The things I wish I had done differently.

The Things I Wish I Had Done Differently

We are coming up on a year since my mama died.

September 25th.

And apparently my brain has decided this is the perfect time to drag out every memory I have carefully shoved into a box for the last year and ask me to explain myself.

There are things I feel guilty about.

Things I haven’t really wanted to say out loud.

I wasn’t with my mama as much as I could have been while she was dying.

There. I said it.

I took her to her appointments. I handled her bills. I bought her anything and everything I thought might help her, make her comfortable, make things easier, or give us a little more time.

I made sure someone was with her.

But I wasn’t always the someone.

Mama wanted me to quit my job and take care of her.

And I couldn’t do it.

I wasn’t a nurse. I didn’t know how to take care of someone who was that sick, and the thought of being responsible for her terrified me.

She needed help getting to the bathroom and doing things I physically couldn’t safely help her do. Honestly, Mama didn’t want me doing those things anyway. She was scared I would drop her.

She trusted Jarrod and Kannon to help her with that.

And I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful she loved them enough to trust them when she was at her most vulnerable.

But even when I eventually got FMLA from work, there were days I stayed home.

In bed.

And that is the part that can eat me alive if I let it.

Because now I think, You had the time. Why weren’t you there?

The answer isn’t pretty or profound.

It was too hard.

I couldn’t stand seeing my mama like that.

She was dying in front of me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.

Mama wouldn’t always take her pain medicine. She had her own ideas about how she wanted things handled. And watching someone you love hurt while knowing you cannot fix it is a kind of helplessness I don’t think you understand until you’ve lived it.

Sometimes I hid from it.

I went home and crawled into bed.

And now I’d give anything for one of those afternoons back.

That’s the cruelty of hindsight.

You don’t know which ordinary Tuesday you’re going to spend the rest of your life wishing you could have again.

Even the last night.

I knew Mama probably only had hours left.

Jarrod stayed with her through the night. Kannon stayed with her.

I went home with Jacksyn.

She was only 14, and I didn’t want her last memory of her grandmother to be watching her die. I wanted to protect my daughter from an image I knew she could never unsee.

So I stayed home with her.

But I checked with Jarrod every hour.

Every single hour.

That morning, Mama died.

Jarrod sent Kannon to get us, and we went over there.

I’ve replayed that night in my head more times than I can count.

Should I have stayed?

Should I have been beside her?

Should I have made a different decision?

Maybe.

That’s the part people don’t tell you about grief. Sometimes you don’t just grieve the person.

You grieve the things you wish you had done differently.

And then there was, we will call her Barbara.

After Mama died, I went through her phone.

I found messages from a woman Mama considered a friend talking about me.

I was “slack.”

I should be ashamed of myself.

“Why isn’t your daughter taking care of you?”

Mama would answer things like, “She’s here now.”

Or, “She’s taking me to my appointments.”

Mama wasn’t confrontational. She wasn’t going to argue with somebody or create drama. She was notorious for letting people say whatever they wanted and just listening.

I understand that.

Especially now.

She was sick. She was tired. She had bigger things to worry about than defending me in somebody’s text messages.

But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt.

I wanted Mama to say, Don’t talk about my daughter like that.

She didn’t.

And I think some part of me has been carrying that ever since.

What Barbara didn’t know was that Mama didn’t WANT me telling her everything.

Mama didn’t want everyone knowing the details of her cancer or what was happening.

When Barbara called me wanting information, most of the time I didn’t answer.

Because Mama told me not to.

She said Barbara was being nosy.

I was respecting my mother’s wishes.

Apparently my silence became evidence in a trial I didn’t even know I was on.

Then came Mama’s funeral.

While the pastor was speaking, Barbara was talking loudly enough that people were telling her to be quiet.

When he talked about Mama cooking enough food for an army, Barbara laughed and announced that Mama didn’t cook and that these people obviously didn’t know anything about her.

Then came my turn to greet everyone.

I was standing with my daughter when Barbara walked up, smacking her gum, with this sarcastic look on her face.

She said, “I sure am gonna miss your mama.”

I said, “Me too.”

And she loudly answered:

“ARE YOU?”

Then again.

“Are you gonna miss her? Are you sure about that?”

At my mother’s funeral.

I told her, “I’m not doing this with you here.”

And I walked away.

By then I was crying.

Jacksyn stayed beside me.

My 14-year-old daughter stayed glued to her mama because somehow she knew I needed her.

And then my godmother Sonya appeared.

She came and got me and simply said it was time to go.

Later I asked her how she knew.

I had those giant sunglasses on. I didn’t think anyone could even tell what was happening with me.

She said she just had a feeling.

I’ll never forget that.

She didn’t need me to explain.

She didn’t ask me what was wrong.

She just knew I needed someone to come get me.

And she did.

Almost a year later, I think I’m finally realizing something.

I can regret things without condemning myself for them.

I wish I had spent more time with Mama.

I do.

If somebody handed me a time machine right now, I wouldn’t go anywhere glamorous.

I’d go back to one of those afternoons I spent lying in my bed.

I’d get up.

I’d drive to Mama’s house.

And I’d sit with her.

I wouldn’t worry about saying anything important.

I wouldn’t try to fix anything.

I’d just be there.

But the woman I am today knows something the woman I was then didn’t know yet.

I know what it feels like to have almost an entire year of tomorrows without my mama in them.

She didn’t know that yet.

She was scared.

She was watching her mother die.

And sometimes she couldn’t handle it.

I wish I could go back and tell her to get out of the damn bed.

But I also wish I could sit beside her on it for a minute and tell her:

You’re scared because you love her.

I don’t think those two things have to cancel each other out anymore.

I don’t have to pretend I did everything perfectly to know that I loved my mother.

And I don’t have to accept somebody else’s version of our relationship just because grief occasionally makes me vulnerable enough to believe it.

Barbara wasn’t there for the appointments.

She wasn’t there for the bills.

She wasn’t inside my head during those nights.

She didn’t know what Mama asked me to keep private.

She wasn’t there when I bought one more thing because maybe this would make Mama more comfortable.

She wasn’t awake with me while I checked my phone every hour that final night.

She saw pieces.

I lived it.

And Mama lived it with me.

Maybe that’s what I’m trying to remember as September 25th gets closer.

Cancer was the end of my mother’s life.

It wasn’t our entire relationship.

Her final months weren’t my entire lifetime as her daughter.

And the things I wish I’d done differently don’t erase all the things I did.

I miss my mama.

God, I miss her.

And if there is anything I’ve learned during this first year without her, it’s that grief doesn’t only make you miss someone.

Sometimes it makes you put yourself on trial.

I’m tired of doing that.

I was her daughter.

I loved her.

I was terrified of losing her.

And then I lost her anyway.

Maybe, for now, that’s enough truth to hold.