envy upon hearing another mother’s carefree laughter with her friends. Of feeling the hatred of the woman whom Josh will marry after I am gone, who will live in the home that I designed and have the honor of raising my beautiful children, who will hang her dresses in my closet, who will steal the life that should have been mine. Of feeling the sadness at the thought of Mia sitting in her weekly violin lesson without me there for her to glance at once in a while for reassurance and encouragement. Of worrying and planning and more worrying and more planning. This is the text of an email that I wrote to Mia’s violin teacher, a manifestation of my sadness, worry, and planning:
Hi A,
I think I told you at some point that I have metastatic cancer, incurable and likely terminal. When you told us this week about your violin teacher and how she got you through the first 7 years of your violin life before she died of cancer, it was obvious how much she meant to you and no doubt how much you meant to her. Anyhow, it got me thinking, so just bear with me as you read this.
While everyone tells me I need to be positive, I’m a realist and a planner. You are so young so probably some of what I say won’t resonate with you yet, but I will do my best to explain. What makes me the saddest about dying is the thought of Mia learning during her lessons and me not sitting right next to her, watching her. The thought of her performing on a bigger stage and me not being there in the front row to cheer her on breaks my heart into a million little pieces. The image of her practicing by herself without me there to push and yell and demand and hug and teach (not the violin but about life) both worries and saddens me. Who will and can replace me? Who can nurture her musically and otherwise as I can? The answer is no one. No one can possibly love my children as much as I do, not even their father. So the best thing I can do is to line up as many people as I can to be there for them in the different aspects of their lives. That’s what I want to talk to you about.
While Mia’s father is very musically talented, he works a lot and I don’t see him fulfilling the music role left empty by my death. What I’m asking of you is for you—as much as you are able—to take Mia under your wing, to look out for her musically, to guide her and push her when she needs it, to advise her in getting into music programs and, if/when the time comes, find a new teacher for her.
I know Mia has musical talent, how much I really don’t know. It doesn’t really matter to me how much talent she has. What matters is that she develops the talent she has. I don’t want it to go to waste. Plus, I think she really enjoys playing and likes to perform. She’s one of those people that keeps her feelings to herself, which I don’t think is a healthy coping mechanism. It is my hope that music becomes an emotional outlet for her, a way for her to deal with the grief from my loss and the other hardships that will inevitably come into her life.
How much you want to and can help Mia is of course up to you. I will understand if you can’t do much at all beyond the weekly lessons. But if you want to be more involved in her life and get to know us better, the invitation is always out there. We live right around the corner from the school. Mia likes you, and obviously you are good at relating to little girls.
So thanks for having taught Mia as much as you have (and me, too). You’ve no idea, but the lessons are a highlight of my week. I always wanted a musical education, but my parents were too poor to give me one. And thanks for reading all this and putting up with my emotional outburst.
It is because of my jealousy and hate and worry and love that I have threatened Josh with murder from the grave if he were to ever favor future children over our children, even monetarily. I