Longing

Around this time of year, I always feel an unexplained source of longing, an ache, a heaviness. I can’t figure it out until the Mother’s Day ads and articles appear on my news feed on Facebook. Mom.

This article says if I had spent more time with her, maybe she’d still be alive.  If I had done this, if I had done that, maybe. It’s hard to say. When she was alive, it was difficult to call her. I’d hear the heavy pain and alcohol in her voice. She’d make no sense. She’d lash out.

I’ll never forget her last Mother’s Day. I wasn’t with her. I was thousands of miles away, living the business of my life. I was going to call her on Sunday. I kept reminding myself. But I forgot. Or did I? Was I avoiding it for the above reasons?

A week after Mother’s Day, I got the call. She was in the hospital, they didn’t know what was wrong with her. But she was getting better. I didn’t need to come. But I knew something was really wrong. I trusted their words that she was going to be fine. I clung to hope.

I couldn’t call her at that time. There were no cell phones and her room didn’t have a phone.

Then I got the other call. My sister told me the nurse said, “If it was my mother, I’d come now.” She was clinging to life. This was it.

We took an overnight flight. We arrived red-eyed and full of angst as we sat over breakfast preparing for what we’d see. I was worried about me too, how I’d handle seeing her, what she’d look like, would she be conscious? Would I have a nervous breakdown?

We arrived at the hospital, cautiously walking through the ICU, shocked and sickened by the droves of people attached to tubes and machines, eyes vacant, bodies casted and paralyzed, loved ones touching their faces, trying to communicate.

Then I saw her, eyes closed, a giant, light-blue crinkly tube coming out of her mouth. Her skin was yellow, but she looked peaceful, sleeping. Whew. Not as bad as I thought. I don’t know what I was expecting.

The hours that followed were difficult and tumultuous. She went in and out of seizures, her eyes suddenly flashing open and closed, mouth flailing. They attended to her quickly and brought them to a sudden stop. I overheard a nurse saying they gave her Ativan. I wondered if she was afraid.

As we watched her take her last breaths, the heart monitor beeped, quickly going slower and slower. We each approached her to say our good-byes, and then her heart rate stayed, then beeped slowly down until the next person came, then stayed. I told her to be brave and strong, that I would be brave and strong for her.

Her body was ice-cold to the touch just minutes after she passed. Her skin was rubbery. Her face was grey and shrivelled, deep red blood caked around her open mouth. This was not the mother I knew. She wouldn’t want me staring at her decaying body like this, focusing on her appearance. I remember she said when she was alive that she didn’t want an open casket, that she wanted to be cremated, she didn’t want people staring at her. She would tell me stories of when her mother was in the hospital and didn’t want anyone to see her unwaxed moustache.

I turned away. My sister told me of how she washed Mom’s hair several days before and the look on her face was pure bliss. That I would have liked to see.

Years after this day, the guilt plagued me of not calling her that final Mother’s Day. Guilt for not having flown earlier to see her when she was somewhat lucid, not trusting my instincts. But one day my oldest nephew said to me, “You just weren’t meant to be there at that time.” Maybe it would  have been to difficult for me to see her vacant eyes, although she was seeing, she wasn’t there. It would be have been difficult for me to hear her singing a haunting song, telling me she saw Jesus standing at the end of her bed. It wasn’t meant to be.

Accepting that things aren’t meant to be is a huge part of life, and death. Accepting that we are not in control of our or someone else’s destiny is difficult. We want to be in control, and make decisions every day to maintain that.

I don’t know what my main message is, except that if your mother is alive today, call her, often, even if it is difficult for you. Don’t make it about you, if you can. Make it about her this Mother’s Day. It is her day, not a day to focus on differences and damage.

Regret plays a large role in future decisions. It’s not all bad. Focusing on regret is one thing, but being proactive about it and learning from it can be life-changing. This loss has brought us closer together as a family, made me see the beauty and grace in each of my siblings. There was no fighting, no ownership, no blame, just love for her and ourselves. It brought me closer and to forgiveness with my father. It’s made me a better parent, realizing what my own went through with me and to cherish each and every day spent with my son, to encourage better relationships for him.

This cycle of longing turned to gratitude happens each year. It is an ongoing lesson.