Dear Mama Fely,
The day you died, 27 days ago, I died.
And hate took over my very living being, spreading through my body like a disease. It took over, and I questioned everything. God. Religion. Life. People. I didn’t know what to believe or believe in, and to this moment, I still don’t.
Getting up every morning was a struggle. I didn’t want to go to work, but I know I have to. It’s been weeks that I was frequently absent from work. It was painful to go to work. It was painful to interact with people. It was painful to do anything, including waking up in the morning.
I hated going to work. I hated being around people. I hated being looked at like the “’poor-pathetic-thing- that-lost-his-mother.” I hated people asking me if I was OK.
I wasn’t OK.
I was sad.
I was confused.
I was heartbroken.
I was angry.
I was hateful.
I hated myself for not being able to save you. I hated myself for not being a good enough son. I hated myself for not spending enough time with you. I hated myself for caring more about my duties and work and other people and not caring enough about my mother. My mother—who would’ve done anything and everything for me.
I hated myself. And it spread through my body like a disease, killing a piece of me every time I silently cried in the middle of the night. Just like the disease that killed you.
I hated myself for not able to give the best eulogy at your funeral because no amount of words could describe who you truly are. I could have said that you deserve the highest honor the world has ever conferred to a person for just being our mother. You could have easily achieved it with flying colors.
I hated being around relatives knowing the real reason behind their presence.
I hated people telling me what to do and how to feel.
I hated, and hate took over my very living being, spreading through my body like a disease.
The day you died, 27 days ago, is the day I also died.
Everything I know. Everything I’ve tried to build in this lifetime. All crumbled down – crushing all their weights upon me, shattering all that I believed in as good. It seemed that the entire weight of the universe was gathered and wedged upon my chest that I can’t breathe – leaving me totally shattered, devastated and burnt out from the core. My breathing turns into deep, melancholic sighs every time I remembered you.
I don’t know what to do and how to feel.
All I know is that you’re dead. And it’s been many days since you’ve been dead. It took me this long to write this letter to you. It’s not the most pleasant letter I’ve written. There’s nothing pleasant about it. I wanted sit here and write nice, pleasant things. But all this miserable crap came out.
I miss you. I would do anything and everything if I could spend one more day or even an hour with you once again.
Because the way you left me was not cool. Seriously, mom, what the hell? Do you know how difficult my life became after you left? Do you know how it felt to come home and not see you there? Do you know how difficult it was to not hear your voice anymore? Do you know how difficult it was to not hear you laugh, nag at dad, and make silly jokes?
Do you know how difficult it was to live? To figure out how to deal with you not being in my world anymore?
You were a pretty kick ass mom. You told me secrets and gossip about relatives, made me laugh and encouraged me to find creativity in everything. You were silly and let me know it’s OK to be silly. You tried to speak other dialects spoken by most of our neighbors even though sometimes I could sense that you’re just making up words and that you have no idea what you were saying. And the sad part is, I think you were actually convincing yourself that you were speaking their dialect correctly. Then you’d get funny looks and people would walk away really confused.
You taught me how to express frustrations and anger and speak “bad” words without actually having to say it. You have a way with words.
You taught me how to live. And laugh.
And your smile was so beautiful, it lit up the room. Your spirit was even more beautiful.
As I sit here writing this random letter into cyberspace, all I can do is wish you weren’t dead and that we could spend your birthday, next month, together. I wish we could laugh together, cry together, I even wish we could have an argument about something stupid for old time’s sake.
I wish you could have seen your future grandchildren from me. To take care of them and play with them. For them to have the privilege of knowing you. But fate did not permit us that experience.
Ma, I just want you to know that I am trying the best that I can to understand why you had to go. I have never doubted your love for me. You were the best and only mother I have ever wanted.
I am proud to have been your son. I want my would be children to know their granny was a great mom and would have loved to have been around to see them grow up, but she needed a rest. I love you, Ma, and your love has given me the strength to carry on. I will need it in the difficult years ahead.
Now, I desperately need it to pick myself up and drag myself forward and try to live again.
I miss you, Mama.
Your heartbroken son,