Happy Birthday, Mom.

Happy birthday, Mom. I hope you’re having the best day ever up in heaven. You would have been sixty-four today — can you believe it?! Also, how been pissed are you that I just shared your age on the internet…

I bet Domenic made his “medicine” for everyone to enjoy up there, didn’t he? I hope Grandpa & Uncle Stu & Auntie Rosie & Nana & Papa are all celebrating with you today, and I hope you spend the day doing all your favorite things. I’m sure you convinced someone to make you a molten lava cake for dessert — or better yet, our favorite homemade ice cream cake with that delicious dark chocolate truffle layer and tons of dark chocolate hot fudge. I’m sure Dakota will be whining all afternoon at you, so you might as well give her a bite — after all, chocolate probably doesn’t bother dogs up in heaven, does it? Even so, that damn dog has an iron stomach, so I’m sure it’ll be fine (and keep her out of your hair for at least five minutes).

I’m going to the Organic Garden Cafe tonight to celebrate your birthday, Mom. I think I’ll get the Thai spice bowl — remember how it used to be your favorite? I’ll probably (definitely) have a glass of organic red wine (withOUT ice cubes!) and a delicious treat for dessert — something dark chocolate, of course. I wish you were here to join me. I’ll save you a seat, just in case you decide to show up later on.

I know, of course, that I’ll be celebrating this birthday without you, Mom. It’s been ten months and one day, but somehow it still doesn’t feel real. It seems like just yesterday that Michael & I were playing the question game at dinner, stifling a laugh at each question we posed, wondering when you’d finally catch on (and yell at us). It seems like yesterday that you were cursing Peter & me for wanting to travel to “another dangerous country on the other side of the world”. It seems like just yesterday that you were talking to me on speakerphone while making dinner, slamming the noisiest pots around the kitchen, wondering why I couldn’t understand a damn thing you were saying.

It seems like just yesterday that you were here.

Some days I walk into the house, forgetting that you aren’t there anymore, waiting to great me with a smile and a hug. Sometimes I pick up the phone at night to call you, expecting that you’ll be on the other end, waiting eagerly to hear all about my day. You’re the first person I think of when I learn about a healthy restaurant that just opened, perfect a new recipe or discover a great sale at our favorite store — I’d give anything to be able to share those things with you again, Mom.

We still have family dinners all the time, Mom, but they’re just not the same without you. There’s no one there to tell me to turn the heat down before I burn the onions (though I think Michael occasionally turns the heat down while I’m not looking) or question my use of ingredients while offering [unsolicited] advice on other methods that should could be used. There’s no one there to scold for moving the food around on her plate rather than eating it or to share just a small piece of pizza with. There will always be an empty seat for you at the table and, even if we don’t say it out loud, we’re all thinking about how much we miss you in that moment.

In every moment.

I find myself getting jealous of other families — that is to say, families with both parents alive and healthy and present. There are a million adventures I still wanted to take with you, Mom, and hundreds of celebrations yet to be enjoyed together. It feels silly, but I’m so envious when my friends get to spend time with their moms, knowing I’ll never again have an opportunity to do the same.

I hope one day this pain feels less… painful. Less heavy and heartbreaking.

Because honestly? Ten months and one day later, it all still feels really shitty, Mom. I’m not sure I’ll ever really get used to the fact that you’re gone. There are days I miss you so badly that I wish I could just join you up there in heaven. Some days the emotional weight I carry around sits so heavily on my chest that I can barely get out of bed in the morning. The stress and trauma I’ve experienced these past ten (twelve, fifteen..) months has affected me on so many levels, it’s hard to imagine I’ll ever feel “normal” again…. whatever that means.

Grief is really weird though. There are some days I can talk about you and offhandedly mention the fact that you’ve passed away (though it still seems really fked up to utter those words), and it feels almost…. nonchalant.. emotionless, even. But then there are other days where the very thought of your beautiful face brings me to my knees in agony, sobbing over the loss of the life I once knew, missing you with every bone in my body.

How can one person feel so many conflicting emotions, literally all of the time? It’s so damn exhausting. and oddly enough, I feel 100x worse on the days where I seem to be unaffected — like I’m not supposed to feel that way. Like I’m not supposed to feel OK anymore. Though I guess if I’ve learned anything over the last ten months, it’s that whatever feelings arise or emotions surface, I just need to let them in and ride them until they pass.

Take it one day at a time, one emotion at a time. Right, Mom?

Even when I miss you so much it hurts, I’m still so thankful for all the time we had together, Mom (though it will never truly feel like it was enough). I’m thankful that I have so many years of memories to look back on fondly. You may not be sitting next to me at dinner tonight, but you’re still so present in every aspect of my life.

Thank you for building such a loving, supportive community for us, Mom. I’m not sure how Daddy, Michael and I would have made it through the last ten months without our incredible group of family & friends to lean on.

Thank you for teaching me how to stand on my own two feet. I may stumble occasionally, but because you provided me with thirty-two years of guidance, I feel like I have all the tools I need to be independent and strong — just like you always wanted.

Thank you for the advice and lessons you taught me along the way. I may not have always agreed with you, but — as expected — you were usually right.

Thank you for your unconditional love & support. I understand now that there is truly no one on this planet who will ever love you like your mother loves you… and I am so lucky to know what that love feels like.

You were my biggest cheerleader, my strongest support system, my most reliable advice giver, my first taste tester, my best friend. This world just isn’t the same without you here, Mom, but I’m doing my best to take it one day at a time and keep moving forward.

I love you with my whole heart & soul, Mom, and miss you more than words can ever explain. Happy Birthday.