One Year Without Mom

I lost everything in an instant, and it reshaped my life. This is an anniversary I was not prepared to acknowledge, nor will I ever be. The cold silence of the concrete stone of the ages that is your loss. I learned how to love by following your pattern. I lost you a year ago today, on October 26, 2021. I wish that we had a head start, some warning signs. A head start to treatment (before Stage 3 of an aggressive breast cancer), better doctors, and a fair chance for survival. More than what was given to you under the circumstances that reared their ugly head. Your presence steadied me, and acted as a safety net in a world of uncertainty. No one is prepared to close the door on a chapter of their existence. And I cannot leave you behind. You were too sweet for this world and the suffering you endured the final 10 months of your life. I wanted to be here to take accountability and be your voice in case you lost yours. I wanted to make certain that you did not have to stumble in the darkness alone, but be the bridge to make a safe path. The silence cuts through like the winds of the Arctic. Still, cold, lonely. And I have never heard such a deafening sound as the one when the phone doesn't ring anymore. Your sweet, soft, semi-low voice on the other end. You would chat with me for hours, always beginning with the wild and wacky current events of the world, local happenings, politics. I never tired of your calls. Your bubbly personality was infectious. And wry wit at times sharp, often calling out the nonsense and folly. And I listened to your hearty laugh and searing, yet good-natured sense of humor. And we would find ourselves hours in, sharing laughs, meal planning, secrets, and making memories.

After a year to the date, I am still reeling in the trauma of being so close to my mother. Of hearing some of her last words, those little words that came in a time when spontaneous language was often few and far between. The person you knew before is a ghost, and you ache for their old form. And the sorrow wells up and engulfs me. And it's torture. Maybe while others were gathering themselves, you just didn't have time to grieve and put this absence into perspective. So the grief follows you like a trail down a dark, starless night and one way street. You can't see the end, nor do you want to. But it is already upon you, and you're falling on the curb on your face.

I remember how my mother spoke beautifully and passionately of my maternal grandmother, who I never met. She and her were inseparable. Bonded. Friends for life. She was her idol. It seems as though generations were paving the way for maternal greatness. Each woman leading her march in the sensitivities of life lessons and how to love selflessly. A brilliant path that is crystallized in adoration and admiration. You would have wanted this kind of love, that makes you cry upon its remembrance. My mom shed a few tears of her own as my grandmother fought stomach cancer that ravaged her body. I heard her speak of wails of pain, crying out to her in the night. Groaning. No sign of a cure or solution in these days of limited medical resources.

Just being present in midst of loss, knowing the days are further behind than before. And she's your best friend. Your best friend is leaving. You must find this steadfast place of courage that pours out like a overflowing dam. When the dam breaks, you cannot control the pressure. And that's what being a caregiver is like sometimes.

I could only merely imagine that feeling of helplessness before I became my mother's caregiver. How you hold the hand of another and say it will be okay, if you are having doubts yourself. Sing a few duets to bring comfort and peaceful energy. Trying to do normal, as you teeter off balance and reel from the chaos. While hearing doctors signal week after week that Alzheimer's is rampant, speeding up stage by stage, a disease you never knew she had prior to one month before I lost her; every three days were moving like 5 to 10 years at a time. Hospice visits and bedside vigils. Oxygen tanks, diapers, and crushing pills with a mortar and pestle. Pulling an overnighter and a 24/7. And that would have been just fine with me for years to come, just to see you smile up at me.

I often followed my mother, a shadow. The baby of the family, probably always annoying someone. But with Mom and Dad, I felt I fit right in. Dad had a demanding business (I often helped out during summers and during breaks.), so I usually stayed close to my mother doing what girls do. Akin to the little birdies and ducklings that make a straight line toddling behind. I never minded this attachment because I was glued and fixated on her instructions, her wisdom, and wit. She was the mama bear and I was her baby bear. As the mother duck would risk her life for her babies, her body being thrown in front of a car to shield them beneath her wings. They cannot fend for themselves, and they sense her love, and know she will always guide them safely home.

I find myself looking for my mother, calling out for her guidance. I doubt that I can find my way, as the world is much dimmer without the glare of her internal light.

I guess she would not want to watch me fledgling, as I seemed to have it together while I took on the abrupt and jarring emotional and physical role reversal. I was the protector and a mother duck, and she was the duckling and we ran out of the storm time after time. Until the day that the sky fell on us.

