The Day Mom Died

 I think there is some trauma from the night I lost my mom, which I will need to work through. I keep telling myself I have dealt with it, and maybe the so-called trauma is just grief. Anyway, here is a short "story" I wrote about that night. It keeps getting misplaced and had some soda spilled on it so I figured this is a more permanent place to keep it.

    Friday, April 14, 2023, is a date etched in my mind. Exactly one month before my 43rd birthday. My sister called "hey, sis. I'm at Mom and Dad's. Are you ready to go?"

    "Be right over" I reply.

    We're riding together with our parents to Aunt Jeneal's viewing. Jeneal was Mom's oldest sister. Most of her kids were old enough to be my parents, so I never felt close to her. But she is my Aunt and I do love her.

    Only a few months before, her son and daughter died just days apart due to complications from Covid. Mom mentions how she's sure they are together. Mom is also envious of her sister being with their mom, my Grandma that had died in 1999. Angie (or AngeLena as she prefers) says something about how our mom will be with her mom one day, but not to rush it.

    Mom's health had been declining for a few years. She had a stroke and several other health issues. She struggled to walk, she was on oxygen, she frequently had heart problems (she had chronic heart failure). We know she won't be around much longer, but we expect (or at least hope) we have a couple more years with her. She hates to admit that she needs help eating, using the bathroom, walking, etc. Dad never makes a big deal out of helping her. During her physical therapy she always explained why she needed the therapy, mentioned her stroke, defended her need for any assistance.

    Mom had just gotten a scooter through a home health care company, and this was her first chance to use it. When we arrive at the memorial, Mom makes jokes about how slow the scooter is as she rides into the building. Dad jokes about not having to push her wheelchair. We all shared so much laughter about that incredibly slow and surprisingly light weight scooter.

    Inside, Mom lights up as she sees her other sister, Janice. Her nieces and nephews that she had helped raise. My cousins, their kids, their grandkids. Each loved one that comes to see her gets to hear about why she is on the scooter. The fact that she had a stroke and heart failure. She mentions her broken ribs and explains the oxygen tank. Nobody cares! They just love Aunt Joyce so much they want to hug her and be close to her. Soon, Mom is exhausted and asks to leave.

    When we got back to my parents' house, AngeLena stays and I hurry next door (where I live) to get my kids ready for bed. I share stories and pictures with my husband, Jason, and on Facebook.

    The next day is spent at home, doing chores with my kids. After dinner, I sit down to look at my phone and, of course, check Facebook. I see the news that my Aunt Mary Lou has died. I know my parents will want to know, and that they don't use social media much, so I head next door.

    I walked straight to their bedroom. That's where mom spends most of her time, and I heard the TV in there (they never turn the volume down). I give them the news and Dad grabs his phone to call his brother. Mom and I shed a few tears. There has been so much loss lately. I decided the kids probably needed me, so I leaned over to hug my mom. She smiles and says "I love you. I love you, my baby girl."

    "I love you, too, Mom. See you tomorrow."

    Once the kids are ready for bed, I went to sit in the family room. As I began to sit down, I thought "No. Front room! Quieter!" Undeniably, something prompted me to go to the front room. I rarely sit in there, unless we have company, so the thought surprised me. But I went to the front room.

    When I got around the corner to the front room, I saw the flashing red lights. This is not uncommon (partly because Mom has fallen so many times, or had heart palpitations, or broken bones, or struggled to catch her breath) we also live close to a hospital, a firehouse, and a police station. Somehow, this felt different. My heart skipped a beat, and I noticed that the flashing lights were in front of my house AND my parents'. It just felt different. I called out to Jason and walked next door.

    When I opened the door, it seemed like there were emergency responders everywhere. The ones right inside the door tried to stop my entrance but I didn't pause, just said "this is my parents' house". I saw sadness in their eyes, but couldn't grasp why that might be.

    I walked to the hall and saw my Daddy just outside his bedroom. He saw my questioning look and said "she couldn't breathe. She started coughing, then throwing up, then stopped breathing. She's not breathing."

    For a moment, I thought to myself "she has done that before. She'll start breathing again." The paramedics were still there, on the floor with her. I assumed they were still working on her. But then they stood up. I saw Mom's feet, white and still. I heard talk of DNR. I couldn't believe what they were saying. I had just barely talked to my mom! She had hugged me, called me her baby girl, and we planned to attend church together in the morning. I wanted to collapse, I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry and run to my Mommy. 

    Mom's foot twitches, hard. I thought for sure they were wrong. But deep inside, I knew it was her spirit leaving her body. I froze. I knew she was gone. They asked Dad for permission to stop resuscitation efforts. He nods. It had been 15 minutes, and she still wasn't responding to the life-saving efforts. Soon, I heard a time of death called out 22:59. I froze.

    I heard more voices, and when 2 more EMTs came from the bedroom I realized how many people had been there trying to save my mom. So many people! They were packing up their things, offering condolences, their sad eyes were proof that this was real.

    Dad looked at me, he was devastated. We were both frozen. His eyes were fighting tears as he asked if I would call "everyone" I told him "if you mean my siblings, I'm on it." He nodded and thanked me.

    "Dad, I'll text the bishop, too. 

    "Right, he'll want to know."   

    "I'll text everyone in the family that I have a phone number for."

    "OK. Thanks" he responded resolutely. 

    The response team wouldn't let us close to mom's body, until they cleared the scene and confirmed no crime had been involved. I stood across the hall, looking at her lifeless feet as I called each of my 3 siblings, and text a few ward members. It's too late to notify anyone else.

    Someone asks Dad and I to step down the hall, to the kitchen area. An officer stood at the front of the hall, blocking entrance and ensuring that nobody went towards Mom's body. Dad realizes my nephew, Benjamin, is downstairs, unaware, and goes to talk to him.

    Benjamin is devastated. Grandma had taken care of him when his mom was sick, and after she died. She had spent a lot of time with Benjamin. He kept talking about how he couldn't believe it. He heard all these people but didn't know what had been happening.

    At first we didn't say much, but after a few hours we were talking (mostly Benjamin, who was talking about state flags and US history in great detail.) He thanked and praised the officers that were there. My brothers stopped by briefly but there was nothing they could do. I can't be sure what else happened, until they finally cleared the scene and Dad and I were left alone with mom's lifeless body.

    When I finally got to see my mom's body, I tried to memorize everything. Every wrinkle, every crease, every detail. The face that laughed and smiled and helped so many people feel loved. But nothing about his body is familiar. Mom really is gone.

        Then, I see her hands. The hands that had held me as a baby, comforted me as a child, punished me when I did wrong, clapped for all my band performances and literature readings, and loved my children. Her hands are beautiful! They are her! Those hands made countless quilts, cross-stitches, dolls, clothes, crocheted blankets and outfits, painted beautiful ceramics, wrote in journals, kept notes about scriptures and sacred memories with her family, made meals and treats with her kids. Those hands wiped the tears of each of her kids and grandkids, put painful black curlers in her daughters' hair, and so much more. The hands that trembled constantly after her stroke. I know that now, she is perfect. No tremble. But I hope those hands haven't lot a wrinkle because they were beautiful that way.

    Later, I would recall how weird I had thought it was when my mom talked about HER mom's hands being beautiful.  Now I understand.