But, the fact that I was so surprised that it had already been three years was what really struck me. Because it seems like forever ago that Kelsey died - like I've been away from her for half a lifetime, even though there were really only a few months between the two events. What I've decided about the difference in perception is that when my daughter died so did our lives for a time. Time wore on, but had no joy, no meaning, no purpose. It just existed - something to endure. After Mom died, so much suddenly started happening so fast, with all of it ending up landing us all in Pittsburgh, that I feel at times like we were Dorothy being whisked away from Kansas and landing in Oz, only with a black and yellow brick road.
That's not to say that I didn't and don't mourn my mom, but I will confess to a release in a way - there's just no denying it - because there was suddenly no one who needed our immediate and intensive care taking. And, the naked reality of it is that some of the reflecting a personality like mine would have done after burying a parent was lost in the hefty shadow of losing a daughter, coupled with the mad dash to shut down not only Mother's affairs, but mine as well and move clear across the country. So, here I am, three years later, looking at a calendar, wondering where the time went. I think Mother would be hurt - just honestly - that she didn't merit a higher degree of mourning. I think she would mistake the flurry of action as a lack of sadness. I would like her to know that's not the case at all, but it was a great coping mechanism, which led me to think that there are actually a lot of things I would say to both my parents if I had a chance, so why not take that opportunity now to say at least a few of them? So, here goes...
To Dad: I don't know if I said this ever to you, but if I did, I certainly didn't say it enough, but thank you so much for your service to the country. I know it happened before I was even born, but you were part of a generation that fought and sacrificed to give my generation a good life. And it was. Maybe I whined a lot about the things I didn't have: a phone in my room, a color TV in my room, a better stereo, but the reality is that you gave me everything I really needed and, truly, wanted. And that was warmth, shelter, food and love - in your own way. I know we puzzled one another very often. I grew up in a far different time than you had and embodied the rebellion of my generation, and that, I think, was something you were not particularly prepared to deal with well, and I never took the time to understand that about you for my part. My largest regret, as a matter of fact, is that I never truly understood the weight you carried with you everyday - the trauma the war left you with. As a matter of fact, it would be years after you were gone before I think I got a handle on exactly how large of a factor it was for you. I wish so much I could have been more sensitive to that when you were alive. I wish I could have helped you more.
I think the thing I most want you to know is that you are the largest single influence in my life. That's both bad and good, I have to confess, but everything I am and do is a direct result of the values that you instilled in me: work hard to support your family. That was something above all you always did, no matter what else was going on in your own head - you made sure we did not want for things. I appreciate that a lot - and I never told you that.
To Mom: First, let me just say that I really wish I had let you make a wedding dress for me. When the very perfect dress fell in my lap so to speak (vintage, velvet with a cathedral train and a sentimental meaning - Greg's mom's dress), I felt it was like a miracle, but I never stopped to think what it would mean to you, an accomplished seamstress, to make your only child her dress. I was so young and dumb, there is actually a whole lot about our wedding I would do differently now, but that's the big thing. I know that always upset you, and it bothers me that I was so insensitive about it.
In general, I kept a lot of secrets from you (not telling you I was pregnant until my second trimester for instance because I was scared if something happened it would be too traumatic), and I'm sorry about that. I thought I had a noble purpose each and every time, but I never gave you a real chance to be a full part of my adult life as a result. I think the exception to that was the first few years after Dad died. We were close then, and I treasure that time. I hope you do too.
The biggest thing to tell you is that having gotten to know your family a little and realizing what awesome people they all are, I know that you sacrificed a lot to live so far from them. I suspect you did it in large part to keep the secret of my birth exactly that: a secret. You know by now that I am upset and sometimes angry about not knowing my true history, but what I realize is that you believed so strongly that it was something I should NOT be told that you held that secret tightly all your life and sacrificed a lot to keep it that way. I know you did that out of real true love.
What I would say to both of them: like many families, we had our ups and downs, but I know you loved me and did your very best for me. I want to thank you for that. I love you both - time does not change that.