Losing Momma: The First (And Possibly Second) Time

Next month will mark six months since my mother departed this Earth.

To myself, however, next month will mark seven years since I lost the woman who raised and loved me.

Now before anyone gets confused, know for certain that I absolutely was Momma’s youngest child. I’ve never been adopted or shuffled off to a relative or family friend to be raised, or known another parental figure other than the occasional second or third parents most of us take on through love, not blood. My birth mother was, in absolute, my only Momma. She raised me, she nurtured me, and she did the best she could with me.

To the world, my mother took her final breath in September of last year.

In my heart, though, we actually lost Momma the first week of March of 2015 – the same week my older brother and only sibling died of what we assume was a heart attack.

I won’t get into the details of why it’s an assumption and not an outright fact, but I can say the last time I saw my mother truly alive (as well as my brother) was one week prior.

And that week was probably one of the happiest times of my entire life.

After decades of trying to figure out where I fit in personally and professionally, it felt like everything was finally sliding in place. I was making a decent wage as a senior writer for an up-and-coming media company based in California, and I had just accepted an offer to become a full-time staff writer at their home office. The one-way ticket for my cross country move had been purchased and the plan was to head out to clearer skies and my future in about 10 days.

That Friday evening, I was packing a bag to spend some time with close friends out of town, a last hurrah of sorts. Momma, who I had felt lost all faith in me ever finding my way in life or even out of her apartment, had been beaming with pride. I vaguely recall her excitedly speaking to my aunt that day about my flight out and wanting to have a small gathering with the family sometime before.

At some point during the evening, my brother dropped by, as part of his usual weekend meet-up with friends from the neighborhood. We hadn’t been speaking at that time due to some minor annoyance he instigated (or more likely, one that I had taken far too seriously), but he still stopped by my bedroom long enough to toss out a “what’s up?” before heading to Momma’s room, one door over.

“Where’s Jonathan going,” I heard him ask.

“He’s going to stay with friends for a few days before going to California for that job.”

“Jonathan’s got a job?”

(Now I had absolutely told him about the job several times but he never thought it was a “real job,” for reasons I still don't understand.)

“Yes! He’s been writing for them for months. And they offered him a full-time position in California.”

“Word? He’s going to California? To write? For real?”

“Yes. He showed me the plane ticket and everything.”

A few seconds later, he was back in my room.

“You’re really going to California?”

With a chuckle, I explained the entire situation to him for what felt like the umpteenth time – “yes, the job is real. Yes, they’re hiring me to work for them directly. Yes, I’m moving next week.”

“Yo, that’s what’s up! You know I’m gonna be visiting you out there, right?”

I guess that was his way of saying he was proud of me.

But more than that, at that moment, I knew Momma was proud of me. And I was truly proud of myself for finally making her proud.

I left that Saturday to see my friends. Life was good. Everything was good. But if only I had known to savor that moment in time.

If only I had known that those last goodbyes to Momma and my brother were so final.

The next time I saw Momma was on March 7 – the day after she found my brother dead on the floor of his apartment.

When I walked through the door of Momma's apartment that morning, the woman who greeted me that was definitely not the same one I left behind nearly a week prior, and not just from the obvious emotional display.

She seemed weaker somehow. Smaller. Older. Barely recognizable.

Those next seven days didn't give either of us time for proper reintroductions. In fact, the only show of personality "new" Momma displayed during that time was an unexpected outburst of sorrow during an intense conversation with my brother's only son over how quickly she cleaned out his father's apartment.

(In her frazzled mind, she was thinking of the month -- and the rent -- ahead. My nephew, on the other hand, was understandably overwhelmed and questioned how she could do such a thing less than 12 hours after his father's body was found.)

All the worse, any further attempt to know this version of Momma was halted by her humble but firm request to not postpone my flight for a second time after my brother’s funeral.

“You’ve worked too hard for this, Jonathan. You need to go. Your brother would want you to go. I want you to go.”

And with that, six days after we laid my brother to rest, I was on my way to LaGuardia Airport to start a new life with major pieces from the one I still was living through both broken and gone forever.

On the taxi ride to the airport, we barely said a word to one another and in a post-9/11-world, we had just enough time for a quick hug and a promise to call when I landed before I was shuffled off to the check-in area.

I managed to look back for a quick second and caught one last glimpse of the mother that I thought, for better or worse, I had known and loved for more than 30 years.

And I didn't see her at all. Not even a little bit, even though she had barely moved from where I left her.

At that moment, I believe my mother died for the first time. Or maybe even the second. I'm not sure, but I wish I had more time with her. A day. A minute. A moment.

When I returned to New York just 10 months later, she would, once again, be an entirely different person.

And little did I or anyone else know, I would only have about five more years with Momma 2 (or 3).0.