June 15, 1993

Twenty four years ago today my mom died.  In many ways there is nothing else to say.  Much of that day has faded.  I don’t think of mom every day.  I haven’t for a long time.  For some reason, this year it carries more weight. 

Mom had a mastectomy when I was in tenth grade.  At some point after recovery she was declared cancer free.  It was only a few years later a lump appeared on her neck close to her collarbone.  Shortly thereafter, dad’s job required him to move.  My parents didn’t want to do this but with a preexisting medical condition, there was no choice.     

Mom’s last days came quickly.  We visited on Valentine’s Day and mom enjoyed time with her two month old granddaughter.  Mom loved her grandchildren.  She was normal during that visit.  She fussed over meals she prepared, keeping the house clean how and she herself looked.  She wore a wig that was close to her hair color.  I know she felt self-conscious about wearing it. 

About a month before her death, one of the vertebra in mom’s neck collapsed. Not too long after this, mom woke one night to use the bathroom.  After washing her hands she pivoted on her left leg and her femur snapped.  At this point I was sure the end was near but dad continued in thinking they just needed to build her back up and she’d be ok. 

I took many days off to visit her.  The last time I saw her I made it a point to discuss her mortality.  Neither of us was very comfortable with the discussion but I knew in my heart I had to say things or I would forever regret not saying them.  When I said goodbye that day I knew I had to be by her bedside when died. 

A week or so later mom left the hospital to go home.  Hospice would begin visiting her.  On the way home, a bird flew in front of the car and dad hit it with the car.  He was certain he killed it.  It was an omen.  My oldest sibling died when he was three months old.  The day he died, a bird flew into the window above his crib and died.  There have been other similar omens in my family since.

I received the call from dad that mom wasn’t doing well.  I pondered traveling again to be with her but I realized it was still early June and I had nearly used up all of vacation, holidays and sick time.  I made the decision to not travel this time.  At the last minute, my brother and sister-in-law drove up to be with mom and dad. 

My brother called early to next morning to give me the news.  He said mom fought for each breath.  She had much to live for.  My daughter turned seven months old that day and my sister was due to deliver in a few weeks.  Mom loved her grandbabies and wanted to be with them.  I advised I would get on the earliest flight I could and advise when I would arrive.  Then I called my wife, who was in Florida visiting her parents.  Finally, I called work to advise of mom’s death.  Once all that was done, I felt very alone in the empty apartment.  My soul wanted someone with which to share this burden but there was no one. 

During the flight I wondered how dad was.  How would he act when I arrived?  To my relief, he acted as I expected.  In my family, we tell stories.  As early as I can remember, we would visit family and the adults sat at the table sipping coffee, smoking cigarettes, telling stories and laughing.  Typically, I sat with them and listened.  While everyone had quit smoking by this time, everything else about my family was normal.  Perhaps it is a defense mechanism but we laugh in the face of death.  Five years ago during a late night vigil around my grandma’s bed, my sister, a cousin and I had stomach pains from laughter.  Don’t get me wrong, we all freely cry if it is needed but humor is heightened.  My grandma loved to laugh and her laughter was so infectious.  We often said she stuck around a little longer to enjoy our laughter. 

I have never seen my dad cry but my brother told me after they took mom’s body, which was before I arrived, he sat on the couch with arms at his side and sobbed.  He didn’t care and made no effort to hide his tears. 

The night my mom died, I was the last in bed.  Everyone else had been up more than twenty four hours and retired early.  I began shutting off lights before going to bed and I wondered what could be going through dad’s mind while in the bed his wife died in mere hours before.  I switched off the light in the kitchen which darkened the whole house.  I knew how to navigate the house in the dark and wasn’t concerned by this.  However, while retrieving my hand from the switch, I knocked a glass to the floor and it shattered.  Instantly, my dad called out, “Nancy!”

I felt horrible.  In the darkness, I said, “It’s just me dad.  I knocked over a glass.  I’ll clean it up.”  He never replied.  None was needed. 

Five years later I was visiting my dad and we discussed that fateful day.  He asked me how he acted.  I said just the way I expected him to act.  Then he told me he remembers nothing after mom died until the funeral other than I drove him to the town where mom is buried.  He didn’t remember how I got to the house.  I just suddenly was there.  I advised him on the basic details. 

Then he told me the night after mom died, she was standing next to the bed.  He saw her but then she was gone and he remembered calling her name.  Again, I felt terrible as I told him what happened to cause mom to leave his side.  I realize I may not have caused mom to leave.  Maybe she wasn’t really there.  We will never know this side of heaven.