Dear Journal,
Today, I find myself compelled to put pen to paper, to try and make sense of the whirlwind of emotions that have been raging within me like a storm at sea. I'm not one to shy away from pain, not after the life I've led, the battles I've fought, both literally and figuratively. But this... this is a different kind of pain. This is the kind that leaves you feeling like a shipwrecked Marine, alone and adrift in a vast, uncaring ocean.
My mother is gone. Even writing those words feels like a betrayal, like if I don't acknowledge it, maybe it won't be true. But it is. She's gone, and I'm left here, trying to navigate this world without the woman who brought me into it.
I spent two weeks by her side in that godforsaken hospital. Two weeks watching her fight, watching her suffer. I was there when her heart stopped the first time, the alarms blaring like sirens in the night, the nurses and doctors rushing in like a platoon under fire. I was there when she came back, her chest heaving, her eyes filled with fear and pain. I was there through the kidney failure, the liver failure, and finally, the heart failure. I held her hand, kissed her forehead, told her I loved her. I did all the things you're supposed to do when your mother is dying, and none of it made a damn bit of difference. She slipped away, one agonizing moment at a time, until there was nothing left but a hollow shell where my mother used to be.
And where were my siblings during all this? Off living their lives, that's where. They didn't come to sit with her, to hold her hand, to bear witness to her pain. They didn't come until the end, when the decisions had to be made, when the weight of responsibility became too much for me to bear alone. I couldn't blame them, not really. They had their own lives, their own families. But it still stung, like a slap in the face, that they couldn't be there for her, for me, until the bitter end.
We made the decision together, the three of us. Mom had made her wishes clear. No extraordinary measures, no machines keeping her alive when her body was ready to let go. We honored her wishes, and it was the hardest thing I've ever done. Harder than boot camp, harder than combat, harder than learning to live with this damn disability. I watched her take her last breath, her chest rising one final time, then falling still. My siblings couldn't even bear to watch. They waited in the waiting room. I couldn't blame them for that either. It was a harsh thing to witness, the moment when life leaves a body, when a person becomes just a memory.
Mom lived a rough life. Drugs took her away from us for a long time. I spent most of my life without her, and I can't say I didn't resent her for it. But she fought her demons, and she won. She was clean and sober for the last seven years, and she was becoming a part of my son's life. He deserved to know his grandmother, and she deserved to know him. They had that taken away from them, and it's not fair. It's not fucking fair.
She was only 63. Too young to die, too old to have her life cut short by a vaccine she never wanted but feared she had to get. I was against it, but she was scared, scared of the propaganda virus, scared of being alone. So she got the shot, and now she's gone. And I'm left here, trying to make sense of it all, trying to find a way to forgive, to understand, to accept.
But I can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. All I can do is feel this pain, this anger, this loss. All I can do is remember her, the good and the bad, the love and the pain. All I can do is miss her, and try to find a way to keep living without her.
She was my mother, and she was taken from me too soon. And it's not fair. It's not fucking fair.
Semper Fi, Mom. You fought the good fight, and now you're at peace. I love you, and I miss you. And I'll see you on the other side.
With a heavy heart,
Your oldest, Disabled Marine Son
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