Five Years (A Letter to Nita)

 

Dear Nita –

            Five years ago last night, we said our last goodbye to you. I’ve always wondered how much you knew about that night. How much did you know what was happening in that bedroom in your beloved log cabin, and how much of it was lost to you because of the medicine they gave you to keep the pain at bay?

            I hope you saw your children gathered around you, crying because they didn’t want to ask you to stay but simultaneously didn’t want you to go. I hope you knew that the ones you loved so much who weren’t standing beside you were doing everything they could to get there quickly, and even though they didn’t arrive before your Homegoing, they loved you so dearly. I hope one of the prayers I prayed for Jesus to be near and to comfort you did the very things I asked.

            Ryan sat with you for over two hours, holding your hand and making sure you weren’t alone – until the funeral home came. It was his last gift to you, and I loved his heart for it. He told me he promised you he would be there for you, and he wanted to keep his promise.

            There’s no way we could wish you back to the madness of the last five years on this earth. With all your struggles to breathe, there’s no way we could have wanted you to try to make it through a pandemic. As hard as our goodbye to you was, I can only imagine if we’d had to say it over a screen because we weren’t allowed in a hospital. I know many people lived that kind of a goodbye.

            You’d be proud of your kids, Nita. They’ve done a good job. They’ve taken care of your home, they tended to all the details after Allen’s unexpected death, and they’ve honored you with their lives. They’ve walked through some hard stuff together – big illnesses, job losses, births, deaths – and I think you would be proud of how they’ve handled it.

            Your grandbabies are not babies anymore – at least the ones you knew. And you’d love the ones you never got to meet. They’re all pretty great kids, and I know the number of pictures that exist of each of them would probably not be satisfactory to you.

            Ryan and I talk of you often. We have pictures of you in our home, we use your catch-phrases, and we tell stories of days we spent with you. I think of you every time I wear my hat that matches yours. I think of you every time I drink out of one of the coffee mugs you gave me. I think of you every time I put on one of the big blingy necklaces you gave me. I have your camera bag and am committed to carrying on the family legacy of documentation.

            I still have pictures of you in my phone and sometimes just sit and look at them, remembering the times we had together – before and after the word glioblastoma changed everything in life. I still have the video of you walking out of the rehab hospital singing “This is the Day.”

            You had many great accomplishments in this life, Nita. You were a friend to many, were a fantastic nurse, and served well in the church. But I have to feel your greatest accomplishment is the son you raised who has been the biggest blessing to my life. I see so much of you in him. That smile. Those dimples. The laugh. The compassionate heart. He’s you. And I love you both so much.

            Nothing on this broken earth can compare to the perfection and healing you’re living in now. To wish you back would be selfish. But know that you are missed and loved by these two Shaffers.

            Until then, Nita.

            Bekah