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An Email I Will Never Send.


(photo taken on Palace Ave, Santa Fe)

Last email from my mom on 6/27/12 at 1:26 in the morning. (I was planning on visiting in a little over a week):

DEAR BEEBLE BEEBLE BEEBLE  (wheedle wheedle wheedle)

Could you pretty pretty please tie up Grandmas and Grandpas canes in a bundle and bring them?  If you wrap them securely in an old shower curtain and a lot of duck tape, you will probably be allowed to take them  either 1. as a checked bag (“not so good”  Borat) or 2. Ask to check them on the gangway just before you step onto plane  (BEST  – no charge or problem – I’ve done it with something, but it is 1:26 am and it’s been a wild and crazy day.

More later.


(I guess this email seriously need an editor/English professor/daughter)


I’d known she wasn’t well, but that whole Kubler-Ross stage thing about being in Denial…I was always in a state of Denial. Even when I read the email, the logical part in me could SEE what was happening. She was often so conscientious with her emails, even if the message was brief. She was also usually in bed by nine. However, the irrational part of me had since overwhelmed my entire being. She was fine. It was just momentary. It was just the prednisone.

Just the prednisone. Making her believe she was invulnerable. Making her believe she was free and “much, much better!”

I was at my baby sister’s house, visiting for a few days before my trip over, and we got the call from my father. He’d been sending us emailed updates, little pieces of the reality we weren’t getting from mom in her emails to us. The call, however, was a dose of reality that I refused, I WOULDN’T, believe. Denial again. She was back in the hospital, weaning off the prednisone, having had a severe bout of mania that involved the police, EMTs, neighbors, and my dad.

The rational side of me flew me over to Mom in a few days. However, I still felt like I was in Denial. She was fine. Get her a lung transplant, stat, because it’s just that easy. She’d be fine. She’d even said she was fine.

Today, exactly two years from her death, I am still in the Depression stage, having made it out of Denial, Anger, and Bargaining (a stage I may have skipped). This time of year, I have severe anxiety and insomnia. I’ve not slept properly in over a week, so the process of writing this feels surreal.

I didn’t respond to her email. I called instead. She was the only one I actually CALLED, which says a lot. If I’d had anything on record, if I’d emailed her, it would’ve gone something like this:

Hey, Mom!

First of all, which canes? All of them? I checked the closet where they’re located, and there about fifty-seven of them in all sorts of sizes and designs, makes and models. I’m surprised Grandma didn’t have one with a hidden sword. She would’ve liked one with a sword, I think, or a wolf’s head with laser beam eyes. 

And as for taking them to the airport with me, I don’t think that’s the wisest idea. Unless, of course, the TSA officials honestly believe I’m on my way to lead a hill-climbing expedition. Tell you what — how about I mail them overnight? 

At any rate, you don’t need no stinkin’ canes. When I get there, you can lean on me (and, yes yes, don’t remind me of that ridiculous song). We don’t even have to walk a lot. We can just hang out downtown and get sick on migas and blue corn piñon pancakes (which sound totally disgusting by the way). Or we could do tapas and sherry at La Boca like we did last time. 

One more thing: don’t forget to breathe. 

I love you much,


4 thoughts on “An Email I Will Never Send.

  1. Does the depression of a loved one ever go away? Sometimes it weans a bit, and at other times it seems to fester or grow stronger. I think the important think to remember is that maybe those feeling mean that we have truly not lost them?

    My own father has been dead for 28-years now, and never does a few days go by where I don’t think about him or see and hear something that reminds me of him.

    True love can never be lost. It only finds different ways to hold on to us.

    Cherish the good ones! ☺️


    • You’ve a good point. I don’t think depression fully leaves us. My mother is gone, but she is here in each one of us (me and my sisters)…those traits, those idiosyncrasies, those commonalities. I treasure all of that as if it was actually her.

      Thanks for reading and reaching out.

      Liked by 1 person

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