Every Day, Forever: 365 Reflections on Grief

By Molly Mattocks

Every Day, Forever is a collection of letters written from a mother to her young daughter after her passing. Written in real time, the letters chronicle Mattocks’day-to-day journey during her first two years of grief. With grace and poise, Mattocks boldly refuses to accept that grief is a season of getting over pain, but instead insists grief is a season of getting used to it. As heartwarming as it is heartbreaking, the letters paint a picture that anyone who has experienced deep loss can find themselves in. Every Day, Forever serves as a powerful reminder for us all. That we can have hearts that are broken and still love. Have dreams that were shattered and still live. And we can be grateful for what we were given and still grieve for what we weren’t.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Sep 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798765244692

Molly Mattocks

Molly Mattocks is an End-of-Life Doula and Hospice Chaplain. She lives in Noblesville, Indiana, with her teenage son.

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Copyright © 2023 Molly Mattocks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover image: Lantern Tree Photography

ISBN: 979-8-7652-4468-5 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-4470-8 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-4469-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023915563

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/12/2023

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

LETTER 1

LETTER 2

LETTER 3

LETTER 4

LETTER 5

LETTER 6

LETTER 7

LETTER 8

LETTER 9

LETTER 10

LETTER 11

LETTER 12

LETTER 13

LETTER 14

LETTER 15

LETTER 16

LETTER 17

LETTER 18

LETTER 19

LETTER 20

LETTER 21

LETTER 22

LETTER 23

LETTER 24

LETTER 25

LETTER 26

LETTER 27

LETTER 28

LETTER 29

LETTER 30

LETTER 31

LETTER 32

LETTER 33

LETTER 34

LETTER 35

LETTER 36

LETTER 37

LETTER 38

LETTER 39

LETTER 40

LETTER 41

LETTER 42

LETTER 43

LETTER 44

LETTER 45

LETTER 46

LETTER 47

LETTER 48

LETTER 49

LETTER 50

LETTER 51

LETTER 52

LETTER 53

LETTER 54

LETTER 55

LETTER 56

LETTER 57

LETTER 58

LETTER 59

LETTER 60

LETTER 61

LETTER 62

LETTER 63

LETTER 64

LETTER 65

LETTER 66

LETTER 67

LETTER 68

LETTER 69

LETTER 70

LETTER 71

LETTER 72

LETTER 73

LETTER 74

LETTER 75

LETTER 76

LETTER 77

LETTER 78

LETTER 79

LETTER 80

LETTER 81

LETTER 82

LETTER 83

LETTER 84

LETTER 85

LETTER 86

LETTER 87

LETTER 88

LETTER 89

LETTER 90

LETTER 91

LETTER 92

LETTER 93

LETTER 94

LETTER 95

LETTER 96

LETTER 97

LETTER 98

LETTER 99

LETTER 100

LETTER 101

LETTER 102

LETTER 103

LETTER 104

LETTER 105

LETTER 106

LETTER 107

LETTER 108

LETTER 109

LETTER 110

LETTER 111

LETTER 112

LETTER 113

LETTER 114

LETTER 115

LETTER 116

LETTER 117

LETTER 118

LETTER 119

LETTER 120

LETTER 121

LETTER 122

LETTER 123

LETTER 124

LETTER 125

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LETTER 131

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LETTER 133

LETTER 134

LETTER 135

LETTER 136

LETTER 137

LETTER 138

LETTER 139

LETTER 140

LETTER 141

LETTER 142

LETTER 143

LETTER 144

LETTER 145

LETTER 146

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LETTER 150

LETTER 151

LETTER 152

LETTER 153

LETTER 154

LETTER 155

LETTER 156

LETTER 157

LETTER 158

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LETTER 160

LETTER 161

LETTER 162

LETTER 163

LETTER 164

LETTER 165

LETTER 166

LETTER 167

LETTER 168

LETTER 169

LETTER 170

LETTER 171

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LETTER 190

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LETTER 193

LETTER 194

LETTER 195

LETTER 196

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LETTER 198

