Hey Mom

Hey Mom. I never told you this before, but... I met someone.

We have started a beautiful relationship that has already lasted eight years. She and I are growing and living and loving together like true partners should. And I owe much of this beauty to you.

It happened about two years after we stopped talking. She came into my life like this magnetic force, and quickly became a fundamental fact of my life. Every lesson you ever taught me, whether you knew you were teaching me or not, helped me to love and understand her better.

You taught me to be kind, especially when the one you love the most is suffering. You did this, in part, by suffering. Looking after you in all the small ways that I did taught me a lot and (I would later learn) made me uniquely suited for being a caretaker to someone with a few disabilities. It taught me how to listen to the needs of others. It taught me how to shrug off my own selfish desire to crawl under a blanket and cease to exist in this loud world we live in. To remember each day to step away from the clouds my head lives inside of rent free and return to the ground long enough to take part in life. It taught me a language of a thousand small gestures that add up to those silent signals which, when interpreted, speak to a person's needs. But most of all it taught me compassion. Because at the height of your suffering you still took time enough for two things.

The first was to be a human; goofy and fun-loving and adventurous. That was an example I cherish.

And the second, and much harder I imagine, was to be my Mom. Even when things were hardest for you, you showed me kindness I can never repay. I really hope you knew how grateful I would be later in life, even if I failed to show it in the moments themselves.

For that, and everything else you showed me, I'm grateful.

You also taught me about the value of patience. Or, at least you started that lesson. Time and experience finished the work you laid out. Patience is simply one tool in our great arsenal of behaviors, and it does not fit every situation. But you taught me not only how to be patient but also when to stop; i.e. somewhere just short of complacency. Don't waste time being so patient with others that you allow yourself to be walked over. Don't become so endeared with patience that you forget to take necessary action. Both of these lessons took a while for me to learn, and it might take a bit longer for me to master, but I will.

The things you taught me about love were not always success stories. But failure is often the greatest teacher, and success exists on a much broader spectrum than I think is generally accepted. Thomas Edison once said, "I have not failed. I have just found ten-thousand ways that won't work." I remember this quote being a part of a movie we really liked (National Treasure) and I think success can be viewed in a similar light. Your marriage with my Dad did not work out, for many reasons that were beyond the scope of both of your controls, and maybe some key ones that were not. You failed to stay in a happy marriage together, as do many couples in today's world. But even in the midst of that and all your personal turmoil caused by disease and financial strain, you still succeeded in caring for and loving your children above all else. You succeeded in piloting a sinking ship into a safe harbor, and that is extremely admirable. It taught me a great deal, only some of which I feel equal to the task of trying to put into words.

If I had to quantify the most poignant lessons I learned from the things that happened to you, not who you were but what you went through, I would phrase it as 'grace under pressure'. I did not know it growing up but your world was on fire. You sheltered me in spite of the core pillars of who you were collapsing around you, and you made it your mission to remain my Mom in spite of every other part of your identity slipping away from you due to illness and personal crises you made sure that I knew very little of at the time.

There's this quote from a man who's known for being tough-as-nails. His name is David Goggins and amongst a litany of achievements he was also a Navy Seal and has done some really impressive, truly incredible stuff with his life. He was talking about what sort of person it takes to make it through the extreme training regimen required to become a Navy Seal, and what he said has stuck with me. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, that it does not matter how strong or tough or powerful you are. The sort of person who makes it through the toughest challenges in life are the people who dig down deep and find it within themselves to reach out and help the person next to them, in spite of how miserable they are inside.

I think about that a lot.

I have this memory of one day when I was really struggling with school. You pulled me out early and took me to a gun range out of the blue. You shot a perfect round, did not miss a single target. I have no idea how many targets I hit or missed, but I remember how it felt to see you transform each of those little clay discs into puffs of dust floating through the air one after the other. I'm old enough now to realize you were likely going through something that day that had nothing to do with me, but I'm glad I was there to witness that catharsis unfold. It has become a very pure moment in my head that I think of as one of my first encounters with what real magic looks like in our world.

Real magical moments like that come from mastery over one's craft or art, these little profound instances where someone displays a mechanical, fluid understanding of the task they are performing and execute with unparalleled precision. That was magical and I'm grateful you shared it with me. From it I have learned to appreciate certain events as they happen instead waiting until later to truly engage with them. I often ask myself "in 2 weeks, in 5 months, in 7 years, will I cherish this memory?" and if the answer is yes I find myself more awake, more lucid in those moments than in the rest everyday life. I'm trying to apply that lucidity to as many moments as possible, because it feels important and it feel like I'm healing some deep part of myself each time I do it, but it's still a work in progress just as I am.

