My Mom

I posted this on my message boards on October 20th, 2004. I wanted to post it here as well, as this is where it belonged in the first place. This is probably a blog entry for a blog that I don't have....so I am posting it here. It's long and personal....and writing it has been a bit cathartic for me...thanks for "listening" Tomorrow is the 25th anniversary of my mother's death. Twenty-five years. That's 3/4 of my life time. It seems . . .unreal that she's been gone so long. Some years the anniversary really hits me hard, some years it passes without notice. This year is a tough one. I remember her so clearly, sitting in the cozy den at the back of the house, doing needlepoint, watching Days of Our Lives, when we came home from school every day. To this day, the theme song of that show brings her to mind. Even though my grandmother watched it, too. It's my mother it brings to mind. And Annie's Song by John Denver. I think he was her favorite artist. I think of her whenever I hear it. And yes - I do like his music and his voice. Is it because he was my mother's favorite? I don't know. My mother was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor when I was 2 1/2. It took them 6 months to diagnose her. My dad says that the final diagnosis was something of a relief, even though it was terminal, because they FINALLY knew what was wrong; why she was having petit mal seizures all the time. The doctors gave her a year. Eighteen months at the outside. She lasted six years. For me and my brother, I am sure. We were 2 and 5 when she was diagnosed, 8 and 11 when she passed. It was summertime of 1979 and I was 8 years old. My friend Jennifer, who lived down the street, had a paper route. She was 2 or 3 years older than I and very mature because she had a paper route. She went on vacation with her family and entrusted ME with her paper route. I felt so responsible, so grown up. I got up one summer morning and was getting ready to go and do the paper route. One of our cats had had kittens in the guest room. They were a couple weeks old and starting to explore. I did what we always did at this point with kittens starting to wander. I took a 1x6 board (like from a brick and board bookshelf) and put it on end across the top of the stairs, so the kittens couldn't fall down the stairs. It wasn't the first litter of kittens born upstairs and it certainly the first time we put a board there. But it was the very first time that I did it on my own initiative, without anyone ASKING me to do it. I felt very proud of myself. I remember it as the very first thing I did without someone prompting me and it felt good. It felt grown up. I went off to do the paper route. As I finished the route and was at the furthest point away from home, about a 1/2 mile, I heard sirens. And I knew, just knew in my heart, that it was an ambulance for my mother. I rode straight up the street, as fast as I could, to where it intersected with my street at the other end from my house. I looked and there it was. A big white ambulance in front of my house. I dropped my bike and ran home. My mother was lying at the bottom of the stairs, right in front of the front door, surrounded by laundry. Clothes were everywhere. She was lying on her back, but her legs were bent in a funny way. Not an impossible way, just a funny way. I didn't know it then, but that was the last time she was in her own house. They took her off to the hospital where, it seemed, she spent a few months. In truth, I don't know how long she was at the hospital and when she was transferred to rehab. She had broken her back in the fall and went to rehab to learn to walk again. I remember my dad explaining it to me that way. She was supposed to come home on a Friday or Saturday, the 19th or 20th of October. Her brother and father flew in from N.C. My father's parents came in, too, from the Cape or FL, wherever they were. Everyone was there to welcome her home and to help out around the house. She took a turn for the worse sometime before she was to be discharged from rehab and got transferred back to the hospital. Her battle was lost, it was just a matter of time. On Sunday afternoon, my father and grandfather went to KFC to get dinner for everyone. I was sitting on my Grandma Abby's lap. And my heart skipped a beat. And I knew. I looked at my Grandma and said, "Mommy just died." I said it very calmly, very matter-of-fact. Because I *knew* it was true. I saw her try to figure out what to say; should she deny it and placate, knowing it was coming anyway? Should she say nothing? It was a long moment of us just looking at each other. I don't even remember what she said, because it was then that the phone rang. As my father and grandfather pulled into the driveway with dinner. The phone rang and it was her doctor, saying that she was gone. My brother and I didn't go to school that Monday. It was a very surreal time. My father was very friendly with the principal of my school (they served on some town council together) and he called him up Monday morning and told him that my mom had died. My principal told my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Hennessey. Well, apparently Mrs. Hennessey felt that her room full of 8 year olds was mature enough to understand her message..."Let's all be nice to Rachel. Her mother passed away so it would be better not to ask about her Mom. ..." or whatever the hell she said. I returned to school on Tuesday. It was a rainy, gray day so we had indoor recess. As soon as the teacher left the room, I was surrounded by all these little faces: "did your mommy really die?" "why did she die?" "what does that mean? is she ever coming back?" And I freaked. And ran. I ran all the way down the hall to the girls' room and locked myself in a stall. And wouldn't come out until my dad came into the girls' room to get me. That was the only incident at school. God damn, Mrs. Hennessey! Several days or weeks later, I don't remember when, came the day that it all became *real*. I came home from school one day and walked into the den, HER den. And I sat in her empty chair, and I started to cry. It was then that I realized that she really was never going to be there again. It had been the status quo that year because she was in the hospital from before the start of the school year. But that day it finally sank in that she was really gone. I was in therapy from before her death until well after. Maybe I was 10 or so when I stopped going. And on the whole, I think I dealt as well as any kid could. And as the time passed, I missed her less. When I became pg with Thea, it was the first time that I missed her as an adult. It was the first time in a LONG time that I missed her at all. I have a wonderful step-mother but she and I don't really have a close-close relationship. She would be there for me anytime I needed her and she would be open to really personal discussion but it's my father that has always that parent to me. It was my father that I went to when I got my first period, when I wanted to go on the pill as a teenager. When I became pg, I wanted my mother to share the experience with. I wanted to show her my belly and hand her my child. I wanted to be able to have my mother commisserate with me about the joys and miseries of pregnancy and parenting. And I miss her now because I want to share Thea with her. Here. I know my mom is watching us. I know she sees my daughter and keeps care of her. I know this. I just wish I could see her doing it....enjoying it. When I was 15 or so, I finally admitted to my father that I felt it was my fault that my mom died. I put up the board, she lost her balance after stepping over it and fell, and she never came home. I had carried it for so many years that I was certain it was true. It was then that he told what had really happened. My mother was on a medication to keep her brain from swelling because of the tumor. It depleted her calcium and made her bones brittle. Her back broke when she fell because of this med. While in rehab, her back wasn't healing properly. Some brilliant doctor looked at her chart and said 'oh! her back isn't healing because of this med. Stop the med.' He never bothered to think about why she was on it to begin with. They stopped the med, her brain swelled, she slipped into a coma and died. I know, I know. Malpractice. My father (the lawyer) never pursued it. She was going to die (relatively) soon with or without the incident. Wow, it's been a long time since I told my mother's story. Well, that's not really her story. It's MY story about her death when I was a child. My mother was 40 years old when she died. My father was a widower at 36, with two kids. My mother had a masters degree and worked as a high school guidance counselor until she had my brother. My mother's favorite expletive was "SHIT ON A SHINGLE!!!!!" My mother was a cool lady. I love you, Mom. And I miss you.