I never wanted to not be the child. I won't be able to live my life in peace without being someone's child, to know a warm response when I walk into the room. Having parents was a haven for the shy, reticent girl I was and the confused woman I may seem to be. Having parents is a simple and natural joy, especially the ones I was given.

My Mom and Dad were the kindest people, present, emotionally generous. They made sure to place their own needs last and mine first, even if I didn't deserve this prioritization on the list. They were my superheroes. They were equipped with powers like mega doses of hugs and kisses and copious words of encouragement. They protected me from bruises and falls before I took a nasty tumble. They broke the toxic issues of my life and shattered them into tiny, unidentifiable pieces. They saw the pitfalls first and deterred me from them. They took time to counsel me and provide wisdom. I hung onto every word. I was the child in front of the console TV again. Not a care in the world except when Sesame Street was coming on. They took the blows. That was my squad. Who will be my bulldog now? When you are this close-knit, you will always find a built-in ally, as tight as a pair of jeans that have been tossed in hot water too many times. If you came for me, you came for her. (and him). This was a lesson in how not to mess with the quiet, non-intrusive, but wiley and resourceful Marley family at the end of our dead-end road.

I recall returning to my family home recently, that modest house on the dead-end road, tucked behind grown-up shrubbery on one side and a cemetery on the other. How the wind swept through the bamboo canes, billowing and rustling. But little else seemed to move around me. Silent stillness as if on the plains, watching my childhood be swept and carried away in a tornado. I couldn't stand quiet in a place that had once teemed with life. Walls filled with reminders of pictures scattered and my family's personal achievements. Photos of relatives since gone to the great beyond. I am not sure where my memorabilia is, as keepsakes were tossed away in the rubble of a burned and charred house. Those beautiful memories are replaced with fresh drywall and studs, a reinforced foundation and gussied up after the fire. To think that perhaps another will dwell in this once tranquil oasis for my Mom and Dad. That thought is so frightening. My little room was a blur. No trace of what was. Only what will not be.

And I don't know if I can find my little slice of happiness there on the end of that street again. Silence is not my idea of inner peace. Maybe this is a Leo witticism, but I prefer the bustling sound of those people that make you feel alive and remind you that you're special. Sometimes this is all you need to get by.

In that instance as my life flashed before me, I became a child again, looking for my parents. I was the child crying at the front steps with my puppy, waiting for them to return. The gaping expanse of emptiness took over, enveloping me in this eternal quietude. I never heard the wind howl before in this spot. I never want to hear it again, either.

Losing your parents feels like a door that weighs a ton collapsing around you. You find yourself on the opposite side, pounding a weight that will not budge. I have knocked at that door constantly and incessantly, the door that locks away my childhood. A sad melancholy picture accompanies replays of those carefree days of my youth. Strains of a funeral dirge. A minor key classical composition that echoes in my mind. Adagio in D. I played my saxophone for my father's services. I cannot put away those notes or forget how they reverberate. Sad and slow. Deliberate and haunting. As I watch my life forever change and those sweet shadows of my parents that haunt me. A larger-than-life presence. I don't ever want to know what it feels like to not have parents. The sense of comfort in an uncomfortable world. How does one make sense of something senseless as losing a parent who may have left too soon? Making sense of the senseless.

Never enough. Always too little. The constant war between man and the small space of time we share on the planet. Time and the hourglass are set against us. And we have just a sliver of a life, like a piece of the best pie saved for a Sunday dessert. And the dessert is served to the hungry. Famished for another slice of precious time. One more morsel of time to divvy up. If we realized how brief and in short supply it was, we would savor each bite slowly. Mom always said not to gulp your food. She was so right.

Mother always wanted to travel; she envied the lifestyle the more affluent folk enjoyed. Her life was that of a woman who worked hard for a living. She had hands with callouses that saw hard labor before she was old enough to choose her fate or direction. She once picked cotton in a tiny Delta town to earn enough money for her Catholic tuition. Her mother before her worked as a maid, making extravagant cakes and luxurious dinners for her clients. They treated my grandmother well, giving her old dresses handed down as a kind gesture. She would take those hems and dress tails and craft new dresses for my mother to wear with Singer patterns from magazines. She felt like a princess in them and loved her new frocks lovingly hand-sewn. Invention is the mother of necessity. And when you don't have what you need to get by, thinking on your feet is a great survival tool. They were a product of the South. Close enough that this is not a fable or relic, but a reality and sordid fact of life. These strong women of color wanted better for their brethren but learned the value of hard work and loyal service. To rise to the middle class and bring their families up with them. This was a hard-won victory for women of my mother's era. Mom wanted nothing more than to see those years spent toiling away amount to a more grandiose lifestyle. Sometimes you take what is given and make those tarnished or bruised lemons into the most delectable lemonade your lips have tasted.

