TEARS

There is really only one thing that makes me cry. I am not much of a crier. But the tears I have cried for my mother in the last 11 months have been plenty and come often. I am approaching the anniversary not only of her passing, but also of the last time I did things with her. Soon it will be a year since our last Thanksgiving together, shortly after that will be a year from the last time I saw her (conscious), and only a few days later will be the last time I talked to her. And then…December 19. Twelve Nineteen.

I saw her on Sunday, December 14. We watched television as the rain came pouring down outside. We watched a show about a lion and a gazelle who became unlikely friends. We watched an episode of House Hunters about Colorado, and shopped for houses online. We were supposed to go buy a Christmas tree but it was so wet and dreary outside we opted against it. I am pretty sure she gave me a back scratch.

We went out to dinner that night, to BJ’s Brewery in Cupertino. I think I’ve told this story before, but I am going to tell it again. We were eating dinner in a booth – me on one side, mom and dad on the other. My mom always had tissue in her purse, and it had become a family joke that we would all frequently ask her for one. She would roll her eyes at us and say, “Do you want a clean one?”

That night, my father asked her, “Erika, do you have a kleenex?” She gave the usual reply. And I literally said, out loud and as a joke, “Dad, you better go before mom, because if she goes first how will you ever blow your nose?”

He replied, “Everyone knows I am going first, Beth. There is not even a question about that.”

If you had told me then that a week later I’d be planning her funeral I never would have believed you.

The last time I talked to her was December 17. I was going to Katelin’s house for a Christmas present exchange with some friends, and I called my mother before I went over there. It was a quick conversation, I just wanted to tell her I was making crab dip, and that I wanted to see her that weekend. Dinner, Sunday. We had a plan.

Just about 36 hours after we hung up, she passed away. I can’t say I have any regrets. I spoke to her almost every day, was in frequent contact through email and saw her once or twice (sometimes three times) a week for the entire 2 1/2 years I lived there, unless one of us was out of town. I celebrated every holiday, birthday, Mother’s Day, with her. We saw each other at work, she came over to my house to drink tea and read on my balcony, she was part of my every day.

The days that followed her death were vacant and hollow.  I would break down in tears almost constantly and I hated being alone. Mostly my brother, dad and I just sat on the couch and cried. Sobbed. Stared at each other in utter disbelief, willing ourselves to wake up from the worst dream we’d ever had.

But we haven’t woken up. It’s not a dream, it’s the real life that we live every day. Part of me will be stuck there on that day last December, and part of her will be with me forever. I knew a year ago and I know now how unbelievably fortunate I am to be able to call her my mother.

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