Remembering Mom

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Sitting next to Mom, with sister Suzie.

I don't remember when Dad took this picture of me sitting next to my mom on the front porch steps. Life was quite normal back then, so normal this moment escapes me. But I love to look at it because it reminds me of days long ago.

Saturday, February 6, was Mom's anniversary of death. For some reason, this anniversary was harder than usual. Memories of Mom kept flooding my mind: of her sitting on the edge of my bed, running her fingers through my hair as I told her about my day; helping me sew my first 4-H project, teaching me how to ride Black Satin, showing me middle C on the piano and helping me learn little songs. 

I used to call Mom regularly once a week, on weekends. It started back when I got a cell phone and minutes on the weekend were free. 

As the years sped by, my weekly phone calls became such a ritual that Mom would call me if I missed one, "just to check in" she would say. She never said a discouraging word when I won a scholarship to travel to France alone. It wasn't until my two months were over, and I was about to return that she admitted, "I'll be so happy when you are back on American soil."

In January of 2013, Mom got a frog in her throat that persisted. She complained that she was exhausted, and was having more pain. Then, talking to my nephew on his birthday, I learned that Mom had not left the house for over a month. Alarms went up in my brain. That was not Mom. I decided right then and there I was going to make the 7-hour trip home that day to check on her. "She just has a cold or something," said my brother who lived across from Mom assured me. I wasn't assured.

As soon as I walked into her living room, I knew Mom's time was limited. I called my brother and sister over to talk about her care, and Mom got pretty upset with me. "I don't need you interfering in my life," she told me. 

I still wanted to stay with Mom just a little longer, a week or so. Mom wasn't eating properly. She had moved to sleep on the couch because "I'm sweating so much I don't want to ruin the mattress." My daughter's heart was drawn to care for her. She wouldn't have it.

That morning before I left. Mom sat on her stool, and I squatted down next to her. "Let me stay the week," I pleaded, tears flowing. I'd never seen her so frail and thin. I wasn't sure I'd ever see her alive again. "No," she said, taking my hand and patting it gently. I was due to be with my sister the next day as she was having surgery. "Go stay with your sister. She needs you more than I do." I broke down and cried. I couldn't help it.

As I made the long drive home, Michael Bolton was playing on my car CD player. As love songs came on, scenes of happy childhood days flashed through my mind. The tears flowed freely as I heard words about "I don't know how I will live without you, I don't know how I will survive without your love," and "your love's so beautiful in every way, your love's so beautiful we let it slip away," and the hardest, "In the arms of love, heaven's just a heartbeat away." The words went straight to my heart.

I stayed with my sister through her surgery, and then returned to Graduate school. Mom died within the month, but not before every one of my brothers and sisters made it home to see her one last time. I'm grateful we all had a chance to say goodbye, to spend personal time with her. 

I couldn't play that particular Michael Bolton CD for years. Every time those songs came on that moment driving home would flashback.

If you have lost a parent you loved, you will understand my story. Once both parents are gone, a certain feel comes over you, like being orphaned. I've never felt as loved by anyone as I did by my parents.

One day I hope to write about it all. Until then, I remember.


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