January is not my favorite month. Fall and college football season over. The holidays over. Christmas lights and Christmas decorations back in the basement.
Just living and working. Trying not get sick during the pandemic but to live some semblance of a normal life, whatever that means.
January is when my mom was born (January 9, 1940) and when she died two years ago, too, January 31, 2018. I guess I always thought of January as my mom's month, since she was born in January.
I've been thinking about her a lot, lately, and how much I miss her. Still. In many ways, it's hard to believe she's been gone almost two years. In other ways, it seems like she's been gone forever.
My sister, Tracy, reminded me tonight, on a call, that it was two years ago today when one of the nurses at NHC Place called her in Birmingham, early in the morning, because my mom didn't seem herself. I was having coffee at Honest Coffee Roasters in the Factory in Franklin - where I am most mornings - when Tracy called me to tell me what was going on.
I rushed over to NHC Place to see my mom. When I arrived, she was still in bed, surrounded by staff and, I think, a couple of nurses and a doctor. It was immediately apparent something had happened overnight which, it turned out, was a stroke and brain bleed. We didn't know that then, of course.
As I recall, I held her hand while we waited for the EMT's to take her to St. Thomas Hospital in Nashville. My memory is hazy, which makes me sad but, in truth, is probably better for me, but I think she was conscious then but not talking. I wish I would have had more time with her that morning before they bundled her up and wheeled her to the ambulance.
After she was gone, I gathered some things from her room at NHC Place to take to the hospital. I knew, deep down, that she wasn't coming back to her room and that made me sad. I also knew, on some level, that my life had changed irrevocably overnight. That made me sad, too.
I drove to St. Thomas Hospital and, I think, met my other sister, Alice, there. My mom was in intensive care. I talked to the neurosurgeon who had seen her and he told me she likely had a stroke with a major brain bleed. He also told me she would never be back, physically or mentally, to where she had been the day before. And, so, that was that.
My mom had an advanced care directive and Tracy and I knew what she would have wanted. She was clear on that point. I've never felt so helpless in all my life. Sometimes it's really, really hard, when the only thing is the right thing. I talked to Tracy on the telephone, as she tried to make her way back from Birmingham, AL, and we made our decision. The decision my mom wanted us to make.
Later that evening, Father John Hammond, our priest at St. Patrick Catholic Church, drove straight to the hospital on his way back from Oklahoma City, OK. I can never thank him enough for that kind gesture, particularly since he was relatively new to our church then. He anointed my mom with oil and prayed over her. I tear up when I think about it because it's such an emotional memory.
Because God was watching out for me, I had stopped by to see my mom and spend a little time with her the previous afternoon. It wasn't a day when I typically would have gone to see her, but I finished a mediation early and drove over to NHC Place. It wasn't a particularly long visit and I didn't know I was God had granted me grace and a chance to say goodbye, but that's what I did, as it turns out.
I miss her every day. Just this morning, I was laughing, telling the boys how I used to call her when the weather was supposed to get bad - when it might snow (which she hated). When she answered the telephone, I would make this sound, like the cold wind whipping through the trees, and she would get so pissed. Not really, though, because she laughed about it, too.
It was, singularly, our thing. An inside joke between us like so many others we had. Something that no one else would have understood but us. Our relationship was like that, in many ways. We had a unique and special bond, maybe because I was the oldest or the only boy. Or maybe because my dad died so young and she saw a lot of him in me.
She was simply the best.
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