Losing Mom

It’s the conference call that would never be. 

She’s not on the call; an absentee.

Others join, and wonder what happened. 

The girl, once always-on, no longer matters.

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I expected to join that work conference call.  Instead, a different morning call comes. The work conference now resolves with incommunicado, and co-workers move on. 

My tears flow, my hands shake, and I curse at my husband who is standing by, watching me get dressed in a hurry.  I curse for no other reason than sheer anger at coming to the realization that I was a fool.  A fool for not spending the time when I could.  A fool for planning this blasted conference call and putting work in front of what mattered.  And a fool for believing until the end that some miracle would occur.  I curse again like I had in my unanswered prayers, but this time aloud for all to hear.

The tears continue in the car, but at least the steering wheel steadies my hands.  Upon arriving at the house, I rush through the kitchen, and down the few stairs to the brass bed.  In a room filled with light, my mother sits unmoving, pale and cold.

All I could utter is “oh mama, mama, mama” over again, like a child.  I attempt to close her mouth and eyes, both slightly open, without success.  I press my lips to the top of her downy head, her short white hair soft to the touch. I get in the bed beside her once more, hold her hand, gaze at her, and my eyes dry up as I try to comprehend the end of our lives as we’ve known them.

Considering a theory that she may be up above looking down at this scene, my eyes fix on the upper left corner of the high-ceilinged room.  I attempt to communicate with a spot high up on the wall, convincing myself that her soul is there.  Then, I look back to her in the bed.  I do this many times, back and forth, looking for a sign and none comes.

Sometime later, as I hang half-off the edge of the bed, my hand holding hers, fixated on her face, my eyes like sand, my aunt breaks my solitude.  It is time for the funeral home to take her away.

Why was I planning to take that conference call on the morning of her death?  Why did I work until 9pm every night, and never go to a single chemo treatment with her?  And why did she not ask me to accompany her?  Was she shielding me from seeing her like that?  Or was it my plain dereliction? The questions circle and swirl in an infinite, discordant loop in my mind. 

So begins the next phase of my journey into grief. Where connection is now a broken bond.  An empty hole.

I remained blank, but not a blank slate. Empty, but not renewed.

Until, one day – we meet again through Technology.  And/or Death. 

Something more is to come.

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• Category: Gettin' Philosophical