To you who thinks you have time.

I've had all this time: March 5th - June 23rd. Time to think. Time to reflect. Time for What. the fuck? moments. Time. Time that I was never guaranteed with her. So why did I behave like I would have time? What. the fuck?  I've already thought all this before, when he died.  What didn't I learn?

This is how I've been dealing: I've been gathering  fragments of my relationship with Karen; some are dull and some are like the sun.  I try to access those dull fragments because it must be in those moments that I missed something; a lesson, a word, a look, a kiss, a prolonged "i love you."  I try to deconstruct all these moments so they become vivid, bright, uncharacteristically taking up space in my brain but unfortunately some of them stay the same. They stay idle and frozen and don't go anywhere but linger in the land of questions and letting go. Questions will forever be unanswered and my delusion of her living as long as her hopes were endless shatter over and over and over, like a scratched CD. 

I wonder if she felt shattered like I did.  She was too smart for denial and too hopeful for disclosure of fate.  After every conversation with her, I'd think, I've got time.  If I even had to think that than I surely didn't have time.  "I've got time:" its like a scientific hypothesis that proves wrong at the end of your research and hard work.  What did I miss?  I trace the avenues of conversations and handholding and back scratching and playing with my hair and hugs and tears she wiped away that led me to this moment without her.  Surely there is a concept I have overlooked?  These questions keep me staring at the ceiling on quiet nights when nobody is looking.   

My last conversation with her was two weeks before she died. When I hung up the phone and placed it on my kitchen counter it read: "Karen Allard HOME: 1:27."  I thought about taking a screenshot of my phone because something felt different; a little ache inside knew that would be the last time that her name would light up my phone.  I didn't listen to that ache.  

One hour and 27 minutes wasn't long enough for us: we could have kept talking; kept giggling and gossiping and apologizing and dreaming. 

I told her I was sorry; sorry for not being more physically present. 

She said she understood. 

I told her I couldn't relive this. 

She told me to stop. 

I told her it hurts too much to feel a death that feels like another mom. 

She told me she already knew this, that apologies were unnecessary, that she doesn't blame me. She said, it's not like I love you any less because you can't stand to see me die.

There was a long silence, piercing and heavy, where we listened to one another swallow tears in between breaths.  

I wish this was easier for me, I told her.  I wish, for my sake, I could deal with this differently.  

I could already feel the predator of regret.  

I wrote these notes on the day she died: March 5, 2013:

I have long talks in the hot tub with her.
I have prom pictures with her.
I have parent night at volleyball and basketball with her.
I have these cards from her that tell me I don't have to be so strong all the time.
I have her, "Bre, you need to eat something more than just chips and pop.  What can I make for you?"
I have random stop-ins at her work - the time I skateboarded 6 miles in 90 degree heat and she worried restlessly at her desk until she heard my voice on the other line telling her I made it home and I'm not dying from heat stroke.  
I have her conversations with my other mom-by-choice, teaming up on how to best raise me and get me out of a situation that was swallowing me whole.
I have her house key.
I have our family nights in her living room where gossip was shared and lectures were had.
I have meals.  So many meals sitting at her table where she encouraged me to drink milk.
I have her laughter at my half drank cans of pop.
I have her ring she gifted me the day before a trial that had me questioning every belief and strength I claimed to have.  The ring now sits next to my mother's wedding ring on my middle finger of left hand.
I have my Christmas stocking hanging on her front closet door.
I have my "I'm pregnant" conversation (the fourth person I told), the one where her voice became but a whisper, and she verbalized her worry, concealing her excitement.
I have her, one of the first visitors to see Bean on the day she was born.  She kissed my forehead and complained about the traffic and tears welled up in my eyes when I saw her stare into my daughter's eyes - grateful she was here but painfully wanting my mom to be able to do the same.
I have her hugs. The hugs that didn't release until I was ready.
I have the night I bombarded Nicole's room while she was reading her a bedtime story, all I said was "I'm sorry" and collapsed into her arms.  No explanation was needed - I just couldn't take my life and she was my security.
I have a day spent in bed with her, watching trash TV while everyone else was at work or school.
I have her adoration for my dog, who she selflessly allowed to tramp through her house for weeks on end while I drifted through homes and never once asked me to remove him.  Or buy dog food.
I have Target trips.
I have her hand that held mine; in the car or on the couch.
I have her cheesecake bites in the freezer.
I have the evening I made my mom's "famous chicken dish" and she and Scott and I ate a meal in remembrance of her.  She told me it'd be better with real mashed potatoes, and Scott said, "Or rice."
I have the guilt of the bracelet I made for her with Matt, Tawny, Nicole's and my birthstones on it.  I told her I shouldn't have put my birthstone in it, and she said, "I wouldn't have accepted it if your birthstone wasn't on it."
I have the blanket she crafted out of fleece to try and replace my ratty old baby blanket (nice try Karen, it didn't work!)
I have the conversation, after crying and complaining about my other mom-of-choice, in which she told me that i need to give her the same respect I give her, because, she said, We are both just here to love you. 
I have Shirley, the school principal, putting her as my guardian and emergency contact, even though she wasn't my guardian but most definitely my emergency contact. 
I have summer nights sitting on the porch and talking about stars and weather.
I have our conversation in which she asked if I was making the right decision in ending my relationship with Bean's daddy, and when I said, "I don't know," she said, "Well, you don't have to know right now.  You will figure it out."
I have her whisper, "You aren't smoking cigarettes are you?" after Scott's death.
I have my last conversation with her, when she told me the gossip I've been missing out on, the heartache she felt when she heard there were no treatments left, the optimism that she would make it through the summer to see her next grandbaby, the excitement that I have a partner that I work well with and who she desperately wanted to meet, the forgiveness that I became absent after her diagnosis, the update on Sophie's behaviors sine Scott had died, her disappointment in not being able to eat the foods she loved, her messy house that she felt embarrassed of, her pride in Nicole for going back to school, the awe in Tawny for taking on the task of raising a new family all while watching her family change drastically, and the faith that Matt would find his way through all this pain and her absolute confidence he would be the greatest dad, just like Scott.