I know from what you told me in our very open conversations at the time that you thought you had failed where my sisters are concerned and I have some mixed emotions about that but, as I have told Dad many times, "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter." Your youngest daughter is doing alright, she and I still talk and make each other laugh despite living in different states. She cares for animals, just like you did, and is her very own person I think you'd be quite proud of. Your two eldest daughters I am no longer on speaking terms with. That came about as a result of our actions and choices, nothing you did or failed to do. I thank you for teaching me not only how but when to stand up for myself, even to members of my own family. I do not regret my ultimate decision to sever contact with them, but I do wish I had not been put in that situation.

These lessons you taught me armed me with what I needed in order to become the man that I am. Without them I could never have been who I needed to be to love this wonderful person I met in the way she deserves to be loved. Kindly and patiently and courageously. These are ideals I do my best to uphold every day, and they come from the lessons I learned from you and the examples you gave me both good and bad.

I really think you'd like her. She's a fighter and a sweetheart, with an incredible sense of humor. I would have given a great deal just to introduce her to you and let you see that your son is in good hands, the same way her family knows she is safe with me.

We just celebrated our eight year anniversary. We are all but married, all that remains is handling the legal paperwork and putting together a ceremony, but in all the ways that really matter to us we have already been husband and wife to one another for some time. We're partners. We have a life together. We've built a family of ourselves, two dogs, and a small collection of plants. We found a place to live together in the middle of a global pandemic that I'm actually kind of glad you never had to see. It got pretty wild there for a bit. We are admittedly pretty bad about keeping our apartment clean while we're juggling three jobs between us, but we're working on that too. I appreciate what we have built and I'm excited for our future together, and that is enough. I don't think there is anything more to ask for at this stage of my life, only things to work towards to continue to improve upon the base we have constructed. Our journey is now about finding more fulfilling careers, becoming more of ourselves, and helping one another to achieve our dreams. There's a remarkable beauty in that that I must thank you for helping me to see. Because of you I know how rare that is. I know how easy it is to lose. I know it is worth fighting for, and I even know how.

This December will mark ten years since you passed. I still miss you. The world is still as crazy as it was when you left it. There's a lot I'd love to catch you up on. Did you know that the Walking Dead is still going on? That's kind of insane. I don't even know how many of the characters we liked are even still kicking after all this time, but I'm pretty sure Daryl is still in the picture, crossbow and all. The Avengers, which you only got to see the first ensemble movie of, is just ludicrously huge now. I think you would have loved going on all those journeys with them based on how much you enjoyed the first few.

There was this one movie called Guardians of the Galaxy and every time I watch it it feels so bittersweet because you would have LOVED it so much. It has everything. Great music, funny dialogue, an absolute goofus of a main character, and nothing less than a superb silly-to-serious ratio at work. Also there's an actor from the Walking Dead in it and he plays this guy called Yondu, he's fantastic. I am really sorry you missed that one.

You imparted upon me a great love of stories, or maybe you awakened a love of stories that existed in me all along but either way, I have to thank you. When I see great stories unfurl I think of how much you would have enjoyed them. I try to enjoy them a little extra in your absence because of that.

Some things have not changed. I still want to be writer, and I'm still not sure I have the right to call myself one yet. I worry sometimes that I've lost a step or two by indulging too much in patience, or that I spend too long waiting for the right inspiration to strike, or that I have put off great stories until my skill level is equal to the dream I have of how perfect they ought to be... or that I put too many commas in my sentences. But I'm learning.

I'm going to move away from our home state soon. This year or the next. My fiance and I are going to continue our lives elsewhere, leaving the nest of familiarity in order to build a new one all our own. I'll be leaving behind a lot of memories as well, things I don't need to carry with me anymore.

I haven't forgotten you though. Nor have I forgotten the lessons you instilled in me (some intentionally, some not). And I never will.

The part of me that you live on inside of, I'm taking that with me into this future I'm building with the love of my life. It will manifest itself every time I treat my wife kindly when she's having a bad day, every time I exercise patience the right way, and every time I handle something overwhelming or catastrophic with the courage and grace under pressure that you personified more powerfully than anyone else I know of.

By far the greatest lesson you taught me was simply how to learn. How to overcome and grow and mature. When you left I was 14. I had a lot of growing still to do. What you helped me learn is that I will always have a lot of growing yet to do, no matter if I'm 18, 42, or 89. Thank you for helping me find the tools to pick myself up and learn a thing or two each day.

Thank you for being my Mom through the final years of your life. I hope I both have made and will continue to make you proud.

P.S. I also have tattoos now. And I will likely be getting more. I know they weren't really your thing, but I love them, and I like to think you would have too, in time.

P.S.S. Our dogs names are Bastian and Lilith, though she more often goes by Lily. We chose the first, and we rescued the second. We love them so much and we are happy we've been able to welcome them into our lives.