A Mother's Day Voicemail For The Ages

A truncated version of this story was published last month in the pub What Is Love To You? under the title: '12 Years Later, Still, I Love My Mom'. That dramatically shortened version was edited to fit within the parameters of a 600-word or less writing contest. 

As you can imagine, a lot was left out of the original story. But as we encroach upon Mother's Day, 2022, I felt the need to publish the story for the very first time in its entirety. I hope you will enjoy the simple honesty of it. You see, even though it may seem remarkable to many of you, this story is 100% true. Absolutely no details have been embellished and no factual literary license has been taken.

And now, the complete, unedited story, as it happened:

My mom, a 4'9" pure blood Sicilian and devout Roman Catholic woman ended up marrying her boss. She worked for a now-defunct company called 'Bestline,' in which, my father was a franchisee. Franchisee isn't really a good word for it though since the company Bestline is really best described as a pyramid style company like Amway before there was an Amway. 

Unlike Amway, however, my 40-year-old father took his pyramid-type franchise to a whole new level by traveling to exotic locales and peddling his wares to the locals all across the planet. Not a bad idea for thwarting the competition if you can afford it, I guess. And, from what my mother told me about him, he could afford it very well.

At only 24 years old, my mom, Mary Jean was her full first name despite being two separate words, was his top salesperson. As such, she traveled with him wherever he went; and they went everywhere. Europe, Asia, and even the Caribbean no place was too far or off limits to John Dillon, the half Irish, half Italian son of immigrant parents himself, just as my mother was. 

At some point during their Columbus-like escapades, they decided they were in love and planned to marry. Since my mom's favorite of all their destinations was St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands, that's where they decided to officially tie the knot. 

Throughout my young life, as I galavanted around with different women, systematically breaking a small part of my mother's heart with each new mission of conquest, she repeatedly reminded me, (and often the objects of my affections) that she was a virgin on her wedding night. It never meant much to me at the time, but now, in retrospect, I have to admit that as I reflect on what I know of her life after my birth, nothing my mother ever did or said would ever give me any reason to doubt that assertion.

It was just after Thanksgiving, 1970 when they were married in a quiet ceremony, at a small, nondescript chapel on St. Croix, and, as legend has it, I was created that very night.

Some eight weeks later, after a particularly brutal round of regurgitation, my mother came to believe that she was 'in the family way,' as my Sicilian grandmother (her mother) would say.

When she informed John of the news, her delight was promptly dashed. You see, they had never discussed the prospect of children and never expected that it would just 'happen' so soon after getting married. But nothing prepared her for what John suggested next.

He informed my mother that he would find a good doctor back on the mainland who would 'take care of it.'

There it was, just after the new year, 1971, and 24-year-old newlywed, Mary Jean was mortified, horrified, isolated, and alone some 1,675 miles from her home and parents in New York City. But it didn't take long for her to know what she needed to do.

When John awoke the next morning, he was alone.

John, acting on his own accord as well as through both of his brothers (Paul and David) tried numerous times to reach out to Mary Jean. He contacted her sisters (MJ was the youngest of 14 children) and even recanted his desire for an abortion to them on a couple of occasions. Mary Jean would have none of it. She would never be able to trust him again.

Growing up, my mom worked 3 jobs at times to make sure I wanted for nothing. She lost all faith in love and men and never dated or entered into any kind of a romantic relationship again for the rest of her life. She also never officially divorced my father, and would often joke about how she had been happily married for several decades. 

When I say we were close, the term close doesn't even begin to describe it. I was my mother's entire universe.

I was 29 when she was diagnosed with C.O.P.D.(Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease). At 53, my four-pack-a-day, chain-smoking mother was permanently disabled and could no longer live alone. 

I immediately moved back home to become her caregiver. She had no one else.

Not being able to breathe was bad. Having her 30-year-old son wipe her after toileting was probably worse. Between that and the steroid Prednisone, which caused my lifelong 95lb. mother to swell to 237 lbs., both breathing and moving became that much harder - for both of us.

It took ten years for the disease to finally defeat my mother. It was the longest, hardest decade of my life. At times, I truly resented the role reversal - I had become the parent, and she the child. Nevertheless, when she finally succumbed, I was devastated.

My mother, Mary Jean Dillon, died in my arms at 9:14 AM on the morning of October 17, 2010, at Stony Brook University Hospital and Medical Center, in Stony Brook, New York.

On Mother's Day, 2016, (Ironically it also fell on May 8th in that year) I was preparing to move into a new home, and while packing up old memories, I stopped to look at a few old photos taken in my youth. I couldn't help thinking about my mom. It's true what they say, the bite of the pain of grief and loss may lose the sharpness of its edge over time, but it never goes away - ever.

Feeling simultaneously nostalgic and melancholy, I sat down with my coffee to enjoy a few reflective moments of quiet introspection. While I did so, I happened to look at my iPhone and saw that I had a new email. Suddenly wanting to pull myself out of the trance-like funk I had fallen into, I clicked it.

Some seven or eight years earlier, while living back home with my mother, I had signed up for one of those old vanity voicemail applications that offered all kinds of crazy outgoing messages to play when a call came in that went to voicemail. Eventually, the novelty wore off and I canceled the service.

Now, in that email, that old vanity voicemail company was informing me that they were going to be going out of business and were in the process of purging their database of all existing voicemails that were still being stored. The email went on to explain that I had a single unheard message being stored for all these years in their system. The note apologized for taking so long to notice and wished me well, reminding me that the message would be deleted and lost forever after 30 days from the date of the email.

Weird, I thought. I hadn't used that company in at least eight years! The voicemail had to be spam which is why I never listened to it. That was all that made sense to me.

To be able to hear the message, I had to redownload the service and log in to my old account. Now for a brief aside: I have a hard time remembering passwords that I created yesterday, let alone eight years ago, so I can assure you, that signing in was no trivial task. 

It took me about an hour of fussing with it before I was able to access my old account and view my message folder. I was still convinced it was going to be some telemarketing voicemail or even some old bill collector. God knows, my mother and I were definitely living hand to mouth and paycheck to paycheck back then.

But it wasn't a bill collector or a telemarketer.

Instead, I was shocked to my very core when I read the sender information line: 

Mary Jean Dillon, June 10, 2010. 

The message was dated 4 months before my mother's death.

I quite literally began shaking. I hesitated only a brief moment before pressing 'play' with a quivering finger:

"Hi, Honey, it's your Mom.

I know you left for work angry at me today. I'm sorry. It's very hard for me to tell you how much I appreciate all that you do for me . I don't mean to be that way, I really don't.

I've always been a very proud and independent woman and this disease has affected me in ways I could never explain to anyone, especially you. But I want to make sure that you don't forget that I fell in love with you from the very first time I set my eyes on you.

Soon, this will be over and you will have to get on with your life, without me. I hope the memories you carry will be the good ones from all the years before I got sick, not since. I never want you to remember me this way.

I also want to make sure that you know that I have never once in your entire life, ever regretted the decisions I made to leave your father and raise you alone. I am sorry that you never had a father figure in your life but I couldn't be more proud of the man you've become even without one.

Just remember that I have always loved you and always will and that I'm so sorry to have become your burden. But I believe that someday, someway, God will reward you for being the best son any mother could have ever asked for.

Anyway, enough of that, don't forget to stop at the store and pick up some milk and my medicine on your way home, please. I love you, bye."

I dropped to my knees and wept like a child.