Life Without Mother

**WARNING: May get a tad graphic. In short, I cut my finger. After opening line, skip second paragraph**

Dear Mom,

So, you’ll never believe what happened on my last day as a 22-year-old. Actually, that’s false. I’m a Jones. You’ll totally believe this.

I sliced my finger open. The left index finger. Blood just kept pouring out. At first, I was like, dang. What just happened? Oh, wait, blood. I have to clean the blood off. Ran to the sink. Still bleeding. But wait, I have to stop the bleeding first! Ran to my bathroom sink, holding my finger bent to keep the skin together. What will stop it?? Pressure. Okay, but it’s still bleeding! A rag! Sad day because I had to ruin one of my nice rags. Put the rag over the gash and held my finger tightly bent. Finally stopped bleeding after about twenty minutes. Would try to start back up if I tried to extend my finger. Of course, I have no good first aid supplies in my apartment — not very intelligent of me considering I am, in fact, a Jones — so I simply had to use some of my filtered water to clean it and a simple dollar-store band-aid I had from my Christmas gag-gifts. I think we’re good now. In calling a local friend about it, I couldn’t help but laugh (and then told her I called so she could check-in and make sure I didn’t pass out).

Anyway, I remember that time when I was little and cut my finger when trying to cut an apple. You and I laughed over that one then as well because I tried using the wrong kind of knife. Apparently my main coping mechanism to pain is laughter…? I would say it has largely been a coping strategy throughout the past four years. Especially with those “dead mom” jokes.. I found a friend who also makes those from her own situation of loss. I think you would’ve liked her. She’s coming to visit me next weekend for Mother’s Day weekend. I told her “we can be motherless together in New York City!” Have you met her mom up there? Probably.

But, I wanted to say, I remember so many times when you were there for my (many) injuries. The cut finger, the broken arm, the multiple soccer-related injuries. So patient. Great humor about it. Like when Dad called you from that soccer game only five minutes in and your immediate response was, “Which hospital do I go to?” Of course, it wasn’t that bad, but that just shows my injury rate. Well, I’ve gone four years without any major physical injury — it only makes sense I would do something like this the day before my birthday. Like those three consecutive years that I had the injuries before or right after my birthday to where I was on crutches or out with a concussion. Fun times.

So many of the good times with you were during those times — necessary rides to school due to crutches, trips to the grocery store because I simply could not stay cooped up in the house with my concussion for one more minute, countless doctors and physical therapist appointments. All of the car rides that I remember so readily. Jamming out to Moriah Peters, Newsboys, Casting Crown, and so many others. Conversations, shallow and deep. I even miss the silent car rides when we were frustrated at each other. Such tension requires someone’s presence.

I am learning to be content to wait until we see each other again. Maybe not as patiently as you did in the midst of our injuries. But, still learning.

Your daughter,
Hannah