Without Her

I have lived an entire six years now without my mother. In that time, I have buried both of her parents. One of them, by the end, didn’t even know my mother—her own daughter— was dead.

“Allie, where’s Ann Marie?”

“She’s not here right now.” I said that millions of times, school-portrait smile plastered on my face. “She’ll be back soon.”

It doesn’t always hurt. In fact, it almost never hurts acutely, if I’m being honest. It’s an ache that I’ve learned to live with—but it flares. Right now, on the anniversary of the night I learned she passed, unexpectedly, in her sleep—it burns so intensely, I fear I might ignite.

My son was one, and he still woke two or three times a night to nurse.  This is what happened at 3:00 am, on February 10, 2020. I had awoken to him wailing, loudly enough to be heard over his white-noise machine. This was unsurprising. I had grown accustomed to shuffling down the hall and into his room, half-asleep, phone and AirPods cued to an audiobook—ready to console him. I grabbed at my phone, charging next to my bed. Instead of the time, it displayed dozens of missed calls. I had never seen anything like it. All of those people had something to tell me in the middle of that winter night. I don’t recall who it was I chose first from that massive constellation of names, glaring red. I thought, briefly, I could shut my eyes and just ignore it.

I didn’t ignore it.

“It’s your mom.”

She was meant to visit me three weeks after that horrible night.  We had a shared note, a list of things she wanted to do in California. She had visited me many times over the years, but there were still places she wanted to go, places I hadn’t taken her. Sure, there were rumblings of a weird virus, but it still seemed like something “out there.”  She’d call me every day, worried about it.  I’d tell her it was nothing, that she was overreacting.  She made me buy extra disinfectant sprays and Lysol wipes, just in case.

During that first locked-down month, the first month I had lived without her, I’d stare at my fully-stocked pantry and cry.

Right now, six years later, I sit in awe of the things I’ve done without her. With the amount of life I’ve lived since hers has ended. I’ve seen some of the most loathsome and most spectacular things, without her.  I’ve celebrated and grieved and panicked and just fucking existed, without her.

This, to me, is spectacular.

I’m awestruck because that night, I thought I’d collapse into myself, the ways stars die. That my grief would eat me whole.  But it didn’t.

It tried to, but it couldn’t.

I write this short note today as a testament—to myself, mostly— that though I hurt, though I burn—I’ll continue. I have lists upon lists of things I want to, need to, hope to do. So, I’ll continue.

Both because of her and without her.