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.
