It was a phone call I hoped I would never receive.
My father passed away six years ago on a cold February morning, and I had gotten the call from my sister in law, my brother’s wife.
“Honey” she said, “I have bad news. Your daddy’s gone.”
It was somewhat of a shock, but not really.
My brother and his wife live in a small town outside Houston, on the other side of Sugarland, where my parents lived. Knowing my mother was now going to be living by herself, my sisters and I reasoned she would live as independently as she wanted. The last few years of my parent’s time together were spent mostly of her tending to her ceramic business in the daytime, and tending to my father in the evening. Her customers would wait patiently by the door in the shopping plaza if she was running a little late. It meant that Al must have had another bad night. It was ok; they would wait for her.
But the phone call I received this time was at 9 in the morning, and it was from my brother.
“Mommy’s having trouble breathing, so we’re in the hospital.”
Concerned but not overly upset, he told me they were going to give her some breathing treatments and he would get back to me. She said she felt fine, was just a little dizzy, and wanted to go home.
“Why can’t they just give me a shot of something and send me home?” she kept asking my brother.
“Mom” he answered in his deadpan, wry voice that only my brother can pull with her.
“This is not Star Trek, there’s no magic shot to cure what’s going on with you.”
“Hmmpth!” she said, indignant, and I could picture her sitting in the bed, folded arms across her chest.
The day went by and I didn’t hear anything, so that I evening I called his cell phone.
“Its not good” he said, his voice cracking now. “Mommy’s had a stroke.”
She hadn’t lost any motor skills, was not paralyzed or numb. Her mind, however, was gone. When the doctor asked her name, she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell him the name of the others in the room either.
She talked about fairies and snakes and wouldn’t eat the food because it was covered with ants, and wouldn’t accept a drink of water from my sister because she thought it was really vodka. My mother didn’t drink and didn’t want to start then, was her reasoning.
We called her, each of us on our own, and each of us hung up with our heads spinning as to the sudden loss of our wonderful mother who drove us nuts, each of us in her own way. She didn’t know our names, and just said “ok” when we told her we loved her.
For two days and two nights she sat in the bed, telling bizarre stories and seeing things that weren’t there. What was to happen to her, and how would we take care of her? My brother was the only one who lived near her, and we didn’t want the enormity of this situation to fall solely upon him.
My uncertainty of what was to happen to her turned to sadness, realizing I didn’t have the chance to say good bye to her. I had a phone conversation which had lasted a record 45 minutes two weeks previously, a feat in itself as miraculous. My mother was never one for chit chat or small talk, it was get on, how are ya, everybody ok and then get off. She was always busy and always had somewhere to go.
The third day all she wanted to do was sleep, and my sister, who had now traveled from California, the first of us to make it there, was convinced she was heading towards a coma. The doctors tried to be upbeat, saying sometimes the body is miraculous and heals itself, knowing what it needs to do to get better. We thought they were nuts.
Prayers were called as we eventually told our children, her grandkids, and the friends and relatives that loved her.
Until this morning, I was planning on leaving to say my goodbyes, to kiss the cheek of the woman who brought me into the world, who didn’t always do what I wanted her to do, and who always stood by me even when I wanted her to just go away.
Dreading the worst when the phone rang, I answered with trepidation.
“You’re not going to believe this” my sister said. “She’s back.”
“What do you mean she’s back?”
“Here” she said, handing the phone off to someone else.
“Hi!” said my mother, as if it was a normal day.
“Mom?” I said. “Mom?”
She laughed.
“What’s my name?” I asked her, and she told me, laughing again, but it was really her this time.
I asked her how her trip to Venus was.
“Beautiful” she answered, somewhat in awe. “I remember everything that happened, but I couldn’t control was I was saying. But it was a peaceful feeling, and I never felt afraid.”
“Wow” I answered, praying silently and thanking God for bringing my mommy back, if not for just a while longer.
“Yup” she said then.
“Us Irish are pretty tough, you know. I ain’t going any where. Why don’t you write a book about me?” and then they all laughed, the doctors, the nurses, and my siblings, intermittent I’m sure between tears of relief.
I don’t know if it was the prayers or karma or the miraculous healing of the human body.