LETTER 199

LETTER 200

LETTER 201

LETTER 202

LETTER 203

LETTER 204

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LETTER 206

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LETTER 210

LETTER 211

LETTER 212

LETTER 213

LETTER 214

LETTER 215

LETTER 216

LETTER 217

LETTER 218

LETTER 219

LETTER 220

LETTER 221

LETTER 222

LETTER 223

LETTER 224

LETTER 225

LETTER 226

LETTER 227

LETTER 228

LETTER 229

LETTER 230

LETTER 231

LETTER 232

LETTER 233

LETTER 234

LETTER 235

LETTER 236

LETTER 237

LETTER 238

LETTER 239

LETTER 240

LETTER 241

LETTER 242

LETTER 243

LETTER 244

LETTER 245

LETTER 246

LETTER 247

LETTER 248

LETTER 249

LETTER 250

LETTER 251

LETTER 252

LETTER 253

LETTER 254

LETTER 255

LETTER 256

LETTER 257

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LETTER 259

LETTER 260

LETTER 261

LETTER 262

LETTER 263

LETTER 264

LETTER 265

LETTER 266

LETTER 267

LETTER 268

LETTER 269

LETTER 270

LETTER 271

LETTER 272

LETTER 273

LETTER 274

LETTER 275

LETTER 276

LETTER 277

LETTER 278

LETTER 279

LETTER 280

LETTER 281

LETTER 282

LETTER 283

LETTER 284

LETTER 285

LETTER 286

LETTER 287

LETTER 288

LETTER 289

LETTER 290

LETTER 291

LETTER 292

LETTER 293

LETTER 294

LETTER 295

LETTER 296

LETTER 297

LETTER 298

LETTER 299

LETTER 300

LETTER 301

LETTER 302

LETTER 303

LETTER 304

LETTER 305

LETTER 306

LETTER 307

LETTER 308

LETTER 309

LETTER 310

LETTER 311

LETTER 312

LETTER 313

LETTER 314

LETTER 315

LETTER 316

LETTER 317

LETTER 318

LETTER 319

LETTER 320

LETTER 321

LETTER 322

LETTER 323

LETTER 324

LETTER 325

LETTER 326

LETTER 327

LETTER 328

LETTER 329

LETTER 330

LETTER 331

LETTER 332

LETTER 333

LETTER 334

LETTER 335

LETTER 336

LETTER 337

LETTER 338

LETTER 339

LETTER 340

LETTER 341

LETTER 342

LETTER 343

LETTER 344

LETTER 345

LETTER 346

LETTER 347

LETTER 348

LETTER 349

LETTER 350

LETTER 351

LETTER 352

LETTER 353

LETTER 354

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LETTER 357

LETTER 358

LETTER 359

LETTER 360

LETTER 361

LETTER 362

LETTER 363

LETTER 364

LETTER 365

PROLOGUE

Dear Izzy,

Two years ago today, I wrote my first letter. Today, I am writing my last. I didn’t know what to do when you died. The pain was too much to fit inside, so I let some out by writing a letter to you. It helped a bit, so I wrote another. And then another. Eventually, I wrote 365. My letters to you tell a sacred story, one I never intended to tell. The story of learning to live WITH pain, while learning to live WITHOUT you.

When you died, my soul was split open. And from it, words I didn’t even know I had spilled out, covering the earth around me. Each letter is a collection of the words I picked up that day. A sacrament of sorts. A holy offering of what was exposed. Should it continue forever, it would lose the thing that makes it holy. For now, the words have all been picked up. And now, though almost unrecognizable, my soul has been woven back together.

The silhouette of where you once were has now been filled in with an ache. The world will tell you that grief is the season of getting over that ache. But I have found that couldn’t be further from the truth. Grief is the season of getting used to it. The day before you died, you asked me to promise to ‘remember your love – every day, forever.’ My mind remembers through memories. My heart remembers through feelings. But my soul, sweet girl, remembers through this ache. If I have learned anything in two years and 365 letters, it is this: we can feel an ache and still feel other things, too. We can have hearts that are broken and still love. Have dreams that were shattered and still live. We can be grateful for what we were given and still grieve for what we weren’t.

