained you always had to let the dogs out. You were miserable, but you were sick. You had lived a fantastic, busy life but as you got older your heart just couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t walk very far and you couldn’t work which had been your two favorite things. Every day you were trapped in our house. Doctors had told you with a little effort your heart might get stronger, but coupled with smoking it just didn’t happen. You refused to try. When I told you I thought I had depression you whipped around on me like a rabid dog.

“No, I have depression. You’re not even sad! What’s so bad about your life?” I was angry. I was pissed. For the first time I finally fought back and told you something I normally would’ve kept to myself. I showed you my wrists. There was sick satisfaction in watching your expression fall. That for once you realized there was something wrong with me and I had just never told you. I wonder if it put doubt in your mind. I hope it did.

Things brightened considerably for me after I was put on medication. The things that you did I used to hate were mild inconveniences. Annoying at most. I was becoming more sympathetic. I was becoming a better person. And then you died. 2021 we all got Covid because your doctor warned us against a vaccine and we believed him. A woman at dad’s work who refused to wear a mask, brought it to the office and then didn’t tell anyone for a week. I hate her. We were okay for a few days. It was the first time in years all of us had been home together and in the same room. I’m young, it was like the flu for me. For you? Well you checked every mark on the fatality list. Heart failure, COPD and diabetes, you didn’t stand a chance. We knew and we had tried so hard to not get sick but it happened anyway. Dad was- is wracked with guilt. He thinks he killed you. I think the woman from work did it. He’s a better person than me, he could forgive her. I never will.

After a few days of sitting together in the living room, all miserable and sniffly, you said you needed to go to urgent care. We went without any hesitation and that's when I really started keeping secrets. They sent you to the emergency room and I knew you weren’t coming back. The day we got sick, as I watched you and dad deteriorate like people with the plague, I knew that if we went to the hospital you wouldn’t come back. And now it was happening. I’m ashamed to say that I gave up on you the second the ambulance drove away. I became a beacon of false hope for dad, shining plastic positivity down on him. It worked for a few weeks. On the outside I assured him you’d come home in no time and on the inside was a seething ball of hatred.

I hated that your last talk with dad was a phone call because he couldn’t see you even though you were sick with the same thing. I hated that the doctor who had checked you over in the emergency room told you, you would die even though I knew that to be the case. I hate that when dad finally came home and called the ICU to talk to you, they told him you were in a coma. Dad was a mess. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. I kept to myself that I thought I was going to lose both parents. I kept to myself what I would do if I did. Your sister and your mother wouldn’t visit you in the hospital because they were too scared of catching Covid. My own visits were sparse and awkward. You always hated happy, sappy things, and at that point you weren’t my mom anymore. This was a corpse being forced to breathe on a hospital bed. You couldn’t hear me, and I knew you were gone. Dad held your hand, swollen and torn from bedsores, and he wept for you. He begged you to come home for Christmas. My tears were for his anguish, and I hated that they weren’t for you. We celebrated my 24th birthday in a bar, because any restaurants we went to as a family were too painful.

You had been in a coma for over a month now. The doctors asked us to allow them to pull life support so they could free up the bed. They wanted you to die on Christmas Day. We didn’t let them. Christmas was your favorite holiday and I had gotten you amazing gifts. I’d give anything in the world for you to have at least seen them. That December 25th was the first day it really had set in. That I loved you and you weren’t coming back. I unwrapped gifts “From: Santa” in your handwriting. Months earlier I had randomly stated I liked sunflowers, and now I was lifting up a black sunflower dress. You remembered everything I told you, even if you’d brushed it off. I was a horrible, cruel daughter. As I held this dress in my trembling hands, I reflected on our last words being an argument. We were sick and angry. We didn't get along very well if we were both miserable.

“You’re too rough.” Were the last words you’d spoken to me. On December 26th, we thanked your corpse for the gifts and turned off life support. Your body gave out in three minutes. We will never celebrate Christmas again.

Everything was a downhill spiral from that point on. My fake positivity was no longer needed and I was completely drained of any emotion. I had skipped grief and gone straight to numbness. Both cars broke down at the same time. We were being buried in hospital bills. Dad took me to work now so I got there an hour early everyday. An hour to sit alone in the dark and think. I didn’t want to think. We had to cancel your debit card, your phone, anything with your name on it was destroyed. I knew it was part of the process. Dad felt like he was erasing you. I went with him to all of these places to take over when he broke down, but he’s a strong man and never did. Apologies for my loss from strangers were rehearsed in their sales pitch as we got offers for two person plans, rather than three. I bought your urn, because I remembered things you told me too. Even if I brushed them off. If I couldn’t be good to you in life I would use all my money to be good to you in death. I bought a sunflower cremains necklace, I bought a tropical tree to plant in your ashes, I dyed my hair back to its normal shade to be respectful. On the day of the funeral I wore a black sunflower dress. It was a beautiful service that your mother refused to attend. She didn’t want to get sick. It took a family wide argument to even get your sister to come. None of your family wanted to be there. I hate them.

Dad’s eulogy brought tears to everyone, and when all eyes turned to me I stayed seated. I’m sorry I didn't speak. I couldn’t. I had words to say but they were jumbled and I didn't want to openly sob in front of all these people. It was selfish, but you would’ve understood. We’re now just past the first mother’s day where we didn’t go out to your favorite restaurant. I didn’t buy you jewelry. If I had known you’d be gone so soon, I would've told you I loved you more. You would’ve hated that. I don’t have secrets, but I do have regrets. I love you mom. I’m sorry.

Sincerely,

Your Loser Daughter.