It's A Process

I am not an author. My words are not eloquent or inspirational like your typical influencer these days. But it seems that once or twice a year I just need to write. I write for myself. To make some sense out of the thoughts that run through my head sometimes too quickly for me to process. And, if I publish it (do people even have blogs anymore?), I write so that others can understand what I often cannot vocalize. Here I sit at 10pm on a Friday night. Not sad, just thinking and wondering.

Grief and loss are funny things. You can read books and articles about the beginning. Initially there is devastation. The world seems to collapse and people rally and it feels busy and overwhelming and chaotic. A year or two pass and you have frequent waves of intense grief. People forget, but you don't. It's messy and lonely.

Here I am. A little more than twelve years into this process. There doesn't seem to be nearly as much coverage of this phase. As far as I know, it's not talked about much. The grief waves aren't nearly as frequent. I can go days without even thinking about my mom. The people in my inner circles never knew her. Sometimes I find myself starting to say, "Hey, remember when she..." But they don't remember. They don't remember because they didn't know her. So I am quiet.

It's different now. I don't spend my days wishing for her and trying to will her to come back. Sometimes I'm sad, but mostly I wonder. I cycle through the same few pictures of her, because there will not be any new ones. I wonder what it's like to have a mom. What WAS it like to have a mom? Because honestly, I don't have many memories of her. Would we still be close? Would we hang out? What kind of things would she say to me? Would we text all the time? Talk on the phone? How many times a day would she tell me that I can do hard things? I don't have answers. It's weird. I don't love it. I accept it. But I wonder.

When we first lost her people kept reminding me that God works all things for good. That he would bring good things through this. It made me mad, but they were right. God HAS done so many good and miraculous things through it all. I'm beginning to see it, twelve years later. It doesn't mean life is easy. It doesn't make it okay. But I can say with confidence that He has carried me through this beautifully messy life. One that I never could have planned for myself.

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Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

Today marks 11 years since I last saw your face. 11 years since I screamed "I love you" over and over in desperation and despair, knowing that very soon I wouldn't have you anymore. Screaming because I knew that my safe place was about to be gone.

11 years ago, I wasn't thinking about high school. Or college. Or today. Today I wonder what it would have been. What it could have been. Would we have fought or argued when I was a teenager? Would I have gone through a period of hating you or being embarrassed of you the way some girls do? Would I have called you in college to vent about professors or cry about scary performances or complain about hard assignments?

I wonder what our relationship would be like today. Would you still be my best friend? Would I want to call you every day? What would we talk about? What would you say to me when I struggle with anxiety and depression? Would you come to my apartment for movie nights?

God has put some pretty amazing people in my life to fill in some of the gaps. Dad still works so hard to provide for Chandler and all of his girls. Camille, Annie, and Gidge are my best friends. Can you believe that? So many friends have stepped in for you and been "mom" for me, often without even knowing it.

I didn't think it was possible, but life went on. Life without you has become normal. And God has shown up in big ways even when I have had so little faith. He taught me that I needed to put my trust in Him, not in you. You are my mom, but He is my Savior.

Losing you changed my life, but it doesn't CONSUME my life anymore. I'm starting to forget what your voice sounds like and that terrifies me. I don't think about you every second of every day anymore and part of me feels guilty about that. I know that you would be happy for me. Your selfless heart would be elated that I am finding joy again.

But Mommy, I miss you. Tomorrow. June 1, 2018 marks 11 years since Jesus met you with arms wide open and said, "well done, my good and faithful servant." So, today and tomorrow I will rejoice with you because you are healed. But I will allow myself to cry, and think, and wish, and wonder, and miss you. Because 11 years is a long time to be without a mom.

I love you,
Mags

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The Mindset of Anxiety

I woke up the other morning feeling nothing but dread. I had to force myself out of bed to get ready. My body was weak and shaky. I was terrified. Of nothing. As I approached my workplace my chest began to feel tight and I was nauseous. Because I knew I would have to talk to people. People who I know and love. People I usually feel so safe with.

I beat myself up because of the way I feel. I know that there is no rational reason for me to be anxious. Nothing bad or scary is really happening. I was mad at myself because I couldn't snap out of it.

