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 assignment in Vanuatu that it could possibly be the last time that I saw you alive. I remember waiting for my passports to be delivered the day before I was leaving the country and your calming presence in the recliner in the living room as I paced back and forth waiting for the UPS truck to arrive.
Just three years ago I was living in Albania. You came to visit me, to see where I lived, and to explore neighboring parts of Europe. We were walking down the streets of Dubrovnik, eating gelato on the Grecian island of Mykynos and watching the gondolas at sunset in Venice. But I knew you’d never be able to visit me this time.
I always looked forward to our conversations during my first few months living on the island of Efate in Vanuatu. It was always worth the effort to find wifi. Your twin sister Shell filled me in that you always perked up when we talked, and acted like your health wasn’t as bad as it actually was. I tried so hard to get you to tell me the truth and catch me up on your doctor's 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 anything to stop me from pursuing my goals in my life and you being sick wasn’t a good enough reason to start now.
After I had been gone for about two months, I got a message from Shell, telling me that you needed more care than she could provide and that you had been approved for Hospice. 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 she was pushing you out. 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. You also asked me if I would willing to donate one of my kidneys.
Shell told me she was in the doctor's office with you during the diagnosis, and the doctor told you that you were 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 about a year. Don’t worry, you were only confused for short amounts of time. We would clarify and you would stare into space for a while and then say “shit.. it happened again.”
A few days later we spoke and you told me you had decided to refuse dialysis which 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.
The next day I woke up to a message saying that you had been moved overnight to a temporary Hospice facility and they were looking for somewhere more long term, which made me realize that your health was declining quicker than expected.
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 caretaker, 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 that I was coming.
I didn’t want you to feel like I was abandoning my dreams for you. I didn’t want you to try to refuse it. But I had to come home to be with you… you’re the reason I’m here anyway. You made my body with yours, and now your body had reached its limit. How could I not come home?
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 had a lot of time to myself 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 birthday party for me and all of my friends. The zoo party, teacup party and luau party stick out the most. And how we always had some sort of arts and crafts going on in the house depending on what season it was. Leaf books in the fall, and snow cream in the winter. And spending hours in the summer catching ladybugs on the porch and lightning bugs in the front yard. And how you taught me to swim by throwing me off of the boat at High Rock Lake.
And 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. And how when I brought my first boyfriend home in high school and you didn’t care that he wasn’t white. “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 friend's parents wouldn’t have reacted like that. And how when my best friend was struggling with coming out to her parents and you gave her words of encouragement and love.
I could go on and on with stories like that, but I don’t want to dilute our story too much. Like the time that you and dad got divorced and I didn’t see you for a while. Not all times were good or easy but I could always depend on your fairness and open-mindedness. Thanks to you, I now 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.
Dad picked me up from the airport on Thursday and after I bought a change of clothes and took a shower, I went straight to see you. You’d be proud of Dad, I asked Dad not to tell his side of the family that I was home and he actually didn’t. 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 wildflowers from your favorite place to ride the golf cart.
I didn’t tell many people I was coming home. 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 Rahn 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 her boxer Remy, who’s a certified therapy dog if you didn’t know. She still talks about how you called her after overthinking something you had said to her about him. Dad came to see you at Hospice when he brought Chase. I did drink too much one night and called Tate and Lucas to tell them. They came and met me downtown and told them about you, I know they always had a special place in your heart.
When I walked in, 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, is one of my aunt's longtime friends.
My heart sank, down below 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 into my eyes... I leaned in close, maybe you just couldn’t see me without your glasses on. 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…”
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. 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. We watched the last season of The Walking Dead together, even though you slept through most of it. Your older sister Trisha stayed with you every single night, they even gave her a room to herself.
I took the golf cart down to the river a lot to pass the time and would spend hours watching the water flow past. When I was there with you I would feed you sips of chocolate milkshakes, put my headphones on you and blast Led Zepplin. I would wash your hair. But most of the time you slept.
I was in the country for nine days before you stopped breathing, peacefully in your bed. We had all just eaten dinner together, and Shell and I were about to head back to Hospice to spend the night. And then we got the call from Trisha. I was sitting in your old room and heard Shell start crying, asking why you didn’t wait for her because you had died right after we left.
The next day we got a call from the crematory saying they had picked you up that night and needed payment. Go figure the wrong freaking crematory picked your body up that day. We agreed your mouth would have dropped open, you would have rolled your eyes and laughed.
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, I and your two sisters went to your favorite restaurant in Winston-Salem and ate outside, all in a daze.
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. But we seem to conditioned to only discuss 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 lose them. You gave me the best life possible, to all of your capabilities, sacrificed a hell of a lot. 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.
The number of people that reached out and asked about a service was overwhelming. Your old students, friends you had in college, colleagues, neighbors, you name it, all wanted to gather together in your honor. Shell and I must have told over fifty people that you didn’t want there to be any sort of ceremony, and we had them donate to Hospice in your name. My coworkers reached out, friends who I had lost contact with, people in Albania, Vanuatu, all over the United States. Everyone was devastated that you had died because most people didn’t know you were sick. It was hard for Shell for a while, telling people that there wasn’t a ceremony. I think she felt like it would help with the grief.
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. Nothing here reminds me of you, except where we used to have our video calls. I find myself thinking “This has happened. This is real. You went to the States and your mom has died” to myself sometimes.
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. Thanks to the Peace Corps I was able to see you before you died. I’m not quite sure what other organization would have flown me across the world to be with you during this time.
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, 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 laughing at or call bullshit on. I think of you when two of my best friends told me about their engagement. One of their families isn’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 foosball 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 friend's 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.