I’ll take it.
My father passed away six years ago on a cold February morning, and I had gotten the call from my sister in law, my brother’s wife.
“Honey” she said, “I have bad news. Your daddy’s gone.”
It was somewhat of a shock, but not really.
My brother and his wife live in a small town outside Houston, on the other side of Sugarland, where my parents lived. Knowing my mother was now going to be living by herself, my sisters and I reasoned she would live as independently as she wanted. The last few years of my parent’s time together were spent mostly of her tending to her ceramic business in the daytime, and tending to my father in the evening. Her customers would wait patiently by the door in the shopping plaza if she was running a little late. It meant that Al must have had another bad night. It was ok; they would wait for her.
But the phone call I received this time was at 9 in the morning, and it was from my brother.
“Mommy’s having trouble breathing, so we’re in the hospital.”
Concerned but not overly upset, he told me they were going to give her some breathing treatments and he would get back to me. She said she felt fine, was just a little dizzy, and wanted to go home.
“Why can’t they just give me a shot of something and send me home?” she kept asking my brother.
“Mom” he answered in his deadpan, wry voice that only my brother can pull with her.
“This is not Star Trek, there’s no magic shot to cure what’s going on with you.”
“Hmmpth!” she said, indignant, and I could picture her sitting in the bed, folded arms across her chest.
The day went by and I didn’t hear anything, so that I evening I called his cell phone.
“Its not good” he said, his voice cracking now. “Mommy’s had a stroke.”
She hadn’t lost any motor skills, was not paralyzed or numb. Her mind, however, was gone. When the doctor asked her name, she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell him the name of the others in the room either.
She talked about fairies and snakes and wouldn’t eat the food because it was covered with ants, and wouldn’t accept a drink of water from my sister because she thought it was really vodka. My mother didn’t drink and didn’t want to start then, was her reasoning.
We called her, each of us on our own, and each of us hung up with our heads spinning as to the sudden loss of our wonderful mother who drove us nuts, each of us in her own way. She didn’t know our names, and just said “ok” when we told her we loved her.
For two days and two nights she sat in the bed, telling bizarre stories and seeing things that weren’t there. What was to happen to her, and how would we take care of her? My brother was the only one who lived near her, and we didn’t want the enormity of this situation to fall solely upon him.
My uncertainty of what was to happen to her turned to sadness, realizing I didn’t have the chance to say good bye to her. I had a phone conversation which had lasted a record 45 minutes two weeks previously, a feat in itself as miraculous. My mother was never one for chit chat or small talk, it was get on, how are ya, everybody ok and then get off. She was always busy and always had somewhere to go.
The third day all she wanted to do was sleep, and my sister, who had now traveled from California, the first of us to make it there, was convinced she was heading towards a coma. The doctors tried to be upbeat, saying sometimes the body is miraculous and heals itself, knowing what it needs to do to get better. We thought they were nuts.
Prayers were called as we eventually told our children, her grandkids, and the friends and relatives that loved her.
Until this morning, I was planning on leaving to say my goodbyes, to kiss the cheek of the woman who brought me into the world, who didn’t always do what I wanted her to do, and who always stood by me even when I wanted her to just go away.
Dreading the worst when the phone rang, I answered with trepidation.
“You’re not going to believe this” my sister said. “She’s back.”
“What do you mean she’s back?”
“Here” she said, handing the phone off to someone else.
“Hi!” said my mother, as if it was a normal day.
“Mom?” I said. “Mom?”
She laughed.
“What’s my name?” I asked her, and she told me, laughing again, but it was really her this time.
I asked her how her trip to Venus was.
“Beautiful” she answered, somewhat in awe. “I remember everything that happened, but I couldn’t control was I was saying. But it was a peaceful feeling, and I never felt afraid.”
“Wow” I answered, praying silently and thanking God for bringing my mommy back, if not for just a while longer.
“Yup” she said then.
“Us Irish are pretty tough, you know. I ain’t going any where. Why don’t you write a book about me?” and then they all laughed, the doctors, the nurses, and my siblings, intermittent I’m sure between tears of relief.
I don’t know if it was the prayers or karma or the miraculous healing of the human body.
I’ll take it.
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