TruMama

I have but one sadness that I come back to again and again…that you never knew your Grandpa. What would be my last visit with him, at 7 months pregnant, I showed him the ultrasound picture of you and he smiled. I talked. I shared. He knew my joy and he smiled. I loved his smile. He knew of you and I find comfort in that.

That night I stood in his hospital room by his bed holding his hand. His tired eyes looked to me. No words were left, yet I knew he was speaking to me. But what? Asking me to stay? It was late and everyone was waiting in the hall to leave. I stood by his bed desperate to figure out what he was trying to say, but it was hopeless. It was late. I’d driven 6 hours. I’d sat in his tiny half of the hospital room and my 7-month pregnant body wanted to lay down. So I walked away. I walked away from him. Never to see his eyes open again. He was tired too. Tired of fighting. Tired of struggling. He knew he was leaving me and he tried to tell me. He reached out to me and I had no idea. I left him laying there. I left him alone. Alone in the darkness. The next day I stood by his side all day watching and waiting. Watching his eyelids. Waiting for them to open. Watching for movement, but there was to be none. He rested.

That evening, after he’d passed on, he laid in that bed with eyes closed. Everyone was busy gathering his personal items and all I could do was sit in the chair. Frozen. I sat in the chair. Staring. I sat in the chair. Numb. Feeling stupid. Now here I was, but he was gone.  I’d give anything to rewind back to the last moment he looked up at me. I would forget about the few hours of rest I wanted and I would just sit by his side. I would stay with him. Hold his hand and carry him away. But instead I live each day wondering what his eyes were pleading to me for. I live each day wishing I’d paid attention. I live each day with the haunting of the unanswered question. The moment he needed me most and I let him down. I disappointed him and I carry that disappointment with me everyday. It guides me. It pushes me to be a better parent.

I learned many lessons about life from your grandpa about laughing and tenderness. About courage and strength. But it was in his last moments, he taught me the biggest life lesson that would shape the parent I would become. Hopefully a parent like him. I pay attention to every moment. I live each day with you, so I have no unanswered questions. I will never look back and wonder if I spent enough time with you. I will never feel I should have sacrificed more. I will not lose a minute. In all of my sadness, I have ultimately gained greater happiness. I look at you, Tru, with different eyes than those that looked at him that last night. I see the moment. I hold the moment. I live in the moment. That was my last and greatest gift from your grandpa. The deepest sorrow has surprisingly brought me the greatest joy. I’m so sorry for that and I’m so incredibly thankful for that at the same time.

You would have loved your grandpa, Tru. You would have loved him too much!