Dear Momma, you died on a Monday and I went back to Vanuatu on a Friday.

Dear Momma,

I knew when I took my second Peace Corps position in Vanuatu that it could possibly be the last time that we ever saw each other. I remember waiting for my passports to be delivered the day before I was leaving the country and you calmly sitting in the recliner, reassuring me they would come. Just three years ago you were visiting me in Albania during my first Peace Corps stint… we were walking in the streets of Dubrovnik, eating gelato on the Grecian island of Mykynos and watching the gondolas at sunset in Venice. I knew you’d never be able to come see me this time.

Once I was in Vanuatu, I always looked forward to our conversations on FaceTime, and it was worth the extra effort to find wifi because you were always so happy to hear from me. Your twin sister Shell told me that you had a habit of acting like everything was okay and perking up like you felt better when we spoke, which I wasn’t surprised about. I tried so hard to get you to tell me the truth and catch me up on your doctors visits but you always had this persistence about not talking about yourself and wanting to know what life on the island was like. You never wanted your illness to stop me from pursuing anything in my life and you would always put on that comforting motherly smile and told me you would see me when I got back.

After I had been gone about two months, I got a Facebook message from Shell, telling me that you needed more care than she could provide anymore and that you had been approved for Hospice which was a pretty big deal. I know you loved living with her, and she loved taking care of you, but after a year, that time had passed. When we talked on the phone the next day you seemed confused when I asked about Hospice and felt like your sister was pushing you out, you also asked me if I would willing to donate a kidney. You told me you had gone to the kidney specialist that day and had been diagnosed with stage four kidney failure and needed to find someone who was a match for you.

I decided to follow up with Shell, who then told me she was in the doctors office with you during the diagnosis, and the doctor told you that you were unfortunately not a candidate for a kidney transplant because you were too weak. The doctor told you that the only way to lengthen your life past a few months would be if you started dialysis three times a week, which wouldn’t cure anything, only lower your quality of life for a year or so. Don’t worry, you were only confused for short amounts of time, we would fill you in on what was going on and you would simply say “shit.. it happened again.”

A few days later we spoke through Facebook you told me you had decided to refuse dialysis and told me this meant you would probably die within a few months. I remember the exact table I was sitting at in a cafe on the water in Vanuatu’s largest port. I watched the sun go down over the South Pacific that night knowing that if I wanted to see you alive again, I needed to come home… even though when we ended our conversation, you had admittedly told me not to come because there was nothing I could do.

The next day I woke up to a message from Shell saying that you had been moved over night to a temporary Hospice facility and they were looking for somewhere more long term, but effective immediately you couldn’t live at the house anymore. This made me realize that your health was declining quicker than expected because of the change of plans.

I remembered when I lived in Albania, and was in the Peace Corps the first time, that the Peace Corps has a “Family Emergency Leave” program where if anyone in your immediate family passes away or death is soon eminent, you will be sent back to your home of record to be with your loved ones for up to 14 days.

I immediately called our Peace Corps Medical Officer in Vanuatu, on a Sunday none the less, who gave me the after hours number to get in contact with headquarters in D.C. She said that Shell, who had been your primary care taker, needed to call then they would need to speak with a doctor or social worker to get my travel approved.

It was approved on a Monday, my flight was booked on Tuesday and I flew out on a Wednesday. Vanuatu to Sydney, Australia, to Honolulu, Hawaii to Dallas, Texas to Raleigh, North Carolina.

I decided not to tell you.

I didn’t want for it to not get approved and your hopes get up. I didn’t want you to feel like I was abandoning my dreams for you. But I had to come home to be with you… you’re the reason I’m here anyways, and as I most recently found out, you weren’t even planning on having another child. But you did.

I had a lot of time to myself in transit on the way home and I began to remember the good days growing up. Like how every year you would go all out to plan a huge themed birthday party for me and all of my friends. Or how we always had some sort of arts and crafts going on in the house depending on what season it was. Or, no matter how gross, you would always taste my homemade pantry concoctions in between us spending hours catching lady bugs on the porch and lightening bugs in the front yard. Or how you taught me to swim by throwing me off of the boat at High Rock Lake. Or how when I brought my first boyfriend home in high school and you didn’t care that he was black. “I don’t care who you’re with Brenna, as long as they treat you right,” you told me. I remember thinking to myself, damn I’ve got a cool mom, because most of my friends parents wouldn’t have reacted like that. Or how when my best friend was struggling with coming out to her parents and you gave her words of encouragement and love. Or how my friend in middle school hadn’t been taught by her mom how to use a tampon so you talked her through the steps with a box we had.