I will spend the rest of my life loving you, longing for you and aching for you. But I will not spend it writing you. It’s time for me to find a new path. Time for me to write new things. But I want you to know, my love for you will forever be the font in which they are written.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 1

Dear Izzy,

I still remember rocking you in the middle of the night when you were just a baby. You’d cry out from down the hall and soon I’d reach into your crib and scoop you into my arms. I’d wrap your blanket tightly around your body, then sit in the corner rocking you back and forth as I whispered: Shhh, everything’s okay. Mama is here. I was wrong about some of that. Truth be told, everything was not okay. Even then, the cancer cells were already in your body, the darkness already beginning to consume your light. But I didn’t know.

Once the cells had grown enough to cause pain as a toddler, I still didn’t know. You’d cry out in pain in the middle of the night, and I’d be in your room in seconds. Scoop you into my arms and whisper: Shhh, everything’s okay. Mama is here. Every night I promised you the same thing, and every night I was wrong.

The years have gone by now, far too quickly and far too painfully. Here you are, a teenager, and we both finally know the truth: that everything is not okay. I am so sorry that I was wrong about that part of my nightly promise, but I want you to know that I wasn’t wrong about it all. Mama IS here. Your life has been so cruel and so unfair and, while I can’t promise you much for your future, I can promise you this: you will never, not for one second, walk through any of it alone. When you need courage or strength, I’ll give you mine. When you long for peace and comfort, every drop I have, I’ll give to you. And when all I have is gone, I’ll just keep asking God for more. I. Am. Here. Just like I started promising you thirteen years ago; in the middle of the night. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, I will always be here, and I will always be your mother.

Happy Birthday Israelle.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 2

Dear Izzy,

You have been gone for fifty-one hours and fifty-six minutes and I miss you. I’ve started writing to you each day. Telling you all the times I feel your absence and all the times I sense your presence. Mostly I just write that I miss you, over and over again, on the tear-stained pages of my journal.

I never knew this is what losing you would feel like. I imagined it to feel like a great emptiness, but this feeling is the very opposite of emptiness. This feeling is a crushing fullness. It’s like a million rocks piled up on my chest. Old realities turned to stone without your breath. All the things you used to say. Rock. They way you’d smack your lips together from across the room to send me a kiss. Rock. Your voice. Your eyes. Your love for me. Rock. Rock. Rock.

`I don’t know how to do this and honestly, I don’t want to find out. I don’t ever want to learn to live without you. But here I am, learning anyways. And so I commit to learning to live because of you. Because if you could walk so graciously towards your own death, the very least I can do is learn to walk graciously after it.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 3

Dear Izzy,

Today is Easter. I laid in bed for the longest time, bitter and cynical, refusing to get on my phone and scroll through social media. Refusing to look at the eggs and the baskets and the dresses. Especially refusing to look at the warm and fuzzy declarations about how it’s the third day and Jesus has risen!! Because you’ve now been gone three full days and you’re still dead.

As I laid there staring off into space, an ornamental bird cage on the wall caught my eye. For the first time, it struck me differently today. Over the past couple of years your body truly had become a cage, keeping you from really living. You just sat in that cage, beautiful as ever, singing melodies of hope and inspiration for the rest of us to hear. How gracious of you, sweet girl. To just sit in that cage and sing to us when you so desperately wanted to fly.

From my angle, I suddenly noticed that the bird could fit perfectly through the bars of the cage. That the bird could fly out of the cage towards freedom, completely unharmed. And that gave me such peace to think of your spirit now flying in the fullness of its calling, completely unharmed.

