“Who Said I Was Ready?”

There’s no such thing as preparation, at least not for your mother’s death. No matter how sick or hurt or even expected, the loss brings an emptiness, a shifting, unlike any prior experience.  It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact feeling, but it’s a spinning, groundless sensation—like you’re numb but still moving.

Some believe when a mother lives to a “ripe, old age” there exists some sort of contentment.  “Well, you’re lucky!  My mother died at __ age.” Maybe in theory, ten years removed, a person could objectively analyze someone’s good fortune at having a mother for longer,  but it’s not a comparable entity.  The hard truth is your mother is irreplaceable.  Put bluntly, “You could set your mother on fire, and she’d still love you.” That’s hard to come by.

My Mom was my home, in so many ways.  Since our military family moved frequently, Wye Lane was more than where I grew up.  Besides memories, it was where I always found love, comfort, familiarity, laughter, and sometimes, banter (Mom and I would disagree at times, but I knew she still loved me…even if she thought she’d messed up somewhere in teaching me).  She had a hug that warmed you—you’d linger just to prolong it, but my favorite was her hands.  They were strong and soft at the same time, giving you something to hold onto (Mom taught us about firm handshakes) but at the same time providing pure gentleness.  As we got older, I only got the chance to experience it when we were in church.  Maybe I should’ve insisted on it.

I could sit with her at the table in the mornings (when she was healthier), and we’d drink our tea while she did the crossword puzzle, only asking for help if she’d exasperated every possible avenue at finding the answer.  I knew as she got sicker, to be quiet in the morning because she didn’t feel well, but soon enough, she’d start talking.  She loved to drive her bills to their destinations, not trusting the mail to do the job.  It made me laugh–and discuss alternatives with her–but the trips were enjoyable, and we usually got lunch while we were out. In the evenings, we’d sit in the recliners watching Blue Bloods or, if you were unlucky that day, a recording of nuns saying the rosary (don’t judge; it was the same one every time).  She’d show you pictures or interesting posts on her iPad, paint beautiful pictures on an art app, or do crossword games.

When she was healthier, she’d come stay with us to take care of the kids, so we could go to a military event.  It was pretty much the only way to get her to visit after Dad passed away.  She’d come off the plane completely nauseous, so I’d have some ginger ale on ice (only Canada Dry, thank you).  I loved to have her there to show her the picturesque places and enjoy her company.  She would’ve loved where we live now—it’s sad she was never well enough to travel here.

Mom could always manage anything and everything.  I remember as a child going to the commissary with her.  She’d figure out the most economical purchases to cover the week’s meals, all the while showing you how to calculate the better deal.  And the coupons!  She’d plan and pack for family trips, coordinate and cook meals at St. John’s, family picnics—you name it…Mom handled it.  One of the times she was watching the kids while we were away, and Pat had his first lacrosse game.  He ended up with a kidney shot, so she took him to the E.R. and then to the store to buy padding (who knew you needed padding; isn’t that something they’d share at practice??).  She never called!  And, because the salesperson “was so nice”, Mom sent her a fruit arrangement.  I couldn’t talk her down from it…

She was sentimental to an extreme, keeping gifts people had given her well past the time when they were useful or prudent.  She’d say, “What if they come over, and I’ve just thrown it away?!”  She was generous with her time, money, talents, and heart. She’d go out of her way to acknowledge kindnesses, and she would let you know if you were being unkind.  She’d leave money in envelopes taped to the inside covers of the trash and recycle bins for the guys emptying them, yet we also tracked a fellow motorist around downtown Charleston because the driver made the mistake of giving Ma the middle finger.  The lady helplessly looked on as Mom let her know she “ought to be ashamed of herself,” and so on:)  I was a bit concerned for our welfare.

Mom experienced and accomplished so many things.  On one of my latest birthday or Mother’s Day cards, I listed the multitude of achievements she had realized.  She said, “It sounds like I’m bragging.”  Of course, I had to point out that I had written the card:)  We moved in the military with two children, and it was quite an adventure at times.  Mom did it with eight and added two for good measure.

I could go on forever, but what will I miss most?  All of it.  I used to call her most nights.  Then, she wasn’t well enough to talk on the phone, so I could only talk if visiting.  Then, she wasn’t feeling well enough to talk while you were there.  It was a progression of loss.  You think it’s best for her if she’s not in pain anymore.  You think you’re somewhat prepared. But you’re not.  When she takes her last breath, you’re shocked and devastated, reeling from the realization that the one who loves you most is gone.

I’m telling you: there’s no preparation.

“You dance secretly inside my heart, where no one else can see.”