I could go on and on with stories like that mom. Not all times were good or easy but I could always depend on your fairness and open mindedness. Thanks to you, I have remarkable humans in my life. You taught me the value of taking people how they are and getting to know someone despite being different from them.

In blind ignorance felt like I was on my way to swoop in and save you, but in reality what I really wanted was to give you the permission to not try and hold on to see me one more time.

I didn’t tell many people I was coming home, just a few of my friends, and Shell and Dad. I turned off all of my geo-location services on my apps, but you probably don’t even know what that means. I even went as far as to continue to post a photo a day from Vanuatu on my Instagram account keeping up the facade that I was still in the South Pacific the two weeks I was in America. Megan was there almost the entire time, she worked from Hospice every day just so she could be with us, leading conference calls from the family room. Lanner drove down after her shift at the hospital to see you. Emily brought Remy, who’s a certified therapy dog if you didn’t know, many days and was a great resource of support and realistic expectations. Dad came to see you at Hospice when he brought your son Chase, and you would be really proud of him. I asked Dad not to tell his family I was home and he actually didn’t. I did get drunk one night and called Tate and Lucas. They came and met me downtown and told them about you, I know they always had a special place in your heart.

Dad picked me up from the airport on Thursday (I lived Wednesday twice) and after I picked up some pants, took a shower and went straight to Hospice to see you. Shell had prompted you with some sort of lie about a surprise she had picked up for you, and then I walked in with some freshly picked wild flowers from your favorite place to ride the golf cart.

You looked at me dazed, confused, not sure if I was really standing there or if this was another time you were unsure about reality. I watched your eyes darting to Shell for assurance that you weren’t hallucinating. You said nothing. Shell, breaking the silence, asked “Kim, do you know who that is?” You smiled and shook your head with excitement and said “Of course! That’s Casey’s daughter,” Casey, being one of my aunts long time friends.

My heart sank, down bellow the ground, further than I knew it could. I felt like I was going to throw up in the middle of the room. I’m too late, I should have come sooner, I thought. I looked at you dead in the eyes and said with as much strength that I could muster, “no… I’m your daughter.”

What felt like decades past as you stared in to my eyes.. I leaned in close, I mean you never really did have good eye sight, maybe you just couldn’t see me without your glasses on. More drawn out seconds past as you stared in to my eyes, you started to run your fingers through my recently brushed hair. Then, your mouth dropped open, I had always given you shit about that, and tears begin to well up in your eyes and you looked and me and whispered “you came…” and that’s all I needed.

All I needed after traveling three islands, two continents and three states was for you to know that I was there. I draped you in the lavalava I brought back for you from Vanuatu, let you pick a hand carved necklace for yourself and I put on the other one. Then I placed the seashells I had shown you over FaceTime all around your room. You only cried for a short time, which was unusual for you, but you knew I was home.

You had been in Hospice for five days before I got to you and the day I arrived was the last day that you got out of bed. The next day you were too weak to stand, a few days later you couldn’t swallow and lost all concept of who anyone was. You slept through most of the days. We watched the last season of The Walking Dead together, even though you slept through most of it. I didn’t sleep at Hospice but for one night, I found myself obsessively staring at your chest to see if it was still moving through the night. Your older sister Trisha stayed with you every single night, Hospice even gave her a room to herself. I took the golf cart down to the river a lot and would spend hours watching the water flow past. When I was there I would feed you sips of chocolate milkshakes, put my headphones on you and blast Led Zepplin and would wash your hair. But most of the time you slept.

I was in the country for nine days before you passed away, peacefully in your bed. Your daughter, two sisters and Michael had all just had dinner together and as we were going to get some things for Shell to stay the night with you and Trisha called. I was sitting in your old room and heard Shell start crying, asking why you didn’t wait for her but you died after we had just left. We went back that night to collect your things and say our final goodbyes.

