Remembrance
All the great authors say that writing about loss and pain can be cathartic. Here goes.
I lost my mom a few weeks back to a battle I didn’t expect. She celebrated 79 years on this earth on May 18, the same day she returned from a trip with the sniffles and a sore throat. In the matter of a few days those symptoms lead to an infection and onto pneumonia. Attentive ones may remember me mentioning such in my column a month back when I spoke of her recovery which I thought was in the making…it did not come.
My siblings and I have since shed many tears (as I tear up writing this now), sleepless nights, and small bouts of anguish. It’s all part of the grieving process. We know. We’ve been there. Three years ago this week we lost our father on June 28 and buried him six days later on July 3 right before a somber Fourth of July. I don’t remember much about that Independence Day and I guarantee the one forthcoming won’t be that memorable either except for its physical absence of my mom.
The summer holidays were usually spent at mom’s where she would buy every meat known to man to suit everybody’s varying tastebuds. It was steaks for Jacob and Mr. Willie, shrimp for Robyn, alligator for Ronnie, and others could find delight among salmon, ribs, and burgers. It was always a given and if you didn’t rsvp, you could certainly expect a call or two.
I really miss her calls. They were often and plentiful. Sometimes with stuff you wanted to hear and, for me, many times with unsolicited advice about parenting. My sisters and I often commented amongst ourselves how mom’s conversation content would be repetitive—on purpose. Boy what we wouldn’t give for one of them now.
If she called and you didn’t answer mom would leave messages asking where you were and why are you not answering. When my kids got older and got cell phones, if she couldn’t reach me she would proceed down the line to Robyn and then Jacob. She was right by Jacob’s side a few months ago when he laid eyes upon his iphone for the very first time. He beamed with excitement as she smiled knowing she had another resource to add to her list.
The grieving process is strange in many ways. One day an uplifting memory can make you giggle and that same uplifting memory on another day can make you sad. My parents were Christians, God-loving people who shared many truths about life with us. “As sure as you are born, you shall die so get your soul right,” they would tell us.
The grieving process with my father began long before he was pronounced dead. He had been ill and declining in health, in and out of the hospitals, briefly on dialysis, and undergone a few amputations in the years leading to his demise. It gave me, us, time to mentally and spiritually come to terms as much as one can with the physical loss that was barrelling our way.
That drawn out process we had with our father, as painful as it was, eluded us with our mother. Two weeks of up and down illness and then no more. I was the last one to see her alive, aside for medical personnel maybe. I find myself thinking that if I had stayed longer at her bedside that night she would have stayed longer too. I wonder too if she could sense what was to come only hours later then why didn’t she warn me. She raised all of us to be strong, I could’ve handled it. But she also raised us not to question God’s work.
The first 24 hours were of shock and disbelief for us. Then it quickly shifted to planning mode. If you knew anything about my mom, you know she was vocal about her wishes, she liked what she liked and her dislikes were the same. Planning the service was one thing, getting through it was another. But I can truly say it reflected her personality—joyful and full of life.
The hardest part thus far has been knowing I won’t see or touch her on this earth again. Trust and believe that I have countless videos and voicemails to keep me company when I need to hear her voice but it can’t replace seeing her. I spent most of the day of the viewing at the funeral home because I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I know it sounds a bit morbid but that was my mom. Jacob couldn’t take it so I sent him home with some family and I gave Robyn the chance to go as well but she insisted on staying with her mother who insisted on staying with her mother until she couldn’t.
The time, five hours, at the funeral home was very calming. I had endless views of the picture montage which literally took me through my entire life. Being there also gave me the opportunity to see the people who came to pay their last respects. Some were family I hadn’t seen in months/years, some were family I didn’t know I had, some were people mom encountered in everyday life, some were acquaintances of my siblings and I—it was a lot of people with a lot of memories. That was heartwarming.
The toughest part of the “putting her to rest” process was the actual putting her to rest at the cemetery. Mom had been very specific about where she wished to be laid to rest. She wanted to be with her parents in the cemetery behind her childhood church, a place as her children we all knew well because she took us there often.