Still nauseous, shaky, and weak, I put on a happy face and hoped nobody could tell that I was barely holding it together inside. We sang songs, had dance parties, and practiced scripture. I was two seconds away from either throwing up or crying the whole time.

Then I was alone. I made it through another day. I cried. Tears of sadness, fear, and defeat. My body became tense and my head was throbbing. I started hyperventilating and all of my muscles were so tight that I couldn't move. I laid in bed trying to slow my breathing and stretch my muscles. Finally, I got a little break. Two more times I had these paralyzing attacks. I tried to pray, but all I could think was, "Lord, please help me." I felt so alone. So scared. So tired and sad.

Anxiety is something I have lived with for as long as I can remember. I remember when I was as little as four or five just sitting and feeling scared. Sometimes it was because my mom made me talk on the phone. Sometimes it was when my parents made me talk to people (introduce myself or say "hi" to an adult). Sometimes I didn't know why I was afraid. It was something that came and went, but was always kind of there.

Then my mom died, and my anxiety and depression skyrocketed. I never acknowledged or admitted that I had it. I felt that because I was functioning, because I was still in school and making good grades and wasn't stuck in bed all the time, that I didn't really have anxiety. Or depression. I was just scared and sad a lot. I thought I just wasn't trusting God enough. I wasn't reading my Bible or praying enough.

But anxiety is so very real. Through counseling and yes, medication, I have been able to get it under control. It usually does not rule my life anymore. However, sometimes my anxiety rears it's ugly head again. Like the past several days.

One of the deepest desires of my heart is to learn how to trust the Lord with this. I don't know what that looks like. I don't know how. I believe He will help me. But I also believe that I have to put in some work as well. I need to find the right tools. Healing is painful. It takes time. I am thankful for the people who have stood beside me through the crazy ups and downs of my life.

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Holidays

This time of year is tough. 

Thanksgiving and Christmas. The time of year when families gather together and eat, talk, laugh, maybe quarrel a little. There's dysfunction and everyone knows it. Some more than others. But overall, people enjoy the short time with their families.

This year I am between families. Not quite knowing where I fit in. There's my dad's house but I don't live there anymore. There's the home I live in now but I'm not technically part of their family. It's hard. I love both of my families, but it is hard.

Thanksgiving day will be spent in my step mother's cousin's house. With all of her family who are still kind of strangers to my siblings and me. I'll answer the questions, "where are you working? Oh, so you just stay at home and babysit all day? When are you going to get a REAL job? (to which I'll want to but not have the courage to respond, "Please, switch jobs with me for a day and take care of two 2 year olds and two 4 year olds and then ask me about having a REAL job.") Are you going to go back to school? How much money are you making? You won't make much money with your degree" about 15 times. They mean well. But I'm going to need some serious supernatural strength because these days if anyone asks me ONE of those questions I politely finish the conversation then walk away and cry. So much uncertainty.

I feel lonely. Not good enough. Unwanted. I want people to love me for who I am, and not wish I was someone better. 

I want people to tell me that it's okay to be sad, and to want my old life back. I try not to dwell on it for too long, but the holidays are brutal. I miss my mom. All the time, but especially in November/December. I do not enjoy this time of year and I usually fail at pretending I do. And for that I am sorry. I do my best not to take anyone else's joy. 

My birthday is December 5, and guess what. That's the day my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I don't really like my birthday. I don't really feel like I should be allowed to celebrate it. 

I love that people love the holidays. I love the season. But please, when you ask about my Thanksgiving and Christmas, try not to be too surprised when I'm not super excited about it. Tell me about how much fun you had and I will rejoice with you. I will try not to let you see my sadness. If you do, do not apologize for you're amazing holiday. Give me a hug and tell me it's okay to be sad. 

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A Bad Day and My Ugly Heart

I've been waiting to post until I have something fun or positive to write about, but I just don't.

I am tired. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually.

