Strength of a Woman

I suppose most were expecting something from me regarding the first anniversary of Momma’s passing.

Full disclosure - this is the last subject I’d wanted to address.

As both a writer and her son, hyper-focusing on the end of her life feels crass and unfair. My mother’s life - all 71 years - was much more than her final days. Not to mention, it’s extremely tough navigating through this world without her, hence the unfairness.

Also, despite her way of telling you what you didn’t want to know about yourself, Momma was very private about her personal woes. Most wouldn’t have even known she was deathly ill had it not been for a relative sharing the news without her say-so.

However, I know that writing about all my life experiences - the good, the bad, and the horrible - has been cathartic and eye-opening. Acknowledging that, there is no way I could leave this topic untouched. It is undoubtedly one of the most significant rites of passage I’ll ever experience, and I should share it with others.

Besides, Momma would probably figure out a way from the afterlife to kick every square inch of my ass if I didn’t put something out there about how life sucks without her.

So, I’m going to split the difference and do something different. What you’re about to read has nothing to do with the day Momma passed away.

Instead, this is about what occurred nearly a month before - the day Momma had her final doctor’s appointment.

Even before that visit, it was clear to see she was dealing with something more pressing than depression following her brother’s death. She had barely eaten or drank anything for weeks, save for some nutritional supplements, and she rarely left her bedroom except to slink her way to the bathroom. Most days, she’d lay in bed watching television and cry quietly over her rapidly weakening state.

I wish I could say I was the perfect caregiver. Between my feelings about everything happening in the world in 2021 and everything going on with her, I know I missed the mark more often than not. At best, I did what I could to hide my worry and assist someone who only asked for help when all other options were exhausted twice over.

At worst, I would check on her long enough to ask, “do you want some water,” before retreating to my bedroom.

Nonetheless, if she could somehow find the energy to do something for herself, she got up and did just that.

“I don’t need you to do everything for me,” she would reply when I asked why she didn’t request my help more (as if I could handle it). “Besides, you know how you get when I interrupt you.”

She wasn’t totally wrong, which is why I knew something serious was afoot when she called out to me at 6 a.m. that August morning.

To wake me out of deep sleep was alarming enough, but she had done so from across the apartment - screaming my name as loudly as her lungs would allow.

It took me a moment or two to get my bearings, but once I heard the fear in her voice, I jumped out of bed faster than I had since childhood and ran toward the sound.

I found her in the bathtub, sitting with one leg partially raised.

“I can’t get up! Jonathan, I can’t get up!”

Her panicked tone quickly and easily found its way through my entire being, but I tried to calm us both down as I made my way toward her.

“Momma, breathe. I’m going to get you out of here.”

I tried climbing behind her in the tub to slide my arms underneath hers to pull her upward. Unfortunately, there was barely any room to maneuver my body weight or hers. Furthermore, her body’s natural resistance didn’t make the feat easier, and after nearly slipping and falling multiple times, I realized I just wasn’t strong enough.

“Momma, I can’t do this. You’re too heavy.”

“Jonathan, please,” she tearfully wailed. “I need to get up!”

“I’m trying,” I yelled back. “I need you to calm down!”

I realized that we were feeding off each other’s manic energy. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and attempted a soft reset.

“Momma, I’m going to call the EMTs. Try to calm down. I’ll be right back.”

As I climbed out of the tub and made my way to the house phone, I could hear her sobs continue. Out of earshot, I allowed myself to shed a few tears. To say I felt like a failure would be an understatement to end all understatements, but I also knew that moment wasn’t the time for self-doubt. My trauma couldn’t be the loudest thing in the room.

Somehow, I had to channel enough strength for both of us - something Momma often did effortlessly but I had yet to master.

Swallowing my tears, I called 911 and evenly explained Momma’s predicament to the operator. After hanging up, I grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and walked back to the entryway of the bathroom. I placed it next to the tub and sat down, keeping an eye on Momma the entire time.

“They’re on their way. Breathe. You’re going to be okay.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said, still crying. “Why can’t I get up?”

I took another deep breath and closed my eyes again.

“This happens, Momma. It’s a part of life, remember? We spoke about this. It’s what happens when you get older. And we both know you are quite old.”

It took a moment for the response I was hoping to hear.

“Now, why I gotta be all of that,” she countered with a light laugh.

At that moment, I knew we’d both be okay.

The EMTs arrived about 20 minutes later, long after the anxious energy had dissipated. Within moments, they got Momma upright and steady again, then stood back in wonder as she walked to her bedroom and got dressed, almost as if nothing had happened.

Classic Momma.

“Ma’am, do you want to go to the hospital,” one of them asked as she sat on her bed.

“I can’t,” she fired back. “I have to get to this appointment!”

And that’s what she did, without any further assistance from myself or anyone else (unfortunately, COVID regulations at the time made it so that no one, not even her child, could accompany her).

When I first shared the news of Momma’s passing on social media, I quoted “Thank You” by Alanis Morrissette:

“How about not equating death with stopping?”

My momma was very strong - not only when she didn’t need to be but also when she couldn’t be anything else. And she passed that trait on to me.

The energy continues. Death does not stop life.

There are many days when the hurt I feel from her loss zaps all of my energy. But just as she did, I channel the strength from somewhere deep within to get back on my feet and step on.

My mother was an absolute badass, through and through. That is a fact. And on the days I feel most alone and lost, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and remember another -

She raised an absolute badass, too.

As this undesirable anniversary creeps closer, I’m choosing to celebrate her strength and, most of all, her life. I’m sure she’d approve.

Momma, I miss you.