I felt so close to God and to you after that. For me, religion has become a cage that keeps God and his truths locked in. Locked into this box of OUR reason and OUR logic and OUR comfort. But my soul craves truth and comfort that comes only from him. As I thought about that and though about you leaving the cage, a song came to mind. Not a church song, but a Patty Griffin song. Mary:

Jesus says, ‘Mother, I couldn’t stay another day longer’. He flies right by and leaves a kiss upon her face. While the angels were singing his praises in a blaze of glory, Mary stays behind and starts cleaning up the place.

Baby girl, I know you couldn’t stay another day longer. So I will have to find a way to be content staying behind and cleaning up the place. I’m not the first to do it and I won’t be the last.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 4

Dear Izzy,

We celebrated your life yesterday and we did everything you wanted. We met outside, down by a river and there were pink roses. We passed out cat food and Elsa was there in the front row, just like I promised. All your friends wore bright colors, just like they promised. And Addie spoke about your beautiful friendship, just like she promised. You would have been so proud of her.

For ten years, fighting for you has outlined every single one of my days. Now I wake up in the mornings quite lost. I simply have no idea what to do with myself or with my time and that feels impossibly hard. The truth is, I’ve been grieving for a long time. So many pieces of your life were ripped away, one by one, and I’ve grieved a little each time. There is now the tiniest bit of relief in me. Relief that I don’t have to go through the day wondering which thing will be the next to be taken from you. Relief that I don’t have to hold your disappointment in my hands, knowing I can’t fix it. I’m so glad that you aren’t living like that anymore, but I still miss you like crazy.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 5

Dear Izzy,

All my life I thought the word ‘heartache’ was a metaphor. Thought it referenced an emotion one experienced after loss. Now I know different. I know that some loss is so great, it transcends beyond emotion into a physical pain. Some loss leaves a literal ache in the center of the chest, near the heart. I know this because I have felt it every second for nearly one hundred and fifty-six hours.

Everyone donated to the Humane Society instead of sending you flowers, just like you asked. People gave $12,000 to take care of animals for you. Some amazing people at the Humane Society For Hamilton County read about you and they felt like your heart for animals was just like theirs. They fell in love with you, sweet girl, and wanted to keep your spirit alive. Today was the grand opening of their new facility and they did two things in your honor. First, they named April 7th Izzy Mattocks Day and they also named an entire cat room after you. It has fluffy beds and windows so the cats can lay in the sun. There are pictures of you all over one of the walls, but that’s not what made me cry. What made me cry was the bowls.

Do you remember the bowl that you wanted for Elsa, your most favorite cat? It took forever to ship and didn’t arrive until after you died. Well, they have those in your room. Lots of them. When I saw your name on the room and your pictures watching over those kitties, and when I saw those bowls...my heartache let up just a bit. Because it was like that room had always been intended for you.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 6

Dear Izzy,

We got your ashes yesterday. I held the box in my hands, and that was hard. I held the box in my hands, and that felt final. There’s been this anger brewing in me since then. Anger that the world just keeps on going and kids just keep on playing and all the while, you’re in a shoebox in the closet.

The day after you died, I got online and found your favorite sweatshirt; used, but in my size. It came in the mail last night and I cried. If I close my eyes, I see you in this sweatshirt, so wearing it makes me feel close to you. Closer than I felt when I held that shoe box.

So many people have reached out to me about their own journeys through loss and they say that my words have helped them. That somehow through my storytelling, my rhythmic rambling, they have felt seen in their own pain. So I’m going to keep writing. See, every loss may be different, but the pain from any loss flows from the same river. I don’t have a lot of things to give the world, but I do have words. And I’ll continue to offer them to people as a salve for their own, unimaginable pain. I’ll do it because it’s a pain I can now imagine. All this time I thought I was the one who gave you life, sweet girl. But it seems you gave me life, too. Because you gave me words.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 7

Dear Izzy,

The days seem to be getting harder. I didn’t expect that. The further I get from my last day with you, the closer I get to accepting a forever without you. That feels horribly overwhelming for me, and I think it feels horribly overwhelming for Elsa, your most favorite cat, too.