My job is hard. I love my babies, but my job is hard. Every day I chase after four little ones. Sometimes six. I change diapers, make sure clothes stay one, and wipe bottoms. I kiss booboos and resolve conflicts. I wipe noses and clean up messes. I correct and discipline. And on days like today, I fail miserably. I am impatient and quick to anger. I get frustrated when the toddlers have dirty diapers. I raise my voice. I am slow to listen and quick to send everyone to time out. I become tense and rigid when the girls try to hug me. Or even worse, I tell them I don't have time for that. Who says that to a four year old? Who makes a toddler sit next to them when they are just trying to sit on their lap? I did today. Because my head hurt and I didn't want to change another diaper and I was tired of listening to all the arguing and kissing fake booboos and being covered in snot and cleaning up urine from the accident that no one told me about two hours ago and, and, and.

And then one of the girls comes and says, "I've been a little bad today, haven't I?" Out loud I say, "No, you've been pretty good today." That's all I say to her. But my heart says differently.

My heart says this: "Sweet girl, you are never bad. Sometimes you make bad choices. Sometimes you choose to disobey. But you know what? I make bad choices and disobey sometimes, too. Today you have obeyed. You see my bad attitude and have tried extra hard to make good choices. Choices that please me. Today I am making bad choices. I have been impatient with you for being FOUR. I have told you with my actions that I don't want you to be around me. My job is to care for you and love you and I have not done that. You know that my biggest rules are to be kind and respectful. I have been unkind and disrespectful to you, and that is not okay. I am so very sorry. Please forgive me."

I think tomorrow I will sit her down and tell her that. Because she needs to know that she is not bad. She needs to know that I make bad choices and I will admit it. I am supposed to be the example.

So right now I sit here and cry. Because I was ugly to my precious babies today. I did not love them they way they needed to be loved. I put my own feelings above theirs. I have been sad and lonely lately, but that should never ever come out on them.

Never have I been more thankful that His mercies are new every morning.

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Forgiveness. Joy. Peace.

Forgiveness is not usually something I struggle with. Most of the time when someone hurts me, I'm upset for a minute and then life goes on. Then I screw up. I say something that offends someone. I complain. I create some scenario in my head where I think I've done something. And I am this awful person. I apologize and people forgive me. But I cannot forgive myself. I do not know how to forgive myself.

I am a hardcore rule follower. Always have been. If I break a rule it's probably because I didn't know it existed. Does that make me a better person? Absolutely not. I have plenty of struggles and weaknesses. They just aren't as obvious.

But sometimes I mess up.

I say something that is insensitive or unkind. I forget about commitments and end up having to cancel on someone. I am impatient with the girls. I whine and complain. And then I ask for forgiveness of whoever I've offended and they move on. And I'm stuck. I beat myself up and replay the scene over and over again. It goes on for days and I can't make it stop. I am sick of it.

I had a lightbulb moment this week. I will never be happy until I learn to rest, trust, and surrender to Jesus. It took me long enough to figure that one out, and yet people have been telling me that for years. The problem is, I don't really know how to do it.

The deepest desire of my heart is to have a relationship with Him. I want to consider Him a Friend. A Father. A Counselor. I want to learn to love others and myself the way He does. I want to be able to be a light to my sweet baby girls and point them to Him. I want to live for Him, and not people. I want to find Joy.

I do not want the girls to look back on our time and remember me as irritable, crabby, or more concerned about keeping the house clean than spending time with them. I don't want to be impatient with them. I want to love them well. I want to love myself. Because honestly, right now I do not like the way I feel. I do not like the way I look. I do not like the way I am. That is not a message I want to send to those girls.

So, for all two of you who may read this, please pray for me. To find joy. Peace. Forgiveness. I cannot do it on my own.

Lord, 
Thank you for this life you have given me. Thank you for the family you have given me. Please help me to draw close to you. Help me to love my job and consider it my mission field. Help me to love those babies the way you love them. Let me love myself the way you intended. Teach me to forgive. Please give me joy and peace. God, you have given me a desire to be close to You, but I don't know how to act on it. Most of the time when I pray, I feel like I'm talking to myself. Please give me a desire to spend time in Your Word daily. I love you, Lord. Help me to surrender. 
In Your name I pray, 
Amen.