And I have this, this most powerfully human moment in her hospital room:
She was intoxicated on morphine and pain. She was already, nearly dead - mostly incoherent and somewhere only those close to knowing death knows.  I got close to her face because I wanted her to see only me.  "Karen," I said, "It's me, Bre."  She opened her eyes and lifted her right hand up to my cheek and touched my hair that fell in front of my eyes; she stroked my cheek as I spoke.  She needed to feel the tangible presence of who was speaking to her.  "Karen, I just want to thank you" I said, "I'm not who I am without you.  I don't know where I'd be without you.  You have been my mom and I love you and I'll miss you and I hate this.  I hate this so much but I love you."  She made a noise, as if tears were going to fall, and she mouthed the words "Oh honey" to me.  I dropped from her view because I didn't want her to see me anymore, I didn't want her to feel sadness for me or with me.  I just wanted her to be on her journey of letting go and for once, not worry about me.  She fell quickly back to that place of unknowing and I sobbed heavily on the side of her bed while Matt and Branna sat silently wiping their own tears.   

I have these moments.  They may be small moments but they complete my life, fill the holes, band-aid the scars, and stitched my heart.  Although her heartbeat no longer makes music with my own; these moments compose a quiet symphony of strength that I rely on daily.  

Matt, Tawny, and Nicole, 

I don't have the memories that you have of trips to the park as a child, Christmas' gathered around the tree, your long car rides accompanied by long talks, doctor's visits, or even your fights.  I don't have those moments of your first days in daycare or school when you missed her so fiercely you thought you'd explode of sheer loneliness.  I don't have every single family dinner that she proudly placed on the table nearly EVERY night or the tears you silently shared with her in the most unbearably sad moments.  I don't have the stories she read to you before bed or the worried look on her face when you came home after curfew.  I don't have the moments that you saw her shed tears and the helplessness you felt in wanting to erase her sadness.  I don't have your first driving lessons in the car - oh but I can imagine!  I don't have these moments of tenderness because I have others that were designed for me.  This post is meant for me but it's meant for everyone who reads this and especially for you three - my family through her...
I know what you feel missing her daily.  I know your struggle, your confusion, your sheer and utter anger.  I know the desperateness, the loneliness, despair, and frustration.  But I also know, that if I hadn't of allowed myself to grow close to your mom after my own mom died than I wouldn't have known peace, serenity, understanding, and letting go.  I wouldn't have known that it's okay to miss but also to grow close to another even though I take the risk of losing and loving someone all over again.  I hope you allow yourselves, when you're ready, to allow someone to love you as your mom loved me because she has been one of the greatest gifts this Universe has given me.