The day started out like any other. The ordinary daily life events that fill up all our lives were beckoning; starting the coffee pot, checking email, getting correspondence together for mailing, and a mid-afternoon doctor’s appointment.
I’d wanted to call my mom, Helen, just to say “hello”, but in light of a full morning I pushed making that phone call back until that afternoon. It wasn’t that my mom wouldn’t be up. She lived on the West coast and even with the three-hour time change she’d be up and about scurrying around like the energizer bunny. Her day and my step-dad’s always started early. Early for them meant 6 to 6:30 AM. “Pop”, as my sister Lezlie and me affectionately referred to him, was always showered and dressed by then and ready at mom’s call when it was time to implement their routine for that day.
Given my mom’s age, 83, and that she lived with mild Parkinson’s disease; I liked to check up on a regular basis on she and “Pop”. After thirty-four years together, they had built a life of quiet strength and persevering faith that sustained and encouraged our family. “Pop” as a hardy ninety-three-year-old, has been in my life longer than my own father who passed away when I was twenty-four.
Mom and “Pop” were far from sedentary seniors. On visits home I found I could hardly keep up with mom’s pace. They went to a weekly, 7 AM Bible and Breakfast fellowship, a gathering of over 200 interesting and lively senior citizens from their church. Mom was very social and enjoyed lunching with her sorority friends and also her classmate’s lunches from her graduating class of 1941.
After my morning tasks were completed and my doctor’s appointment was in back of me, I set about to tackle my errands. The only trouble was, I’d stopped at Shop-Rite first and now had a couple cartons of milk along with a few other perishable items. Having perishable goods inside your car on a hot, humid day in the northeast has a way of dictating your next stop. After making the left on Broadway past the new Woodcliff Lake time clock, I headed over the causeway toward home.
Rain was predicted and sure enough, like clockwork, as soon as I hopped out of my Jeep, Madame Merlot II, and ran around to the passenger side to retrieve my groceries, raindrops were falling on my head. My neighbor, Joyce, had surprised me a few months back with a nifty cart for transporting belongings and bags. While bending over to open the cart, my cell phone began ringing.
Typically, I get excited when someone is calling. But, with ducking inside my Jeep from the rain while gathering grocery bags, and trying to unfold the carrying cart that Joyce gave me, I seriously contemplated letting my voice mail pick up the call.
The contemplation, however, was short lived as curiosity won and I dug in my handbag to reach for my phone.
Flipping it open, I figured it was one of my three daughters. It wasn’t. The voice I heard on the other end of the line was not one I readily recognized. Though it sounded like my niece, Merri Elizabeth, her tone was alarming and I sensed that something was terribly wrong. That’s when I learned that my mom had passed away that morning.
Complete shock and disbelief followed. I was sure I was having a bad dream and struggled with what I was hearing. Why, I’d just talked with my mom on the phone on Monday. I’d called her from New York City when I was in Grand Central Station. She told me how she and “Pop” had eaten at one of the restaurants there in 1987 when they were on a church tour of the East coast. I’d also just spoken with her the day before when I called to ask about a recipe exchange. Could I use buttermilk in my whole-wheat banana nut, wheat germ waffles instead of milk? <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Within moments I realized the new reality for our family. We’d lost my belovedmom, a dear and wonderful grandmother, a devoted sister, a loyal friend, a compassionate neighbor, an adoring wife, and a Scrabble-playing sister in law.
I had so many more questions, more stories about her life that I wanted to hear, more times to unsettle the frozen expression on her face that can come from Parkinson’s, by making her laugh. And, laugh, goodness me. She made me laugh. She got funnier without even trying as the years rolled by. I remember one trip home when she was in her bedroom and I’d called her because I needed her for something in another room. When I walked in to see if she was coming, she simply dropped the clothing she was holding onto the floor. As my mouth flew open at her spunk, she said with a sweet smile and a quick giggle, “Well, dear, you’ve heard of drop what you’re doing haven’t you?”
I simply wasn’t ready to tell my beloved mom good-bye.