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I Miss Her

I remember crying so hard and thinking on several occasions that this must be how toddlers feel when they throw tantrums. They do it because they think that if they cry hard enough they'll get what they want. That's pretty much what I did. I'd cry and kick and, if I were home alone, scream. I'd get so upset that I would throw up. And then I would wear myself out and fall asleep.

I've accepted the fact that my mom is in Heaven and it will be what feels like a really long time before I see her again. There is nothing I can do to change that. But man, it sucks.

I miss her when I feel like I have no friends.

I missed her when I went to small group knowing only one or two people. I wanted to call her after I went to The Grove with the girls I didn't know and tell her that I wanted to run away, but I stayed. I wanted her to be proud of me. Because that was hard. Really hard.

I missed her when I went to see my fourth psychiatrist in as many years. I wanted her to be with me because I was scared. I wanted her to be my advocate because I'm not good with words. I wanted her to jump in when I couldn't quite get out what I wanted to say.

I miss her when I'm sick and home alone. I want her to come watch movies with me and just sit close to me and hold my hand.

I wanted to call her and cry to her after Evie choked on a mint at church. After I had to do the Heimlich and she was completely fine but I was shaking and terrified and people around me kept saying, "well, she shouldn't have had that anyway. She's too young for that."

She was so kind. She KNEW me. She understood me.

One of my favorite stories about my mom took place when she was very sick. I was watching TV in the room next to hers. She had been sleeping but called me into her room. She asked me if I wanted a popsicle. I knew she wanted one so I told her that I didn't, but that I'd be happy to go get one for her. She said, "Oh no, that's okay. You don't have to go downstairs just for me. I'll get one later." (You better believe I ran downstairs to get her one anyway)

I want to be like her. I want to be kind and selfless. I want to put others before myself.

Tonight I am sad, but I am not without hope. I cry, but not tears of despair. I miss her. I will never understand why God called her home so early, but I know that He worked through her. And I hope He'll work through me, too.

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Trapped

I wish something as simple as having a conversation would come more easily. I wish it were easier to say "hi" and introduce myself. I wish I wasn't so overwhelmed just sitting in a room full of people. I wish being late didn't stress me out to no end. I wish I were more approachable. I wish I could enjoy myself at social gatherings. I wish I didn't wake up feeling like I was hit by a truck after said social gatherings. I wish I valued myself more. I wish I were more confident. 

I'm caught in a sea of lies. Lies that say I'm not good enough. I know they're lies, but I believe them anyway. 

"Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you." -Isaiah 43:4

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Untitled

I was thrilled to graduate from college. College was not the fun, easy, time of your life experience for me. It was hard. Every second of it. Most of my classes were hard. I registered for speech class six semesters and dropped it on the first day for the first five of those semesters. {side note: my last speech was a celebration speech. I chose "The Last Day of Speech Class" and my professor loved it.} Music is hard. It is more than just sitting around playing music all day.

As hard as it was, I had friends and professors cheering for me, encouraging me, and challenging me every day. Someone was near me almost all of the time. We became a family, as cheesy as that sounds.

The last semester was the student teaching experience. I was no longer surrounded by my family, but by 1,000 elementary schoolers and a mentor teacher who did not need to have a student teacher. Needless to say, I was done. Ready to get out. Ready to start my job caring for "my" sweet little girls. I was so excited.

Then I graduated. I have the best job. It is hard but there's nothing I'd rather do. I live with a family who has become my family. But if you know me, you know that change is one of the very long list of things that I S.T.R.U.G.G.L.E. with. Even if it's good change. I no longer have the safety net that was school.

During my freshman year, a psychiatrist diagnosed me with clinical depression, anxiety, and PTSD. I am SO much better now and I'm thankful for all the people who helped me through that time.

I still struggle. I am fully aware that I have it easy compared to so many people. But the thing is, depression is real. Anxiety is real. And it can be sneaky. It can be debilitating. I may overthink a situation. Then I get anxious about it, which leads to depression because I cannot stop thinking about something that I may have said that may have been misinterpreted. I get angry with myself because why do I have to be so darn sensitive? Why do I not run to God during every hard time in my life? Why can I not just choose to be happy? And what the heck do I have to be depressed about? My life is good. There is nothing for me to be sad about.

