7 Years.
It's been 7 years since I looked at my mother's face. 7 long ass years since I talked to her, heard her voice. 7 years of staring at myself in the mirror wondering what she would think, if she'd even approve. 7 years isn't that long, right? Less than half my life. Lucky number 7...
I still can't really believe it's been that long. I remember the day perfectly. I woke up in a hotel then we went straight to the hospital. I sat in the waiting room for hours. I didn't want to go in. I didn't want to watch her die. I didn't want to hear her struggling to breathe with lungs that just didn't want to work anymore. I didn't want to see them gradually disconnecting the tubes that were both keeping her alive and killing her.
So I sat in the waiting room. For hours. People poured in and out to see her, to say goodbye. I never did that. I never said goodbye. I joked with her. I laughed with her. My dad told me I was the only one who did make her laugh that day, maybe even that week. I just cracked a stupid joke when she was upset that her lips were constantly chapped. It was less than a week before. When we were telling ourselves that it was just another bump in the road home. Little did I know that the home we talked about wasn't the one that fate had planned.
I waited. For hours. Playing endless games of Uno with my sister. People walked in crying, hugging me. People I didn't even know. People brought me and my sister food. I wasn't hungry. I just focused on the card game.
I remember when my dad walked in with bloodshot eyes. All he said was "Alright.... Let's go home."
I was almost 11. Less than a month away from being 11.
The walk out was the worst. I told myself that I wouldn't look back. I didn't. I made it all the way to the car with my eyes glued to the ground that was somehow moving beneath my crappy black sneakers.
I told myself I wouldn't cry.
We made it halfway home before I broke down. I was staring out the window at the hills and grass, the rocks, the cars that passed by. Tears streamed down my face before I even knew what was happening.
I got home that night and cried harder than I ever had. Deep, heaving sobs took over me and I clutched my dad's shirt. I didn't sleep that night.
It's been 7 years since that day. 7 years of missing my mom. 7 years of wondering.
They always said it wouldn't hurt after a while. It went from a stinging pain of having a crucial part of myself torn away, to a dull ache that stirs slowly in my chest. I tell myself every year that I won't cry.
Not a year's gone by that I haven't cried.
I miss her more than anything. I wonder if she'd be proud of the face I have to stare at in the mirror. If she'd accept me. Would she? No one can say for certain.
All I know is that she was the most extraordinary woman to have ever walked the planet.
I barely knew her. I can't remember much of her. Most of what I do remember is probably just stories that people have told me. I remember the little things. And maybe that just makes me miss her more.
7 years is nothing to be proud of. It wasn't 7 years of living, it was 7 years of existing, of surviving.
Maybe things will change soon. I'm only on the edge of another chapter. I just I could talk to her about it.
7 years and many more to come.
RIP
Sharon Elizabeth