My Mother

Maybe I’m just trying to delay my day or procrastinate doing anything of real import. Maybe I’m just too doggone tired to move more than just my fingers. But I feel like writing. I have been thinking more and more of my mom but I’m not sure how to talk about her with other people. I long so much to do a "remember when..." but to whom should I talk? Many of my friends don’t know her or remember her at all. In particular I have been thinking of the last few weeks and days before she died.

I remember hugging her and snuggling her. I remember that last back scratch – so good! No one could scratch a back like my mom. I remember reading Harry Potter VI to her. I remember her crying over King Benjamin’s discussion of the sufferings of our Savior. I remember Dad and Robert carrying her up the stairs after what was to be her last dialysis session. I remember her delight and joy over all the phone calls and visits from family and friends, particularly those she had not seen in a long time. I remember "dancing" our way to the bathroom as I helped her walk across the floor. I remember sorting all of her pills into morning and night and trying to ensure she got the proper medication. I remember having to sort all those pills back into their proper bottles when they were no longer needed. I remember giving her a sponge bath and struggling with my feelings of, I shouldn’t be doing this but being comforted by the love and gratitude in her eyes and knowing that it was a service. I remember rubbing her feet and putting lotion on her dry legs. I remember her getting up early to say good-bye to my children and to Robert. I remember when she went speedily downhill and the constant thoughts of, "Is she going to go now?" I remember her labored breathing. I remember sleeping on a terribly uncomfortable couch that Monday night, feeling like I was on death watch. I remember lying with her in the wee hours of the morning as Dad attended to other things. I remember holding her hand and just rubbing her fingers with my thumb, feeling her paper flesh and desperately wanting, needing a close physical connection to my mother who was about to leave me for the rest of my life. I remember being torn – wanting to stay with Mom but her sisters were all around her and wanting to be with Dad who was alone at work. Choosing to go to work with Dad, I am so grateful that she called us back when it was her time. I remember standing there and watching, almost out of my body, as she tried to breathe and to talk with Dad. I remember Dad speaking with her telling her it was okay to go. I remember when she died – we all stood around wondering, "Is she really gone?" I remember Dad crying out, "Oh my love," and holding her one last time. I remember that the real time of death was 2:30pm and not 2:45pm as "officially" recorded. I remember Aunt Judy stating, "I wonder what it’s like." I remember trying to close her jaw so she wouldn’t by open mouthed in death. I remember her cold hands. I remember strangers carrying her away and the emptiness of her bed afterward.

I remember dressing her for the funeral. It was joyful with many aunties and my sisters-in-law. I remember that it was hard for me to look at her because it wasn’t my mom. There was no smile and no animation. I remember her cold hands. I remember embalming fluid coming out of her nose when we jostled her too hard. It looked like blood and for one brief moment I thought, "This is all a trick and she’s still alive." I remember having to leave her there in that room. I remember turning to say, "Come on Mom, time to go," before I remembered that she couldn’t leave with us.

I remember going to Aunt Judy’s house and seeing all the aunties busy – busy arranging flowers, lots of Alaskan wildflowers – for Mom’s funeral; busy attaching tatted lace to handkerchiefs and embroidering Mom’s initials and death date on the corner of the hankie; busy helping each other and loving each other.

I remember the viewing. I wanted so badly to be the one to lower her veil but I knew that was Dad’s right. Contradictorily, I didn’t want to go near her because the dead body creeped me out. Zombies scare me and what was left seemed closer to a zombie than my mom.

I remember the funeral. I loved all the words, the pictures. I loved people discovering in full how amazing my mom was and thinking, "Yep, she was amazing and she was MY mom!" I remember the good food and how it didn’t really taste like much to me. I remember hugs and pictures, laughter and chatter. I remember Dad leaving with Mom, taking that last walk/drive to the crematorium.

I remember crying and crying and crying and crying until I couldn’t breathe. I remember lying in bed trying to sleep only to have thousands of memories crowing in my mind until I was crying and crying. I remember taking sleeping pills to try to sleep and running from God who had taken my mom. I remember missing her – missing her smile, her laugh, her gentleness and her love.

I remember coming home and feeling like this was a strange place. I remember having to struggle to remember to be a mom myself and to take care of my family. I remember sitting in church and hearing, "I love you," distinctly in my ear and being unsure if it was my Savior or my mother but knowing that it didn’t matter which.

I remember speaking to my mother when I was in the celestial room and pouring out my concern and thoughts about my new step-mother. I remember her assuring me all was well, that she loved me and that I needed to support and love my father. I remember feeling her close and just wishing I could see her and hold her.

I remember the memories becoming more vague. I remember looking at a picture of my mom and me, taken eight months before she died, and thinking, "Was she real? Did she really do all these things?" I remember my mother beginning to feel further and further away, less and less a part of my reality. And yet I miss her still.

Most days I have a great spirit of peace about her passing and I am grateful to my Lord that she went home. But there are days still when I miss her with such an intensity, when I cry and I ache for my mother. Every time I have a crisis in my life, I seem to wonder around my house at loose ends trying to find my mother and the comfort and love only she can bring.

I wish my children could have known her more. I wish she was still here to grant me her wisdom. I wish time didn’t seem to pass so slowly on this side of the veil. And yet I know that my time to see her is inching its way closer. I feel a need to ensure that my life has been well spent so that when I see her again she will be pleased with me.

I remember that I love my mother. I remember that she is mine and I am hers. I remember that God has allowed us to be an eternal family. I am grateful for Him and grateful that He gave me her, for whatever time I had.