Sometimes I am so anxious that I dread going to hang out with friends. Not because I don't want to see them, but because I am scared. Sometimes I am afraid to make a phone call. I am afraid to ask questions. I am afraid to reach out to anyone to say, "Hey, I'm hurting. I need a friend."

Growing up I was indirectly taught that depression is sinful. Medication is sinful. Anxiousness is sinful. I need to trust God. Trusting Him will make it better. Those things are not necessarily true.

I believe that God is good. All the time. I believe that He allows us to walk through difficult times for a reason. We may never know that reason. I would like to believe that He has used me to encourage someone else or even bring someone to know Himself. I do not, however, believe that if you just trust God, life will be all better. I believe it's a process. One that I am still trying to work through and will for the rest of my life.

I have hope. I love the Lord. I believe that He is good. But right now I am struggling. I am hurting.

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The Last Day

We drove down Towne Lake Parkway. I’m not sure what time it was, but I do know that it was light out when we left and dark when we came home. Sometime in the late afternoon, I guess. Mr. Hollis was driving their gold minivan with Mrs. Hollis in the passenger seat. Camille was in the bucket seat next to me. 

Mr. Hollis has salt and pepper hair. A defined jaw. He’s one of those crazy, workout, nutrition obsessed kinds of people. The radio is turned to 104.7 The Fish, and he taps his strong fingers on the steering wheel along with the music. Mrs. Hollis has reddish-brown hair. It is very short with big curls surrounding her face. She holds her large, Starbucks travel mug in her left hand. She has thin, small facial features. Camille is a little version of our dad. Blond hair. Round face. Happy-go-lucky personality.

They make light of the situation. We had just left the house and were driving down the road. We approached the Chic-fil-a and instead of stopping, we turned in. 

“You girls should probably eat something”, Mr. Hollis said. His voice was so cheerful that it made me angry. It’s not a time to be happy.

We all walked into the restaurant. Why is everyone so happy? Don’t they know that I’ve never been so devastated in my entire life? Don’t they know that my mom is in the hospital? She’s dying! She’s dying. My mom. My best friend. My mom is dying. Why are they so happy?

“My pleasure”, the cashier said after we ordered our food. Again with the cheery voice.

We got our food. The four of us were sitting at a table in the back corner of the restaurant near the bathrooms. I took one bite of my chicken sandwich and had to run to the bathroom and throw up. I don’t know how he expects me to eat. How are they eating? 

“I don’t think I can eat. I just threw up”, I said when I got back to the table.

“Are you ok? Do you need to go back home and lay down?” Mrs. Hollis asked me.

“No, I think it was just the sandwich. I’m fine now”.

“Ok, let us know if you feel sick again.”

Finally, everyone finished. We got back on the road. In an effort to lighten the mood, Mr. Hollis starts talking. 

“Maybe we should get ice-cream on the way home!”

“Yeah! Lets do that! Can Andrea come?” Camille asked.

“Probably! We’ll have to see.”

When we reached exit four on I-575, I had enough of the small talk and my body shut down. I rested my head on the shoulder strap of my seat belt and fell asleep. Not because I was tired but because that was my body’s reaction to stress. 

I heard her singing. It’s the song from a book she read to us growing up.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be”.

I could hear her calm, quiet voice. I could hear her reading aloud to us before bed. She did it almost every night. Sat in the doorway so she could see the light from the hall way. I felt her kiss my forehead when she thought I was asleep and came back in my room to check on me and whisper “I love you” in my ear. I heard her pray for me. Like she did every single night. I saw her give. She made meals for sick people or families that just had babies. 

I was brought back to reality by Mr. Hollis’ singsongy voice after we reached Kennestone Hospital.

“Hey MJ, we’re here. Are you ready?”

“Okay.”

C2. We were parked in the dark, sad parking lot. I got out of the van and smelled the gasoline. Hit in the face with a wall of humidity. I was sweating, shaking, and feeling sick to my stomach. I hate hospitals. Always have. 