She’s used to spending weeks without you here, weeks when you’d be in the hospital. But this time is different, and she knows. I know she didn’t lay on you towards the end, baby, but it was only because she didn’t want to hurt you. I promise, she never left the room. She stayed the whole time. She watched as you took your final breath, and she knew. After that, when I held you in my arms and sobbed, she sat just above my head on the back of the couch...and she knew.

I never told you this, but we didn’t just let you have Elsa because you WANTED her, eight years ago. We let you have Elsa because I knew I might NEED her, today. You had just finished treatment and I was so afraid the cancer would return. After you went to bed that night, I told Daddy I needed you to have her. I told him that this was an opportunity for you to pour your love into something. And that if anything ever happened to you, that this was an opportunity for me to still have that something. Of course, as you know, she and I never liked one another. Not for one single day. Until now. Now, I can feel the love you poured into her, and I think she can feel the love you poured into me, too. I think this because she hasn’t tried to bite me. Not even once. I guess in your absence, we’re all the other has.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 8

Dear Izzy,

Spring is here and the woods behind our house are beginning to come to life. The grass is vibrant and there are little flowers everywhere. The trees have the tiniest bit of life growing from their fingertips. I find the entire scene both beautiful and offensive. How dare they boast to me about life when I am mourning the loss of it.

It was about this time last year that we went for a hike in the woods and had a picnic. You were so excited that your legs were so strong. So excited that you had energy. The next day your leg started to hurt and then everything began to spiral out of control. Then my fear became your fear, and your pain became my pain. Then nothing was the same, not ever again, because you knew all the things that having an incurable cancer really meant. Because you knew about the choices that really weren’t choices at all.

I look at those trees, bare bones with the tiniest bit of life on their fingertips and suddenly, I see myself: empty and bare, with just the tiniest bit of life. It makes me wonder if they grieve when their leaves fall off. Wonder how they manage to keep standing, all winter long, after a part of them has died. Suddenly, I’m not offended by the trees at all, I’m inspired. For they go through a season of mourning every year and still keep standing.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 9

Dear Izzy,

I’ve always fit. Fit everywhere and with everyone, which really just means I’ve never fit anywhere at all. Until you. Now that you’re gone, I’m back to not knowing how or where I fit and not knowing if I will ever fit again. I always felt like your heart came from a piece of mine. Like maybe, when you were growing inside me long ago, you reached up and grabbed a piece. Maybe that one piece of my heart became the whole of yours. Maybe that’s why I felt the most whole when I was close to you: because the heart in me was beating the same as the heart in you. If that’s true, then when your heart stopped beating, a part of my heart died. The piece that was in you and also the edge of my own heart from where it was taken from.

The heart has a way of healing itself. Eventually, scar tissue will form along the edge that has died and it will heal. But it will never be the same. It will look different, it will feel different and most importantly, it will beat different. Perhaps that’s the pain I feel in the center of my chest: my heart learning to beat to a new rhythm.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 10

Dear Izzy,

I got your tattoo today. The words you wrote for me a couple days before you died. The words we always used to say back and forth to each other right before bed. I love you...I love you more...I love you most...I love you mostest...I love you mostest of all...You told me that once they were on my arm, then I could remember them every day, forever.

I also got a surprise one that I hadn’t told you about. A tiny black heart at the base of my thumb (it’s the same one that you signed by your name; I just had it filled in). It’s just like the ones I used to draw on you when you’d have to do something at the hospital that I wasn’t allowed to go back for. I’d tell you to look at the heart when you were missing me. That even though you couldn’t see me, when you saw that heart, you’d remember my love. And that would help.

I know you probably don’t remember, but I drew a little black heart on the base of your thumb the night before you died. You were in and out of sleep and suddenly, I just grabbed a sharpie and did it before I even knew what I was doing. I said to you: even when you can’t see me, just look at this heart and you’ll remember my love. You opened up your eyes and smiled, then fell back asleep. It brought me comfort to put that heart on your hand as you were leaving this earth. So I wanted one for all the days I still have to spend here.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 11

Dear Izzy,

There’s been a shift in my spirit today. A change in perspective, perhaps. A dulling of emotion. I’ve known for a long time that your passing would be grace to you, though it would be a crushing blow to me. That grace has always been a thought held only in my mind. Until today.

