Dear Mom, I Miss You A Lot.
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In just a few days it will be 6 years since we lost you. The memories of that day are still so strong, I remember saying goodbye to you, having no idea that it was going to be the last time that I saw you alive. That day I sat in the waiting room with the family, holding onto the tasks that you gave me – which were 1. Call your friends on the list that you provided after you were out of surgery and 2. Take my brother and go to the store after you got out of surgery because you wanted us to pick you out a robe to wear in the hospital.
I didn’t get you a robe mom.
I called your friends, but the news was more somber than we planned.
I’m really struggling this year with my grief. Every year I have a hard time, but this year is different. The biggest thing is just never knowing when it will hit. Some years it’s the week leading up to the anniversary, other times it’s the day before. This year it started two weeks early. Some days I have just been crying periodically throughout the day. Other days I am completely fine and then all of a sudden I am hit with a ton of emotional bricks.
And it’s the stupidest things that set me off. I went to Michael’s the other day. I saw modeling clay and thought of your Sculpy days. Then I went to the grocery store and realized that I push the cart exactly as you used to. I have my calculator in one hand (cell phone actually, but the calculator opened up), and push it with my right arm, bent at the elbow.
But really, can you just come back? I know that sounds really stupid, but I just really need for that to happen. I need to talk to you. You need to meet your grandchildren. I want you to come to Parker’s Christmas program in a couple weeks. Remember my first one? You put me in that red velvet Christmas dress. And then we went home and ate sugar cookies in the kitchen, but then you saw a mouse run across the counter and spit your milk straight out.
I miss you.
And I want to laugh again.
I want you to call my cell phone for the most ridiculous reasons like you used to: “Kristyn Nicole, have I told you that your father annoys me?” And I want you to get mad when I send you to voicemail and don’t return your call for three days. Honestly though, I wouldn’t do that anymore. It really pisses me off when Jake does that, so I get your annoyance now. Sorry about that.
You would love my babies. Parker is such a mini you, and Connor is such a brat. But as his grandmother, you would think he’s hilarious. Remember Lia when she was little? I think Lia passed her DNA on to Connor. He’s a tiny, male version of her. I’m sure someday he’ll steal the pencil’s of his classmates and decorate them at home because they aren’t fancy enough. And you’re probably up there egging him on because you think it’s funny.
I know that Heaven is a much better place than here. But we are here. Your kids, your grandchildren, your mom, and sisters. Mary would freak out to see you again. She’s working now mom, at the flower shop where we got the arrangements for your funeral. I know that if you were here you would find an excuse to go in there every shift that she had. You would have a bunch of random flower bouquets all over your house that Mary would pick out for you while you were there.
And you would buy them because you could never say no to Mary.
Mom, you were always the one to take care of me when I was sad. And sick. And you always brought me a birthday cake and ice cream. I’m sad now, and I don’t have you to help make it better. When I was sick last weekend, you weren’t here to bring me Gatorade and snacks.
Also, I am pretty sure I killed your rosebush. Grandma planted it at my house and she told me how to take care of it. And I screwed that up. I need you to fix that.
I also need to tell you that you were right about personal training. Yes, I said you’re right. I’ll say it again too. I always teased you about it, but holy cow. I have never sweat that much in my life. Can you come back so we can talk more about it? Trader Joe’s still has the brownies that you loved, I’ll get some and make them if you’ll just come back. Also, expensive mascara is definitely more worth it, you were right on that one too.
I wrote this letter to you because a google search of “things that can help grieving” revealed that it could help. I don’t know how true that will turn out to be, but I hope that somehow you are able to see this. Because I need you to know that I really, really love you and it’s really lonely without you here. And I can’t email Heaven, and the post office doesn’t have service in that area.
I need you, dear mom.
My kids need their grandma. Our hearts are broken without you here. Please come home.