Earlier that day I had gotten an overwhelming feeling that I NEEDED to see my mom. My sister and I were already at the Hollis’ house. I went to Mrs. Hollis and timidly asked her if she would take me to the hospital. Of course she would take me, she said. Everyone was surprised that I wanted to go. I avoided it every time I was asked.

We walked into the parking garage to the nasty, germie elevator. Up to the main level of the hospital. We walked across the connecting bridge to the lobby of the hospital. It’s the only welcoming part of the building. There was a large desk in the middle of the lobby. A cheerful receptionist sits behind it directing people to their loved one’s rooms. Again with the cheerfulness.

Everything echoed in there. Every step we took. Every word, cough, sniffle, clearing of the throat. For some reason that just made everything even worse. There were fake, plastic plants in every corner. Covered in dust. Chairs lined the perimeter of the room.

“You ready?” Mrs. Hollis asked.

“Yeah I guess so,” I responded.

We headed to the elevator. Something about elevators just make my stomach drop. Camille pushed the button. Four. The groan of the mechanics reflected the way I feel. The creaking made me feel uneasy. Ding… Ding… Ding. Floor four. The silver, steel doors slid open at my mom’s floor. The cancer floor. 

Instead of going straight to my mom’s room, we walked through the sterile maze that is the hallway. It was dark and somber. The halls smelled of rubbing alcohol and sickness. We passed many open doors and could see some very sick people lying and bed and others who were recovering and walking around. 

We were ushered into the family room. There was an ugly green couch. Mr. Hollis told us to sit down. That meant bad news. I looked around the room. There were a couple of round, gray tables with brown chairs. On one of the tables was a bowl of fruit. There was a counter with coffee. Next to the coffee maker were stacks of white styrofoam cups. I saw cupboards above and below the counter and wondered what was in them. My thoughts were interrupted. 

“Your mom is very sick. Just keep that in mind. She may not know you are there. She might sleep the whole time. She might say things that don’t make sense.”

Great. Why are they telling me this? I know she’s sick. I don’t need to know this. For a minute, I regret my decision to come. She’s my mom. I need to see her. Who knows how much time she had left.

“Alright, let’s go”, Mr. Hollis said.

He led me back through the maze-like halls. Just me. They wanted us to go in one at a time. Room 437. Without telling me, he left me in there alone. It was dark. Just a dim light near the blinds, which were shut. I stood and looked at her for a minute. It had been 11 days, I think, since I last saw her.

She was lying on her back in the bed, at a slight incline. She looked peaceful. Relaxed. Her eyes were closed and kind of sunken into her head. They were surrounded with brown-purple circles. She had no eye lashes or eyebrows and just a little peach fuzz on her perfectly shaped head. Her lips were thin and white. Her face was pale. She had lost weight and looked very skinny. Mom wore a light green shirt and the white hospital blanket came up to her waist. 

“Hey Mommy”, I said. My voice was barely a whisper. 

I was afraid. Not sure why. I walked over to her side and put my hand on hers.

“Mommy?”

“Hey sweetie”, she said, “How are you?”

“I’m good. How are you?”

She didn’t respond.

Her words ran together. I’d seen movies about people who have died, but this was nothing like that. It was much, much worse. When she spoke, I saw that her teeth had turned brown from lack of nutrients and inability to care for herself. I think that’s why I was so scared. She didn’t look like my mom. My mom took care of herself.

“I love you, Mommy”

“Mmhmm.”

I didn’t know what else to say. She wasn’t responding anyway. As I was looking at her, her face started to twist into a pained look. She was writhing in pain and twisted herself so that she was face down, screaming. I’ve never seen her like that. She was always very calm and collected. The room suddenly felt crowded. There were just a couple of nurses, but it felt like the room was packed. I couldn’t move. 

“It’s ok, Mrs. Ellise. It’s ok. Calm down it’s ok. We’re gonna fix you up”, one of the nurses said.

She was rocking back and forth, trying to ease the pain. They later told me that she got sudden, intense headaches that lasted anywhere from two minutes to an hour, because of the cancer. The nurses finally got her back in place. She looked at me.

“I hate you! I hate you, Maggie!”

“I love you mommy! I love you!” 

I was trying to hold back the tears. What is happening? I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I cried.