Today a bit of it began to translate into a feeling. It’s like my heart could finally grasp the beauty of letting you go. Just in scattered moments, here and there. I wouldn’t go as far as to call it a peace, but it’s been enough of something to soften the blow of your absence. And I think maybe that’s how this works. I think one day at a time I will gain a new acceptance of this loss. I won’t do it because I want to let go, or because I stop missing you, or even because life will somehow feel complete again. I’ll do it because you have now gone twelve days without suffering. Twelve days without pain or fear or heartache that your body couldn’t do what your soul longed for. Twelve days without throwing up or feeling dizzy or not being able to brush your teeth because your platelets were too low. Twelve days without wondering if you’d ever be able to have hair.

You aren’t here, in your body, and I freaking hate that. For me. But I freaking love that. For you. You deserved so much more from this life than what your body could give you. And that’s why I’m starting to understand that the tragedy here was not in your death. The tragedy was in the life you were forced to live.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 12

Dear Izzy,

My mind is trying desperately to make sense of your absence and it just can’t. It expects you to be in this house and it cannot accept that you will never be in this house. Not ever again. That part of me cannot reconcile that you were ever here at all. It’s as if your entire life was just a dream. A beautiful dream and an unholy nightmare.

Playing in the woods used to be one of your favorite things. I remember when you built a shelter from sticks just like you had seen on Survivor. You tied them all together with pieces of grass and flower stems. And right in the middle of it all, you carved your name into a tree.

Those memories don’t seem real anymore because I can’t remember the last time you could drag limbs up the hill. I can’t remember the last time I saw you out back with your hiking stick, headed out on an adventure. My brain tries to protect me and says: That never happened. None of it, so you don’t have to feel this pain. But my heart, sees your name carved in that tree and it screams back: It did happen. All of it. And it was worth every bit of this pain. I love you, sweet girl. And loving you will always be worth this pain.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 13

Dear Izzy,

The day after you died, a memory slammed to the forefront of my mind. It was a memory from college I had almost forgotten. But as the scene played out in my mind, it had powerful words. This is the story about it:

I studied church stuff in college and had an assignment to interview someone who was doing God’s work, but not in a church. I chose the chaplain at the local children’s hospital. After the interview, he invited me to attend an annual memorial service. Any parent that had lost a child was invited to attend. The service was in a large auditorium, and I sat near the back. After the chaplain spoke there was a slideshow with pictures of all the children that had died. Everyone around me was weeping and soon I was too. The pain in the room was almost tangible.

Afterwards they brought a large bucket of roses to the front and parents were invited to come take one. One by one, parents went forward and took a rose for the child they were remembering. I felt uncomfortable, like I was dishonoring this sacred moment by being there for school. Soon I realized people were looking at me. They had noticed I wasn’t getting in line to take a rose. A hand or two touched my shoulder as they went back to their seats. Suddenly, I realized they thought I had lost a child, too. It wasn’t long before the people with the bucket of roses were looking at me. (And this is the scene that flooded my mind in the living room). One of the women with the bucket of roses reached out a hand to me, beckoning me forward. I didn’t go and all I could think was: I AM NOT ONE OF YOU. Twenty years ago, that woman grabbed a rose from the bucket and walked up the aisle towards me. She smiled gently and handed me a rose that I didn’t feel worthy of taking. And when that scene flooded my mind two weeks ago, I heard her reply: YES. YOU. ARE.

I don’t know what any of that means, Iz. Not to anyone else, except me. But when I heard those words two weeks ago, I knew: long before you existed, I was called to be your mom.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 14

Dear Izzy,

You’ve been gone for fifteen days, and I miss you. I’m learning there will never be a day when I don’t miss you, but the pain of it all is lessening. Just a little. The day you died it felt like someone was holding my head under a waterfall. The force of the water was so strong I couldn’t open my eyes and I struggled to catch my breath. The pain doesn’t feel like that anymore, it just feels like rain. Steady drops pounding down on my face. But I can open my eyes now and I can breathe again.

