Ronan—
It’s almost that time again. That dreaded time in May that I hate so much. Tomorrow—around 3:15 a.m.—you will have died in my arms, four years ago. I still don’t know the exact time—because I never sent in for your death certificate. I keep telling myself I’m going to do it—but I just can’t seem to bring myself to fill out the paperwork just so I can have a certificate that says you are dead.
That makes everything all too real—and the tiniest piece of me is still holding out hope that this is all, in fact, just some sick, twisted experiment about what happens to a mom after she watches her son die from cancer. I saw that movie The Truman Show many years ago—so why can’t that be what happens to me?
If I tell you what happens almost four years later—after you being dead—do you think somebody will drop you off at our doorstep so we can finally be reunited?
I still look for you every time our doorbell rings—I don’t think that will ever change.
So, almost four years later—and what can I tell you?
I can tell you this:
Life sometimes feels really hard—as in bring me to my knees, I’m giving up hard.
I still have days where I just want to throw in the towel and run away from everything.
I still have days where I can’t go to your brothers’ baseball games—because I can’t get over the fact that you’re not on that field, following in their amazing footsteps.
I still have days where I’m so angry at the stupidest things—the sunshine, laughter from the television, or even the new Star Wars movie that’s coming out—because it kills me that you won’t be here to see it.
I still have days where my tears are uncontrollable and my anger gets thrown at all the wrong people—but those days have become less and less.
I’ve learned a lot in the four years since your death. I’ve learned even more since my dad died—just five short months ago.
Mostly—I’ve learned that life is fucking fucked up and totally unfair—but it’s up to me to make the most of what I’ve been handed—even if it’s the most horrific thing a mother can endure.
I’ve learned to let go of a lot of my anger.
I’m learning to be less judgmental—and more compassionate toward other people.
I’ve learned the human spirit is one of the most incredible things in the world.
I’ve learned the sorrow I feel every single day pushes me—to do better, be better, do more, say less, say more when necessary—to love the people in my life harder than I ever knew I was capable of after losing you.
I’ve learned that even with a very broken heart—I am still capable of feeling and giving love again.
I never truly thought I’d be able to feel things like love and happiness again—but I can.
And sometimes—I’m even able to let go of all the hurt and get lost in it for just a bit.
I’m hopeful about the future—and hope is a word I used to hate—but now, it doesn’t taste so bitter.
I wake up every day knowing—even after losing you to cancer—I am still the luckiest mama.
Your brothers are still the most incredible boys—and that sister of yours…
Well—I can say without a doubt that she is the one who brought hope back into my life.
She’s saved me—in a way—and reminds me every day how incredible it is to be alive, full of life, innocence, and feistiness.
She reminds me of all the beauty in the world—and that every day we’re here, life should be full of laughter, love, and adventure.
I’m so thankful to have a little person in our house again who calls me Mama.
Your brothers outgrew the Mama thing long ago.
It’s nice to hear the pitter-patter of feet running down the hallway again—and all the trouble that comes with it.
Trouble now means coloring on the walls, covering our dog Teddy with lip gloss, or applying blush she hijacked from my drawer all over her face—just the kind of trouble I’ve missed and love so much.
It always reminds me of you.
Tonight—Poppy fell asleep so peacefully in my arms.
Four years ago tonight—you were doing the same thing—but only to die soon after.
My heart is so heavy, so sad, so broken still.
I am forever so sorry—and I would still trade places with you in an instant.
I miss you so much—but especially on nights like tonight, when every cell in my body can feel you leaving this world again.
Tomorrow night—on the anniversary of your death—I have to stand on a stage and give a speech for an award I’m being given.
I am so humbled by the honor—and so proud to share your story—but I quite simply don’t know how I’m going to be able to function, let alone give a speech in front of hundreds of people.
I just keep hearing the words of one of the people I love most in the world telling me,
“I promise you, Ronan will be with you tomorrow night. He is going to be watching you—and right there with you. He won’t let you do this without him.”
Please let that be true.
And please—don’t let me get up on that stage and crumble into a ball—because I’m just too sad to speak.
I need you to surround me—give me the strength to be strong on the day that you died—so I can make you proud and so we can help other people.
In the words of the ever-so-beautiful Taylor Swift—
“The stakes are high, the water’s rough, but this love is ours.”
That song always makes me think of you.
Our love story will never end—I promise you that.
Our love story is doing amazing things—and it will continue to.
Thank you—for being my greatest teacher.
Thank you—for keeping us safe.
Thank you—for helping me get back up on my hardest days.
Thank you—for teaching me that it’s okay to embrace all the darkness that comes with this—as long as I let in a little light every once in a while.
I miss you.
I love you.
I hope you are safe.
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