I didn't know it then, but a year ago was the last time I heard my mom's voice. It was the last time we talked, the last time we laughed, the last time I kissed her and she kissed me back. She was lucid, to some extent, a few days later, but she couldn't really communicate. Nor could she remember things from five minutes before so we had the same conversation with her over and over for hours. I don't know how many times we told her that the tube would come out when her lungs were clear, and no she couldn't take it out herself and yes, it was Saturday. Yes, still Saturday. Daddy was okay, he was eating and doing okay. No, she couldn't get up and walk out yet, no she couldn't go home yet. It was a horrible, horrible day. I knew I was lying to her all day, over and over.
I miss her accent, the way she laughed at her really bad sarcastic comments about other people, the way she talked to my daughter. I miss her. Every day. And although I sit here, without tears in my eyes, my heart is still just as heavy as it's been before. Just as heavy as it was when I got the call that day, telling me she went into respiratory failure and had been moved to ICU. I had hoped for some time with her, some more time for her to have with my daughter, but that wasn't in the cards. I miss her. I just miss her.
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