The Letter I Can't Post

Dear Mum,

Yesterday, I was trying to explain to Dad that I had been crippled by an anxiety attack on Friday night for the first time in years. He, along with Bob, and the one other close friend who knows about this, all said I sounded like I was experiencing some postpartum depression and that my hormones were out of whack and I probably needed therapy.

He also said that I was wasting my time if I wasn't talking to you about it because, as my mother, you would be the person who knew best what I was going through.

The problem is, I can't talk to you about it, and not because I don't think you would understand, because I know you would, but because you can't make it better, and that will hurt you.

You see, it's not postpartum depression. It's not hormones. It's not the anxiety of the new mother that's overwhelming me.

It's all the fucking imminent death.

Granny getting really sick was very scary. I was surprised by how upset it made me, and I realized it's because I promised her she'd get to meet her great grandson, and I have yet to fulfill that promise.
Similarly, it was scary because when I talked to you about it, you told me how things were with her, watching her struggle and fight and get angry and be ready, and I listened to how you, a child, were preparing yourself for the loss of your parent. I listened as you told me about how your uncle had died while you were with your mother, and I heard the tears in your voice because it was too much to think about.

I listened, and I heard how tired you were, and how resigned you are, and how, no matter how prepared you make yourself for death, when it's in the room with you, there is no being ready.

I listened to you, and I thought about Dad.
How I will someday, someday much sooner than I am ready for, be in your position. I will be watching my parent struggle and fight and get angry and then acquiesce as his body finally fails.
I will prepare myself, and then I will still be taken by surprise by how much it hurts, the loss, when it happens.

I can't talk to you about this because he's your husband.
And losing him is going to hurt you so much too. It is unfair of me to place my loss above yours, because neither outweighs the other. They both suck.
And they both incapacitate us to comfort the other.

I feel so helpless.
And I think that's why I fell apart on Friday.
I keep losing people.

I lost myself when I had the baby.
I don't know who this person is, but I mourn the girl I used to be. I have faith that this new version of myself will be better in many ways than she was, but I don't know her yet, and I am sad. I miss the old me even though I would not trade her for him any day.

I lost Sarah (my sister) for some reason this Spring. She doesn't want anything to do with me or the baby. After depending on me for three years when she first moved here, after I helped her get a job, get a place to live, after I did nothing but give her soft landing after soft landing while she went through hard times, she has completely abandoned me during the time I am in the most need. She promised me she would be here when I needed her after the baby was born.
And she broke that promise.

Then, when I got angry, hurt, and upset enough to confront her about it, she acted as though I were mad. She accused me of infantilizing her and blowing things out of proportion. She never once apologized. She still hasn't. She hasn't made any effort to even see the baby again. It hurts me every day that my own sister doesn't want to be a part of my son's life.

Alex is lost, but in a different way. She's been eaten by another movie. She works and works, and she texts and sometimes calls, and tries to invite me to things that I can't go to, but it's not for lack of trying. I can't be mad at her because she clearly wants to be part of my life. She wants to be around the baby. She tells me she misses us all the time. It just sucks that we haven't seen her in four months.

Granny is going to be gone soon, and I don't know if I'll get to introduce her to her great grandson like I promised. I feel horrible about it. I am rushing to print out passport renewal forms. I may have a plan to get to Canada by the end of October. I refuse to go down without a fight. There at leasr is something I can do.

Dad is sick.
We don't know how much longer we have left with him.
It could be eight more years.
It could be three.

I am drowning in loss.
Every day I look at the baby and I grow more sad that someday I will have to leave him alone in this world too. I see how you are experiencing Granny's decline, and I feel how I will miss Dad, and I see my child and I want to protect him from this pain.
I can't.

The thing that makes life so sweet is its most bitter counterpart.

I know you are probably best equipped to talk to me about all of this, but in truth it feels cruel to bring it all to you and ask you to make it better.
Not only is that not something you can do, but not being able to do it will make you feel like you are failing me somehow, and the last thing I want to do is make you feel worse.

I already know how this powerlessness is the kind of thing that makes us scream.
We are better when we have tasks to do that make us feel effective.
There is no mess to clean up, no event to organize, no, at this moment, there is nothing to do but wait.

And the waiting is killing me.
And I can't tell you that.