“I hate you!”

“I love you Mommy! I love you.” I said between sobs.

“I hate it when you come visit me!”

I felt a gentle hand on my back.

“That’s not your momma, baby. That’s not your momma, that’s the drugs.” The nurse said. She was trying to reassure me, but it wasn’t working.

“Why did you come here?”

“Because I love you! I love you so much, Mommy.”

“I hate you!”

The nurse started to pull me away.

“Please! I love you mommy! I love you! I love you! Please! Mommy!”

“C’mon baby. Let’s go.”

My mom was still screaming at me as I walked through the door into the hall. Mrs. Hollis was waiting, crying. I failed any attempt I made not to cry. I lost it. I cried deep, excruciating sobs as I was lead back to the family room. I couldn’t stay on my feet. I started to fall every couple of steps I took. Mrs. Hollis caught me. As we made our way, we passed nurses, some who were discretely wiping tears and some who were openly crying. 

She had that effect on people. Everyone liked my mom. She was so graceful and selfless. Everyone liked her. Her nurses had grown to love her during her short time in the hospital. During her treatment, my mom made cookies to give to all of her doctors and nurses.

Back in the family room, Camille, Mr. Hollis, my pastor, and some other people, who I didn’t know were sitting and talking. They seemed pretty care free. I sat down, beginning to regain my composure. Mrs. Hollis was sitting with me, holding me and whispering that it would be ok.

“Why don’t we sing some songs. Let’s worship the Lord,” my pastor said.

They started singing. “Holy God in love became. Perfect Man to bear my blame. On the cross He took my sin. By His death I live again.” But I didn’t want to sing. Why would I want to worship right now? My mom just told me she hated me. I don’t want to worship. Why are they making me do this?

Everyone finished singing. The pastor started praying. I love Jesus, but I don’t want to pray right now. I want them to let me be sad. I want them to let me be scared. After he finished praying, he spoke to us.

“If you have anything you want to clear up with your mom, now is the time. You don’t have much time with her”, his words cut me.

“Mrs. Ellise wants to see Maggie again,” a nurse came back in the room.

“No, no, no! I don’t want to. Please, no!”

“C’mon”, Mrs. Hollis said.

I was crying again. So afraid to go in there. I loved my mom and I wanted to see her, but I was so very scared. Mrs. Hollis had to brace me so I could walk back to my mom’s room. Uncontrollable sobs. I was almost hyperventilating. We reached her room. I walked in. 

“Hey Mommy”, I said again.

“Hey sweetie, how are ya? Come here”, she slurred.

She didn’t remember anything. I was half relieved. I walked to her. She grabbed me and held me. She held me for a long time. This is my mom. I was still crying, but she didn’t notice. She wasn’t really there. 

“Why aren’t we matching?” my mom asked. “I want you to match me.” 

“I’m so sorry mommy. I’m so sorry.”

“I wanted to match you! Why aren’t we matching?” 

“I’m sorry. I love you mommy.”

She was getting upset. I was wearing a light blue polo and blue jeans. She was wearing a light green shirt. I couldn’t think of why she wanted to match with me. We’ve never done that before. If I had known, though, I would have worn green.

Mommy was asleep. Just like that. She was still holding me, but she was sleeping soundly now. I climbed up into her bed with her. This is my mom. 

All too soon it was time to go. Visiting hours had come and gone, and they let us stay way longer than we were supposed to. They pulled me away and I whispered one last “I love you.”

“I’ll see you soon”, I said.

Mr. and Mrs. Hollis, Camille and I walked back through the halls, down the elevator, and to the parking garage. Back to C2. It was dark outside. Dark and still hot. I heard the crickets chirping as I climbed back into the gold minivan.

“I was thinking about making breakfast when we get back to the house,” Mrs. Hollis said.

“Breakfast? But it’s night time.” My sister responded.

“Haven’t you ever had breakfast for dinner?” Mr. Hollis asked.

I don’t know why they think food fixes everything. My stomach still hurt. The very last thing I want to do right now is eat. They all acted like nothing happened, while I sat in the back, completely broken. No, I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to crawl up in my mom’s hospital bed and die with her. 

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