My Mama's Last Call

People expect you to remember the last time someone died, especially the last thing they said. But what if the last thing was the thing that broke your heart forever?

The last time I spoke to my mother, she didn't recognise me.

For a long time, I thought about that more than I thought about her death. How was it possible that someone who loved me so deeply didn't even know who I was?

My mother lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone. She had lived there most of her life. She knew which houses had dogs, which neighbours needed help carrying groceries, and which shop sold freshly baked bread early in the morning.

I had left three years before she passed so I could follow my dreams and make something of myself. I just wanted more. More everything.

At first, I called my mother every day.

Then it became every few days.

Then Sundays.

Then whenever I remembered.

She made me feel guilty about it. Most days my phone would have several unread message and missed phone calls because she would be calling me while I'm at work, at the gym, or already asleep.

A simple text wouldn't suffice. My mum needed to know every bit of my life. She expected to spend hours discussing and dissecting things I did and didn't tell her.

At the same time, she would say, "you've got your own life now" immediately followed by, "you've forgotten me".

I felt immensely guilty.

One day I said to her, "mum, I have my own life to live.. and so do you".

But we both knew that I was her life.

For a long time, all my mum had known was me. Raising me. Cherishing me. Teaching me. Caring for me. Her life was all about me.

And now I wanted to be... well, me.

My mum was never the kind of person to get sick. To hear that she was suddenly so sick that she had to be hospitalised was the first alarm bell.

I was told that it's just a fever. Apparently it had gotten bad. She had needed an IV.

She went to the doctor, came home, and went to bed.

But the fever didn't go away. It got worse.

By Thursday, she was in the hospital.

I remember calling her that night while I was sitting on the train home from work. The carriage was packed, and everyone was staring at their phones.

"Hi, Mum."

"Hello, love."

Her voice sounded tired.

The doctor didn't know what was causing the fever. They had run tests, but came back with nothing.

"How are you?" I asked.

She immediately laughed and said she felt fine. It was nothing serious.

I knew something was wrong.

My mother was a master of hiding her pain. Part of me knew that she wanted me to come back. At least now.

I was hurting my mum. I had hurt her over and over again by leaving, by distancing, by trying to be an independent person, by trying to be my own woman. My mother needed me and I wasn't there.

But I knew that returning would be a trap. What was waiting for me back there was not freedom. It was a trap. I might never be able to leave again. I knew my small town. I knew where I grew up. I knew the people... and I knew the fight it had taken for me to leave.

That night, I called the hospital again.

A nurse answered.

"Can I speak to my mother?"

"What's her name?"

I gave it to her.

There was a pause.

"She's in the ICU"

I knew. I just knew.

My legs felt heavy. I couldn't move.

Tears welled up in my eyes.

I just knew.

Hours later, I decided to try again.

This time, my mum was awake.

She took my call in an alert and happy voice, "hello!"

"Hi, mum! How are you feeling?"

"I'm great! Who's this?"

I could hear her smile through the phone.

"It's Gardenia, mum"

Silence.

"Gardenia..? Oh, I don't know.. who?"

She was confused. She didn't know who I was.

Before I could say another word, she had already hung up the phone.

The next call I received was from the doctor informing me that my mother was no more.

And that was the last call I ever had with my mum.

That last call has stayed with me for over a decade of my life. It will probably stay with me forever. I don't want it to.

I want to erase that memory from my mind. I wish I could only remember the fun and happy times with my mama. But I don't.

Over time, I have analysed and dissected our conversations and my mother's expectations of me.

I have grasped the enmeshment that my mother had with me. I have felt tension within myself as her daughter and as a person in my own right.

But to this day, that last call lives with me like that final punishment that maybe I deserved to be forgotten by my mother for not being who she wanted me to be. For not being there for her.

I used to think that if I had been there, if I had gone back, my mum might still be alive. Perhaps I would have saved her from all the pain.

But that's not logical, is it? That's just my raw emotions talking.

I know that I possess no powers to have saved my mother. I possess no powers to have changed the outcome.

But I do possess the power to live my life to the fullest and allow her to rest in peace.

My mama's last call wasn't a punishment. It was a reminder that at the very end, nothing actually matters.

She lived.

And so will I.