When I heard my father’s voice crackling on the phone sounding emotionally fearful I was dumbfounded. I had always thought of my father as someone that is always solid and never wavering. The man that survived the Vietnam War. A man that was always steadfast. The man that conquered whatever was before him. A man that sought out new challenges with a feverish intensity. A man that never seemed soft, or weak, or beat down. A man that even when confronted with adversity rose up a faced whatever was before him with his shoulders square. I had only seen my father cry during one time. When is mother died. And even then it seemed controlled and subdued.
“Your mother is in the hospital” he said.
I heard him. I heard him too well. But what I heard and how it was said didn’t not make sense to me. He sniffed. His voice sounded weak. All I could say was “what?”
“Your mother is in the hospital” he repeated.
I have no detailed memory of what followed. I was standing in the hallway of a hospital because I was visiting the woman that I was dating. My vision went blurry. I felt dizzy. I was surrounded by people and desperately wanted to be alone. As I shuffled around in a circle several times I couldn’t help but uncontrollably explode in tears. Nurses were asking me if I was okay. I couldn’t speak. The air felt like it was confining me. My arms flung wildly in front of me as I swam through the thickness and fell into a stairwell. I sat down and asked my father what I should do.
“Your mother is in the hospital” he said.
After a while I got the information that I needed to visit my mother. My body was limp. The cool hard wall and floor cradled me as melted from sobbing. I had never felt so helpless and selfish. Three days before Thanksgiving Dinner – what’s going to happen now? Things will never be the same. If I had known then how true that thought was I probably wouldn’t have been able to make myself rise and handle it.
My girlfriend checked herself out of the hospital and within the hour we were travelling.
Thanksgiving was spent pretending everything is okay.
Chemotherapy.
Christmas was spent pretending everything was okay.
More chemotherapy.
More phone calls, more long trips, and another tattoo – for my mother…
Come May I had a weird feeling. I called my mother and asked for her recipe for potato salad. I didn’t have a piece of paper or anything to write with. I really didn’t care how to make potato salad. When I hung up the phone I knew something was wrong. I should have got into the car right then. Mother’s Day was one week away – I just figured things will be okay until then. I must have just misread how she was speaking. I shouldn’t have second guessed myself.
A few days later my father called. May 1998
“Your mother died early this morning.”
Things will never be the same.
I spent a few days listening to people talk about what my mother was. It infuriated me. My mother is. She wasn’t my mother. She is my mother. I let everyone know.
1st funeral down – in the home town.
Almost a week later, 2nd funeral where she is going to be buried. Almost a week of pretending everything is okay.
“Hey Uncle, let me have a cigarette.”
“But you don’t smoke.”
“Uncle, let me have a cigarette. Oh I need a light too.”
For some reason there were no pallbearers picked out for my mother. When the preacher asked the congregation for any volunteers I was flabbergasted. What do you mean there are no pallbearers for my mother. All the shit my mother did for other people. She spent a lifetime doing for others. Making people happy. Helping people. Coaching people. Teaching people. And now in her end of days there isn’t one fucking person that can wheel her body out of the church. I looked at my father in disbelief. Helpless again. No one came forward. I looked at my grandmother, my cousin, my uncle, I stared with disbelief at the preacher. I began to rise out of the pew. I was reaching towards my mother’s coffin flanked by flowers. The preacher looked at me. I collapsed in grief. I cried out. No I screamed – NOOOOOOO. Momma. Momma. Momma. Well that started a wave of grief. 1st with my grandmother, then my cousin, then my other cousin, as I looking at my father he just shook his head and sobbed. Finally someone came forward to help my mother take her final earthly journey as I had to be helped out of the church. The one woman that I knew I could depend on. The one woman that I knew the real deal whether I agreed with it or not. The one woman that stood her ground – gone. The holidays will never be the same.
To whoever said – it gets easier with time – I’d like to let them know they are wrong.
Until the end of time - Things will never be the same.
~Son
