It’s your second birthday since diagnosis, and your first birthday since death.
It’s the first time I haven’t sent you a “Happy Birthday” e-mail wtih a talking monkey in it. The monkey site died when you did. So did the jasmine and curry leaf plants. You used to water them.
Mom had cataract surgery today–the surgery we didn’t manage to get for you as you got a brain tumor first and we had to cancel your surgery the day before. I spent all day today changing your grandson’s diapers and nursing. You always loved kids and felt we should be devoted to them. I think you’d have been pleased.
It’ll be a year soon. We are just a month and a half away. It’s hard to believe. I still sometimes feel like you aren’t gone; you’ll come back, like you are just around the corner. I still struggle with the question of whether I will ever see you again.
I’m afraid of old age and illness and cancer and dying, though I guess not everybody’s is as bad as yours–not even everybody with a brain tumor.
I miss you. I wish you were here with your grandson. I hope the two of you met in the world beyond this one, after you left and before he arrived. I dream of you sometimes. I’m afraid I’ll forget you.
I will always feel cheated, but I guess time will make this all suck less, somehow.