Dear, Guardian Angel, Happy Mother’s Day

Dear, Guardian Angel,

You left me two months ago and it is still hard to stomach.

From age 2 you were my guidance through life. You were my rock, my go-to for help — my life. You were my best friend.

7:35 p.m. March 6, 2019, is forever burned into my memory as it was the final time I would take a breath knowing you could hear my voice.

It also serves as the time and date that a major part of me died.

While your soul drifted to Heaven, I stayed behind to handle the needed duties that I promised to oversee so long ago. I waited with you in your hospital room through the evening shift change and into the late-night hours.

Shocked. Stunned. Heartbroken. Sick. Confused.

All of those could have defined how I felt or what I was thinking in that moment.

Just that morning we were talking. Laughing.

We discussed when I would return following my shortened schedule at work.

It was really no different from the previous month I had spent by your side.

That was until about 9 a.m.

My phone rang.

It was your nurse asking me to return to the hospital when I could as a “decision” would need to be made.

This was the second time in two weeks myself and the family entered the front of the hospital thinking the end would come shortly thereafter.

I met with your doctors. I agreed to give the best-in-the-business 48 hours to get you back to where you were a few short days before.

I would have given them an eternity if I could have taken you home with me.

Foolish in a sense, I returned to your room thinking I had time to be with you and to talk again — just as we had done for hours on end in previous days.

That would not happen.

Knowing you missed your “Honey,” I brought Brynlee to see you around 7:15 that night. She stood at your bedside and told you she loved you and that she would see you later.

She fixed her eyes on you the entire time, knowing you were “sick,” but believed you would be reading to her once again when you returned home.

You acknowledged with a head shake and fought to open your eyes to see her. The breathing machine was draining your energy. The visit was mere minutes as my emotions nearly became too much to handle with my baby in the room.

My trek to the front parking lot and the time it took me to buckle her into the car to return home was about 5 minutes.

I swiftly returned to your room once again.

Then reality swung and connected with the fiercest of uppercuts.

Your nurse came in with a look he had not shown to this point.

Your monitor was making more noises than the sounds folder of a smartphone.

You were going “home” and I couldn’t stand it.

You raised your head slightly, as if to say “goodbye” and then took your life’s final breath.

You were gone forever.

A million memories shot through my mind. Our trips to St. Louis to watch your favorite team. The hundreds of vacations to Branson — just me and you.

And then all the times you showed a mother’s unconditional love.

How you helped me become a strong young man and then a husband and father.

How you taught me to trust in myself and always work hard on every endeavor.

How you never put yourself before others — even in your final days, minutes ... seconds

I knew today was going to be rough. I knew it would be the first Mother’s Day that I would not have a planned phone call to you.

Instead, today has a different agenda from previous years.

I visited your resting place. I brought you beautiful roses — yellow, of course.

I talked to you and told you how much I love you and miss you.

And as always, I thanked you for always being there for me through absolutely everything. For giving up everything in your life only to rehash motherhood all over again. For simply being my mom for nearly 30 years when you didn’t have to.

I left your side as I do every time, feeling the dirt at the end of your grave as I fought back tears.

Thank you, Nanny, for everything.

Happy Mother’s Day in Heaven.