Let It Be

And when the broken-hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be.

-Beatles

I don’t know if there is a better word in the English language other than broken-hearted to describe my pain right now. It’s increasing every day. Every minute. I miss my mom so incredibly much. From the moment she was diagnosed, I have missed pieces of her. Sometimes softly. Sometimes loudly. And, sometimes, like right now, devastatingly. I do my very best every day to put on a mask, for my daughter, for my work, for myself. And sometimes that mask works just fine. It does the job, covers up my pain. And sometimes, the mask isn’t enough. Sometimes I wish I could shed this entire body, and more importantly, this entire soul, and my very broken heart.

For my heart truly is broken. In a million pieces. For the adult relationship I never really got to have with my mother. For not being able to share the bond of motherhood with her. For all the times that I can see that her mind has something to say, but words fail her. For my daughter who missed out on having my mom as her grandmother. For the pain I see in my mother’s eyes at times, welling up with nowhere to go. For the woman I lost. For the heartache I’ve gained. And for the fear I live with every day that I am going to wake up to news that the body that houses my beautiful mother has given up.

I lay awake for hours at night, worried that somewhere, hundreds of miles away, my mom is taking her last breath. I lay awake thinking about her hands. The ever present freckles on them. The cool touch of her skin. Her hands that held me as an infant. That hugged me hard when I needed it. That held mine tightly when I was scared. Her hands that wiped away my tears and lifted me up when I fell. Her hands that created so much for her family in the way of comfort, kindness, and quiet strength. Her hands that I make sure I continue to squeeze tightly every single time I see her. To remind her that I am there, and that I love her, with all of me.

I am terrified of never being able to hold her hand again. Her beautiful hands. Often it feels like they are the only part of her that is left. The only part that this disease hasn’t stripped from her. Yet. I know that time will come, when her hands disappear too, like the rest of her.

And for that day, and for so many other reasons, I am fucking broken-hearted.

With an unbearable amount of love and grief.