Go figure the next day we got a call from the wrong crematory saying they had picked you up that night, and not the one Shell had made arrangements with earlier. Shell and I both agreed your mouth would have dropped open, you would have rolled your eyes and laughed if you knew.

The crematory told us that we could choose what you were wearing, so we picked your jogging suit and favorite headband, I never understood why you called it a jogging suit. The next day, me and your two sisters went to your favorite restaurant in Winston and ate outside.

I constantly heard your nurses and doctors say that kidney failure is one of the most painless ways to die. I never saw you struggle or seem uncomfortable. Mom, you got the gift that a lot of us won’t have and that’s being prepared for what’s to come. You knew your time was soon and so did everyone who loved you. This gift allowed us to travel from Nashville and Vanuatu and Wilmington to spend your last days on earth together, and unlike most periods of life, everyone was exactly where they needed to be. You died on a Monday, I went back to Vanuatu on a Friday.

Death is something that is pretty taboo to talk about, even though it’s almost the only thing that we all have in common. Death, just like life and birth, are natural, however, we seem to only be comfortable discussing the first two thirds of this cycle, leaving death to be dealt with after it’s already happened. We’re taught how to acquire relationships and things, but not what to do when we loose them. You gave me the best life possible, to all of your capabilities, sacrificed a hell of a lot… and I got to return that favor as you died. Traveling across the world to be with you on your death bed to wash your hair is unmeasurable to what you have done for me during my life.

After being back in Vanuatu for a few weeks, it’s honestly like I never left. I’m not sure that I’m going to truly process your death until I’m back home in July. You know I always have to do things my way so I guess this isn’t an exception. Nothing here reminds me of you, accept where we used to have our video calls. I find myself thinking “This is happened. This is real. You went to the States and your mom has died” to myself sometimes.

Thanks to the Peace Corps I was able to see you before you died and I’m not quite sure what other organization would have flown me across the world to be with you during this time. I will be forever indebted to the Peace Corps staff of Vanuatu for their timely response and hard work to get me on the next flight off of the island.

I went by the stand where I had bought the lavalava and sea urchin necklace that you were wearing when you died. I showed the photos to the store owner Isabela and we both shared a good cry, probably freaking out the Australian tourists that were there getting their hair braided. I stop by her stand at least once a week now to say hello.

The package you and Michele sent me got to me the day that I decided to come home and I didn’t open it completely, I waited until I got back. You had written me a letter that I will now keep forever that said “You are building your own sea with drops you create around the world. The more distance we have between us the closer I feel to you. I love you my island girl, to the moon and back.”

I think about you every time I see the ocean, especially near sunset because that was your favorite time to be on the beach. I think about you when I listen to Led Zepplin. I think about you when I hear someone say something funny that I know you were laugh at or call bullshit on. I think of you when two of my best friends told me about their engagement and how one of their families aren’t supportive because it will be a same sex marriage… you would have been.

Michele spread some of your ashes in front of that hotel we always stay at in North Myrtle and is going to set up a bench and plant a dogwood tree by the pond near your favorite spot to sit. I know when I go home and am in places we used to go together I will get sad. Or when I see any sort of trashy show or crime themed tv on, I’ll think of you. I’ll think about you when the next season of The Walking Dead comes out. I’ll think of you when I go and sit in the daisy field at the house or anytime I see a fooseball machine. I’ll think of you when I pass that crappy hotel you, Shell and Trisha stayed at the last time you came to see me in Raleigh. I’ll think of you when I drink coffee or eat grapes.

Today is my first Mother’s Day without you. I have honestly been dreading it a little because of the 15 hour time change from the States I will be living the day twice, once in my life and once again online through my friends beautiful posts about their mothers. I’ve decided to go to a movie by myself because I remember going to the movies with you on multiple Mother’s Days.

I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be. You’ll be with me where ever I am in the world now, just in a different way. I love you momma.

I will post on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter, hopefully different content but no promises. These thoughts and pictures are mine and in no way reflect the views or opinions of the U.S. Government or the Peace Corps.