Goodbye, Mom

I got a 3:00 o'clock phone call early Sunday morning -- one of those calls that makes your blood run cold. For me, a middle of the night call can only mean one of three things: 1. somebody dialed the wrong number 2. somebody got hurt 3. somebody died. For me, it was number three. It was my sister, Vicky, on the other end. She lives in Baton Rouge and wouldn't think of calling in the middle of the night. Our mom, she said, had died in a violent car accident - side impacted by a Suburban (she drove a Toyota Corolla) as she turned left out of her subdivision onto a busy street.

For us it's been a sad and chaotic time. My mom lived in Michigan and so we packed up and drove out to her home to tend to funeral arrangements and the legalities of death.

The hardest part, for me, was going into her house for the first time since she'd died. A cup of tea on the counter had chilled. Her cat was crying for food. Mail had collected in her box and everywhere I looked I sensed my mother's presence. Only one thing was missing -- my mom. I cried. I wanted to give her a big hug and tell her how special she was to me, how much I loved her. Not that I didn't tell her that every time I talked to her.

So, we try to remember my mom how she was -- the good times and the many kind and wonderful things she did for so many people. She volunteered for The American Cancer Society, for her church where she worked in their office and always made newcomers feel welcome. When an elderly neighbor suddenly found herself widowed and alone in the world, my mom brought her dinner each night and often sat watching television with her to keep her company. When another elderly friend lost her sight, she drove her to the doctor's and ran errands for her. My mom sold Avon but, more often than not, became good friends with her clients, bringing them baby gifts, housewarming presents etc. My mom never forgot a birthday, an anniversary or a special occasion until the past few years when she began showing some early signs of dementia.

My mom was born in Manchester, England, the youngest of five children. During WWII she was evacuated to the countryside to live with a farm couple, Mr. and Mrs. Beddoes, at their home in Shropshire (Manchester was being bombed by the Germans). The house was over 700 years old and had a cobblestone kitchen floor and a big pump at the kitchen sink. It was the first time my mom had ever seen apples growing on trees, picked blueberries for pies or held a baby chick in her hands. After the war was over, she returned to Manchester. Eventually she met my dad, a reporter and editor for The Manchester Guardian. Before long, my parents married, moved to Canada and then the US and settled outside of Detroit where my sisters and I grew up. In 1993, she became an American citizen, something she studied hard for and was very proud of.

We were proud of her too. More than anything, though, we miss her.