Today is a very difficult day for me. It has been for twenty-two years. Time does NOT heal all wounds. I wish my mother could have met my husband, my children, my friends. I wish she could have shared in all my "growing pains" that have made me ...me. I am grateful for all my gifts; the people who love me, those that have taught me and those who help me; reminding me to laugh every day.
But there are days like today....days I wish....
Getting ready for work on that Saturday started like most others in our buzzing home. I was up before my folks and was almost finished curling my hair. At sixteen, beautifying took skill meticulous preparation and privacy. I heard my father begin to stir and noticed he was being loud and slamming things around. “How rude!” I thought, “He’ll wake Mom.”
He appeared in the doorway almost panting. He looked confused. With the curling iron held high on my head I smiled. “Good morning? Or just morning?” He dug his toe into the basil colored carpet. Gripping the door jam with both hands he took the biggest breath I’ve ever heard; the biggest of his life. “I think your mother died last night. I think she’s dead. Your mom.”
I stared at him as the rest of his breath fell from his mouth in a sob, draining his heart. I winced as if pinched and quietly muttered “no”. I looked away, ashamed to watch this tiny, frightened man standing in my noble father’s stead. He reached for me. “Help me. What do we do?” He almost wailed. I backed away from him as if he were diseased, shaking my head in slow disbelief, pulling the curling iron from the wall socket. It fell to the floor absently. “Help me.” He choked and reached for me again. I let him catch me. I allowed him to make this nightmare truth. We clung to each other and held each other up. My world broke. My heart fell and shattered, lying next to that neglected curling iron.
We called the hospital and they sent some people who thumped on my mother’s chest trying to give hope, life, but she was gone. The wheels mourned and wailed as the stretcher paraded past me carrying a dead woman. Its railing angrily bit the wall leaving an ugly scar. I felt cut, wounded. “Shouldn’t we dress her? She’ll be warmer in this.” I produced her favorite sweatshirt. The dark angels escorting my mother smiled wanly “She’s not cold Honey. Not anymore.” I caught my breath and held it as if it were my last. I pulled her shirt to me, desperately trying to absorb everything about her: her smell, her life, and her ticklish toes. It all seemed contained in that shirt. But in reality, they were merely echoes softly heard as compared to just the night before when my mother was alive.
I love you Mom and I miss what could have been; even now.
Better days.