I am so glad my mother didn't mind the small things and took pains to be generous with her sentimentality. I didn't give the largest, most sweeping gifts, but did it with heart. I matched my illustrious champagne taste with a mostly craft beer budget. I didn't have the chance to book her first flight or take that trip around the world together. But the world is likely what you make of it, and the recipient of a gift places the most value on it. She equated gifts with moments in life that sometimes will take you as far as an airplane or cruise ship. When I take my first cruise, my heart will be with Mom and those little things she would have gone gaga for. That reference sounds quite dated, but I am a product of parents born in the 20's and 30's... It comes with the territory. (If you know, you know.)

I recall one trip in particular that showcased her fascination with simple joys. The small things that make such a remarkable impact. We took a drive to Dallas and stopped by Bucees (IYKYK...) She was gobsmacked. It was Christmas in July for adults. The freedom and excitement she felt in this cavernous store. And all the tempting little what nots and souvenirs. I was seeing the eyes of a child, when they turn into half dollars. Who wouldn't get excited by a little squirrel in a red shirt? I doubt those Cinnamon pecans, pulled BBQ pork, and various nibbles made it to Dallas. And at the checkout line, it got even better. It was our version of Supermarket Sweep. Find all you can as fast as you can. The total just kept going up and up. And she had this knowing expression on her face. It was precious. I remember going up to the highest floor of the Omni hotel, and watching fireworks on 4th of July. We were all rendered speechless at the wonder of it all. I would give anything to bring those days back again. Take anothre road trip with my road buddy. To feel so close to the sky that you could touch it. And bring it back. To build my bridge to traverse the space between the living and those that have crossed over.

She was always up to the challenge of a road trip. But make it a gastro- friendly event. And a great meal was never far from thought for either of us. When she spent time with me, those post-shopping trips were ample opportunities to grab a delicious dinner. This is as long as they weren't in the middle of the night at Black Friday standing in line for the Christmas ornament and Cracker Jack prizes. (yes, we did that, doesn't everyone?) But since she was here a little longer and more frequently, lunches had become a new routine. The doctors' visits can go long sometimes. Or you are so rushed that you forget to have a bite of breakfast. So, I began dropping her a bit closer to the building to rest her tired post-mastectomy surgery body and to relieve her aching joints. She slowly but adeptly sauntered into the restaurant and we took prime real estate at a larger table. This was not just any dinner; this was the last meal we would have together in a dining establishment. With her autistic grandson in attendance, we gathered to share love, light, and the cure for a ravenous appetite. A casual grill and bar. Low-key. I made sure to clear the menu with her, becuase if it's too fancy, Mom doesn't want any of it. Just make it good ole country fixings, and you have a happy camper. She would be glad to tell everyone at work back in my hometown about her fabulous meal with her daughter and rub it in their faces. In a cute and kind way, of course. Mom was the master of good-natured ribbing. I learned from the best.

The food was incredible. It came out not a moment too soon. This spread was one for the eyes to behold. Blue corn ships and queso. Blackened fish tacos with Pico de gallo. Two southern fried chicken pieces with veggies. A side Caesar. And plenty of conversation. My husband missed a pretty special meal. His work schedule was beyond crazy. But Mom had a Blue Plate Special, and life was good. I don't believe I didn't shoot a picture of her at the table. I did take pics of Instagram-worthy gorgeous food (die -hard foodie here). And since Mom didn't really like pictures taken, I tried to honor this wish. I certainly wish I hadn't listened this time. Who knew we would never sit at a meal table again this way? Only a few days later, she'd experience a major stroke that would debililtate her. And rob her of her acute awareness and presence of mind. And decimate her fine motor skills.

The truth is we were in collision trajectory but did not see it. It was a train at 150 miles an hour running into us that we could not visualize. But on this day, we ate and went along in our blind contentment for today. Which is all we can control.

