Dear Mom,
I remember us going to Lake Powell, and spending at least an hour standing beside each other just looking out into the vast openness of the reservoir, occasionally spying Kenny Rogers’ helicopter as it took off or landed atop his yacht. And how Chris bet a hundred dollar bill that I couldn’t hoist myself up onto the Sea Doo after I jumped in the water. I was a hundred bucks richer, that night. When I talked you into getting on, too, I was elated! We ended up going all over that lake (or so it felt) until we watched a chunk of a cliff face fall into the water, causing a giant wave that almost capsized us, and we weren’t even that close to it.
I don’t remember much before that time. You know why.
I remember when David died, and I drove 13 hours straight to get home. I was still in my security uniform. You waited up all night for me, and when I arrived, you gave me the biggest hug. I don’t know why hugs were taboo in the family, but you never lost an opportunity to catch me off guard with one. But that one I’ll never forget. I didn’t want to let go.
I remember when you had your heart attack, and you called me but couldn’t say anything, only mumbles and “Key City.” I knew then that you were at the vet clinic to pick up Elliot, so I drove up there to find you in your car, unable to move. We got an ambulance, and I followed them up to the emergency room, where they almost put me on a drip because I was getting faint. I held your hand the entire time, and I didn’t want to let go.
I remember when you found out it was cancer. And you read the prognosis over the phone. Lung cancer, stage four. I didn’t know what to say, but I stayed on the line until I got to your house. We just sat there in silence for what felt like an eternity. And for the first chemo treatment, I held your hand in the waiting room. When they came to take you in for the pre-stuff, I didn’t want to let go.
I remember how much pain you were in. It was Valentine’s Day. You didn’t want to go to Hospice. I told you I just wanted you to be comfortable. And you went. Two days later, you told me the last words I’d ever hear from you. You said, “I’m proud of you.” Two days after that, I went up to see you, but you weren’t there, anymore. I held your hand anyway. You were my anchor, Mom, and I didn’t want to let go.
I’m grateful that we got to spend so much time before the morphine hit. To talk about almost literally everything: the dogs, Dad, my sisters, Gran, my aunt…finding closure for things beyond your control, tying up loose ends, and me doing that for you on a few things…I found the poem I wrote down for you in grade school, soon after. Mother to Son by Langston Hughes, but I altered it to be for you, and you’d kept it all these years.
I remember when you finally accepted me as Seth, and you asked me if I’d consider Stuart instead. I believe the name you suggested was “Charles Stuart.” You said “C.S. H***” would look great on a book cover. Nothing is set in stone, yet. I’m still considering it.
I’ll always remember how you were there for me as best as you could be when things were bad. And how we’d get into “I love you” “I love you more” fights, where you’d always win with “I loved you first.” Well…I guess I win, now, because I’ve loved you longer.
I miss you, Mom. My friends’ moms are getting a lot of hugs from me on your behalf.
Until we meet again,
Seth (or maybe C. S. H***)
PS: I don’t know if it means much, now, but we did find the heart necklace, your high school ring, and the sapphire setting that fell out of it. I have both of them.