I took this picture at one of our last visits to the hospital. We met with different doctors, and I had to tell you they thought we were running out of time. You asked me to snuggle with you in that chair and we sat together and cried. You said you weren’t afraid to die. That you had thought about it for a long time. You told me you were only afraid about what would happen to the people you left behind. You died ten days later.

The truth is all of us are grieving in our own ways. But one day at a time, we’re figuring it out. I suppose, eventually, the rain I feel on my face will stop and maybe someday I’ll even be able to see the sun again.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

P.S. I visited your cat room at the Humane Society today. There were two fluffy white cats in there that looked a lot like Elsa. You would have loved them.

LETTER 15

Dear Izzy,

I heard you in my sleep last night, clear as day. You called out to me from the living room: MOM. I sat wide awake for the longest time, trying to gather my thoughts. I knew you were gone, that wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was that your voice was strong and healthy, quite different than the fragile tone I’ve gotten used to. Over the years I learned that when you called out to me in the fragile tone or when you called me ‘Mama’, it was because you were feeling vulnerable. That tone in your voice was always followed by a complaint of pain or a new symptom. It was always followed by a reminder that I could not make you better. As a result, I began to associate fear and panic with that tone.

In 2015 we learned your cancer was no longer curable. I didn’t tell you then because I didn’t want you to know the kind of fear I was living with. For the next six years, I felt like I was standing under a grand piano, just waiting for it to crush me. With every relapse and every change in lifestyle you had to make to avoid pain, it inched closer to me. The day you died the piano finally fell on me completely. But once I came to, I realized it was gone. Yes, I was completely broken but I was no longer living under the fear of being broken. And that is entirely different.

Together we fought. Together we suffered. Together we were set free. All day long I’ve thought about one thing and one thing only: how good it felt to hear your voice, the way it used to be. Not weak. Not tired. Not afraid. Strong and bold and free.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 16

Dear Izzy,

This morning, I was cleaning up some things in a basket on the counter and I found one of your anklets with a broken clasp. As I held it in my hand, anger and injustice washed over me. Tears ran down my cheeks as I remembered how I broke it. Remembered why I broke it. Soon the pain was too much, so I went for a run.

I’ve run almost every day since you died. I do it to distract myself from the pain. Of course, you’re the one that taught me all about that. You hated getting your port accessed. It was painful and unpredictable and violating. But, like everything else in life, you took what you were given and found a way to make it work for you. Everyone at the hospital suggested distractions for getting through the access. You thought all their ideas were stupid and instead, started pinching yourself when they accessed you. You’d find the most tender skin on the inside of your arm, and you’d pinch it as hard as you could because you said: it’s better to feel a pain you cause yourself than to feel a pain something else is causing you. And that’s why I run. To feel the kind of pain I choose myself.

After you died the nurse came to the house. She asked if I wanted your port de-accessed and of course, I did. I held you in my arms while she took it out and even though you were gone, it seemed like the most graceful gesture of freedom. After that, I took off all your jewelry. All except for an anklet whose clasp was jammed. I desperately wanted it though, so I broke the clasp and took it off your leg.

I fixed the clasp this morning and I’m wearing it as a bracelet now - forever a reminder of the injustice that was your life. An injustice you found your own way to navigate.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 17

Dear Izzy,

I finally let myself go through some of your things. At the bottom of your closet, I found so much more than I was looking for. Underneath the piles of clothes, I found treasures. I found memories, yours and mine, of how things were and how things were supposed to be. I found a picture of you before we’d ever started treatment. Before you ever lost your hair or your hearing. Before you’d ever thrown up a single time.