Mother had the most accurate recall of events. I am merely all of 46 years younger than her, but have a hazy, fuzzy brain in comparison to the history of meals she remembered. She talked about the sizable slice of margarita cheesecake at Logan's. How she was floored over my new appreciation for yams. (If there is a sweet potato on the menu, add it to my dish right now please, and thank you!). And that one restaurant selection fail now at least a decade ago, that gourmet seafood dinner that went terribly wrong. You know when you can't live down your well-meaning choice, that reminder that you had to know better. She relived that time so vividly and with full conviction when her body and the fish had a huge battle for power. And the fish won.

The intricacies of the mind and how it works are of awe-inspiring proportions. Those obscure details we hold onto over the years, like the childhood pet from age 2 (mine was a cat named Bootsy. I know my older sibling had to name her.) Remembering the way your mother's room smelled of Estee Lauder Private Collection before she headed to her event. And how you felt when you stood in her presence. Small. Transfixed. Empowered even. The high heels lying on the floor were so large for tiny feet to step into. A size 3 child's foot clanking around in her size 9 women's, waiting for the day you'd wear them. The day you will spray this enchanting elixir and be beguiling to everyone.

Today, I guess I must have inherited my mother's affinity for perfume and smelling like a rose. Because Mom (like me) doesn't believe in wasting a good bottle of perfume on nowhere to go and nothing to do. She saved it for special occasions. She would wear the scented lotion for everyday use, you know the department store stuff (the good stuff that you display proudly on your shelf until someone comes over, then it goes into hiding). And I also took her fragrance collection apparently, for my stash keeps growing year after year, sample after sample and not in proportion to my living quarters or vanity space.

Another trip with Mom was a road trip that I know had to have caused her joints and back much distress. We drove to Tampa to take in a family moment, which would be our final road trip. In 2019, we watched her granddaughter walk the stage to receive her Master's degree from UT. That was one of those proud, peacock strutting occasions. And Mom did not make a peep about any discomfort. Of course, it would have been ideal to fly. But Mom preferred to stay firmly on the ground. She rolled with it like a rockstar over the 10 -hour trip, only taking breaks to stretch her legs. (We did break it into 2 days, if you were wondering.). The one thing that got her fairly agitated was when she direly needed a pack of Freedent gum. I think she was on the verge of stopping the entire trip if we had not found one fast. Voila! A local CVS took care of that issue. We also visited Publix's fabulous deli and partook of petit fours, some cake slices, and assorted goodies. I think I even found my all-time fave treat: Cotton Candy Jelly Belly's. (Mom always teased me about how I loved eating hard candy by the handful. My sweet tooth is pretty potent.).

Sometimes you're just so busy living that you forget about the possibility of not. Getting caught up in the present. Being one in the now is a livewire, how it singes and burns and leaves this impression on your heart. The powerful emotions that light us up like LED light runners, nonstop movement. A spark you hold in your hands like July 4th sparklers, until it gets too close to your hands. Then all of a sudden, the magic stops. The roller coaster ride was only programmed to last for so long. And it is never enough. Ask any child at Disney. The ride is our adrenaline, and life is our power source. When it ends, the cruel finality sets in.

Souvenir- to remember in French. Je souviens. I remember you. I see you and feel your presence although you're gone. You held me up and you held things down. You were a diamond and I see the glow in each facet. I will carry you with me and hope that you realize that I saw your struggle and know that you did everything you could to help me live in love. For this, I could never repay the amount I would owe. Nor could I become either you or Dad. I don't think I will exceed any expectations. That bar is set so high that I just look up at it. I wish I had said that I appreciate your love. I probably mentioned how much I revered Daddy. But good mothers are so omnipotent and present that you don't have to look too far for their affection. It is all around you, in the fabric of how I raise my children. This intricate, irreplaceable pattern that is so difficult to imitate. It is in your DNA. I always carry my maiden name in loving memory of my beautiful life with you and Dad. You're never forgotten, just as close as my thoughts and memories. Know that I am always your little girl.

Je souviens. Je suis triste. Je t'aime toujours.

Until we meet again, I will keep your memory held high and proud as the regal Queen you have always been. You struggled to have whatever you did, and I'm grateful for it. And I look up to you, even if you may have never heard those exact words. I don't think we have the right sentiments at the right (or wrong) times. We just miss critical opportunities. Mom, I love you. We will have more sublime girls' chats at the supper table someday. Tell Dad I said hello, and that I was never bored by any of his famous stories. I especially loved hearing about his days in Harlem.

Love,

Your daughter

Stephanie Ann