I’ve already written extensively about my Momma here, but this time of year I always get to thinking more about her. On March 27, 2007, it will have been six years since she died of esophageal cancer.
This was after spending ten years as a head trauma victim – the result of a tragic car accident late on a Monday night, January 7, 1991, on an icy road. I have to admit during our own ice storm here last week I was brought back to that night. She had called me at work to say she was going out with some girlfriends even though the weatherman promised an ice storm. I tried to convince her to stay home but couldn’t. The next phone call I got was in the wee hours of Tuesday morning from my father saying she was in intensive care at MCV. She had hit a tree less than three minutes from her house.
I hate to belabor stuff, but it sure seems hard not to in this case. In my process of “letting go” through writing in this blog, these memories are the hardest.
Between January and March each year, I seem to relive all that stuff over and over again. She had her accident in January 1991, she was diagnosed with cancer in January 2001. She came out of her coma in March 1991, she died of her cancer in March 2001. Ten years of surviving with bookends of that one life-changing accident and her final death, and what I feel was a release of pain and holding on. When she died she was finally able to just quit trying so hard and rest.
So now, every time there is bad weather or it just happens to be January, February or March, I remember. I remember my sister knocking on my door with her husband and all her kids in tow making a face-to-face visit to tell me that Momma had cancer.
I remember driving in the ice storm down to the hospital at 3 in the morning. The whap-whap of the windshield wipers.
I remember the brightness in my mother’s eyes when she first came out of her coma, like the world was all shiny and new.
I remember seeing my Momma jogging down Woodman Road in the middle of winter through the snow and the slush – she ran marathons, and trained, no matter what the weather. I was usually on my way to high school and often passed her on the road, giving a little “toot” as I drove past, but wishing she wouldn’t run so close to home – I got embarrassed when my teachers and friends would point out they saw her running too. Now I’m damn proud.
I remember Momma telling me that if I wanted to kick my bad mood I should get off my butt and exercise, that it was the best thing for depression. I would just roll my eyes and eat another potato chip or go into my room and slam the door. But now I know she was right.
I remember the smell of the Neuro-ICU, a sick, sour, smell like turned milk. With an undertone of medicine and old, unwashed laundry. The first time I had to deliver something to the ICU when I temped there that smell hit me like a tsunami, and I was taken back to that night. It was so unsettling.
I remember the fear in my Momma’s eyes as she lay dying of this horrible cancer – she looked so frail, and small, and afraid. My sister and I climbed in the bed with her, one on either side, and held her, and talked to her in soft tones.
I remember how my Momma’s breath smelled when she lay dying – like death, the worst, most horrible smell ever. I wanted to rip it out of her. It made me so sad to think that she had to go through this on top of all the other indignities she had faced.
I remember how happy my Momma looked when we put on “Rod Stewart’s Greatest Hits” her old spark came back and she looked like she wanted to dance in her bed.
I remember the joy in her face when I took her hand and told her I’d be married that fall in Florence, Italy. We were running away, eloping. “Of course you are sweetie,” she said. “That’s wonderful.” When I told her I wish she could be there, she replied, “I will be.” And she was.