I’ve viewed every hardship in my life as a season. Seeing it that way has helped me survive. When you were first diagnosed, I remember thinking: ‘We’ll get through this. It’s just a season." I now find myself in a brand-new place because this ‘hardship’ - living without you - is more than just a season. It’s forever. That seems really vast and really scary because I can’t imagine a forever that doesn’t include you.

I put some of your things in containers and placed some of them around your room in the places you liked them to be. Then I sat on your bed and cried for a long time, and I realized that seasons aren’t always hardships. Sometimes they’re quite the opposite. Some seasons contain our experience of beauty and joy and grace. Some seasons contain the very best parts of our life. If that’s true, maybe the past ten years weren’t just a season for me to endure. Maybe they were the best season of my life: The Season of You.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 18

Dear Izzy,

You loved fiercely. Life. Animals. And a few chosen people. To be loved by you was to be wrapped in layers of warmth and sprinkled with strength. It’s not just learning to live without you that’s hard, it’s learning to live without your love. Without your love wrapped around me, part of my soul feels bare and exposed.

I’ve known it was going to end like this for so very long, and yet, I was never truly prepared. I was never prepared for how it would feel to live without your love. I wasn’t prepared for the little things either. Like the pain that would come from seeing your toothpaste. Your toothpaste is in my bathroom drawer, and it may very well be there for the rest of my life because I can’t bring myself to move it. I knew some things would hurt but I never imagined your toothpaste would bring me to tears. That I would hold it in my hand, so desperate to touch a thing you touched so many times.

The big things and the little things all go together to make up this impossible pain called grief. Impossible as it seems, it’s a certainty for most of us. Most of us will learn to live without the love of someone we treasure. Most, but not all. See, grief was one of the only pains you never experienced. And for just a moment today I felt almost joyful because I realized: you never had to find a way to live without my love.

I love you. Every day, forever.

Mama

LETTER 19

Dear Izzy,

I look through old pictures to feel closer to you but somehow, I always end up feeling further away. As soon as I see you in the images, I feel joy rise up in me. I physically feel a rising up in my soul. Then I remember that you’re gone and that’s why I’m looking at the photos. And then I feel my soul drop. Hard and fast, straight to the floor, and I’m crushed. I want to see you, I want to remember every detail I captured, but as soon as I do, I have to turn away. I find myself trapped in this cycle of torture multiple times a day.

I found this picture today and for the first time I cried tears of joy. I cried because I saw your smile. I cried because you could still run. I stared at you in this picture, as I touched the screen with my finger. Suddenly, I could see the scene playing out all around you. We were at the beach. It took all you had, but you went strong for an hour or two each day. You pushed your body until you eventually collapsed. Your net was for seashells, but you always tried to catch birds with it too. Always believed if you ran fast enough towards them, you’d catch one and then you guys could be friends. You ran in and out of the waves over and over again. And you laughed. Oh, how you laughed. This was what a perfect beach day was for you. Just you and the ocean.

This picture may have been taken six months ago but I like to think this is a glimpse of your forever. That THIS image is what eternity looks like for you.

I love you. Every day, forever. And I hope you catch a bird.

Mama

LETTER 20

Dear Izzy,

You’ve been gone for three weeks, and I miss you. In some ways, it feels like you were just here yesterday. In other ways, it feels like you were never here at all. My mind is still trying to put together those pieces. To reconcile what was and what is and what will never be.

I found a pair of earrings yesterday. The ones you wore when we took pictures of you in my wedding dress. They didn’t make me cry like the toothpaste, but I still put them away in a special box. I never told you why we did the pictures of you in my wedding dress or why I cried the whole time. The truth is, Izzy, I knew. I knew, in the deepest kind of knowing that doesn’t even have words, that you would never live long enough to be a bride. I also knew how desperately you wanted to be one. And I guess I just wanted you to have that. And I guess I just wanted me to have that. To see my daughter in a wedding dress. To see my daughter in my wedding dress.

A few weeks before you died, we were watching a wedding show and you were talking about your favorite dresses. You said: "All I know for sure is that I want you