she’s not here (when your mom is dead). 

My mom would have wanted to be a part of this. 

I sit in bed, forcing myself to try to nap during days, just so I can see her in my dreams. In my dreams, she’s our most supportive person. She’s the person calling to check on us everyday. She’s the person remembering that it was Shilpa’s first day of injections and that she was scared. She’s the person to recognize how empty I’ve felt for months because this process just takes everything out of you. She would know how to fix it. She would say the right words or stop over for a movie night. She would offer hope – her specialty – and remind me of my resilience. 
She always knew me. She was my mother. 
I was looking at my birth photos yesterday. The young teenage girl pushing out a piece of herself in the world. Her blood sustained me. It’s the same that will sustain my child. 
And I need her. 
I need her voice and I need her reassurance and I need her hope and no matter how much I look for her in others – she’s not there. 
She would have proper respones to these things. 
She would hold excitement and remind me that it will happen. 
She would say something about letting go and letting god before going into discussions about baby names. She loved the name Lily. For years, she tried to get people to name their kid Lily. We won’t, but it would be fun to see her try. 
In all these fantasies my mom is sober. 

In all these fantasies she would have lived.

In all these fantasies she lived that night – my brother was able to wake her up, the ambulance came in time, we didn’t sit at the house for several hours with her body but instead sat in the hospital. In my dreams she went to a program – something where she had to live there for months as she recovered. In my dreams she was happy and went for her dreams of going to college. In my dreams she was healthy and called me all the time and told me how much she loved me at every chance. 
In my dreams she would be here – wanting to be apart of anything that had to do with her grandchild. 
I used to tell her I would never let her see them. Young teenage me, screaming with sadness as she was hyped up on something – really wanting to say, “why, why can’t you change?” 
I still have so many traumas from her but I also hold, claw onto, so many good memories. She was my one constant for the first 20 years of my life. When I was a small child, I often escaped from where I was at – daycare, babysitters, anywhere – and walked to our house yelling for her. My tiny feet crossing train tracks and roads. My heart and love for my mom the only GPS I had. I feel like that now – tiny and desperate, searching and searching for her. 
Now I live with fantasies and dreams and what ifs. 
I saw her yesterday in someone. After searching and searching, I saw her in the excitement of one of my wife’s friends. In her words and her gestures as she was wishing us sticky baby dust. In her facial features as we talked. 
I needed that reassurance that she’s still a part of my world. 
She would have appreciated being a part of it. She would have the right words – most the time. But mainly, she would have cared enough to ask us how we are and keep track. She would have prayed to her god and she would have talked about this with pride to anyone who would listen. She would talk about my wife with pride – taking time to get to know her, made it a point to laugh with her. 
I need her now, today, this week, this month. 
Funny how things end up – how I push through without her. Funny, how if things go right with our transfer that our kids could have her birthday. Funny. 
I know people don’t generally know how to be supportive during this time and I’m sure it’ll be helpful to make a separate post. But, the best way to be supportive, right now? Is just to be here. Ask encouraging questions. Recognizing that this process is very hard but is happening because we truly love this potential human being. Checking in and asking how we are doing and how we are taking care of ourselves and each other. 
What’s not helpful and causes a lot of turmoil? Judgement. Telling us to just relax. Asking why my wife isn’t carrying the child and how much she should or that she’s healthier (we are healthy adults who actually have discussed this for years, don’t push). More judgement about the process. Bringing up how expensive it is – we know. Telling us about friends who tried for years and it didn’t work. Asking us why we aren’t adopting (newsflash, way more expendive). Telling us to relax, again.  
It could be the way my brain works being Austistic or it could just be something fundamentally ingrained in me – but the golden rule applies here and I hold onto that really tightly. 
Either way, it’s hard to realize just how much I wish my mom was here being that support person. How much I need her. How devastated that she’s not here in this process and my pregnancy and my birth. 
She would have wanted to be apart of this. Moreso, I would have desperately wanted her here. 

One Comment Add yours

  1. marybethmullens says:

    Beautiful and heart wrenching post! I don’t have the right words or experience to express understanding of losing a mother, just know my heart goes out to you. But I do totally get the desire to escape into dreams (go introverts). And who are these people passing judgement, asking why you aren’t having your wife carry, telling you it’s expensive? Please give me names. They deserve to be bitchslapped. That’s so rude. I’m with you on the golden rule.

    Liked by 1 person

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