Mom, stop! Don’t go. I’m not ready.
I know just moments ago I told you it was ok, that you could rest and go and be free, but I take it all back. I’m not ready. I’m not ever going to be ready.
So, right now, stay. Please stay. Just a bit longer. Just a tiny bit longer.
You can’t open your eyes and you haven’t said a word in a day but I need you to. I need you to tell me you love me one more time. Can you hear me telling you? I’ve been saying it on repeat for hours, for days.
Please stay. You’re not ready are you? You’re still so young. You’ve got so much to live for, so much living left to do.
Why is this happening? How do we make it stop? How did we even get here– to this place where I’m lying beside you as your breathing slows and your heartbeat fades? How did we get to this place where I’m losing you, without my consent or approval, and certainly without yours. Right?
Why you? You’ve got a heart of gold and a faith as limitless as the sky. You’ve lived a life of compassion and kindness. You’ve been the best at everything you’ve done— motherhood, marriage, friendship and everything in between. You shouldn’t have cancer. You shouldn’t be deteriorating with each second. You shouldn’t be dying.
Please stay, Mom. Don’t listen to the words I spoke earlier when I told you it was ok to go. It’s not. It will never be. I take it back. I take it all back. Why? Why? Why?
Why this way?
Why, Mom? Why?
You simply cannot go. You cannot leave like this. You cannot leave at all. You’re my mother, my best friend, my everything. Oh, mom. I wish you could wake up again, even if only for a moment. I know I’m an adult but I still need you, and right now, I need you to tell me things will be ok. I need you to tell me that, Mom. Can you? Can you please tell me things will be ok?
I’m so mad. I’m so scared. I’m so sad. I’m so confused. I’m so useless, unable to change your fate. I’m so weak, unable to find any kind of strength or hope in this moment. I need a miracle. We need a miracle, and it’s not coming. I know this is it and yet, here I am still trying so desperately to change things.
I’m so sorry, Mom. You don’t deserve this. None of it. You don’t deserve this death and the disease that led you here. You don’t deserve to go so soon and so early. And you don’t deserve a daughter begging you to stay, knowing it would mean continued pain for you– excruciating pain if I’m brutally honest.
So, I take it all back again. I change my mind, but not my heart. I’ll never stop wanting you to stay, but it’s ok, Mom. You can go. You can rest and set yourself free. You can drift to eternity and walk boldly into the faith you’ve always lived by. You can go, it’s ok.
And you listened. And you did. And I was there for it all.
And even after you were gone, I was silently screaming, “please don’t go.”
A wife, mother and educator who has Indiana roots and a passionate spirit. Chelsea is a sappy romantic, coffee junkie, book collector, and person who wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s sarcastic, full of jokes, full of tears, and enjoys writing most when life gets messy or complicated. In 2017, Chelsea's mother passed away. Through her grief journey, she decided to take her mother’s advice and share her writing with the world. One day she gained the courage to honor her mother's wishes and write. It turned out to be one of the best decisions she's ever made.