Don’t wait for Mother’s Day to show her how special she is

In April 2001, I drove my mother to her doctor. She hadn’t been feeling well and had some tests, and she asked that I go in with her for the results. She said she was nervous, though I couldn’t understand why. She didn’t seem sick, except for the lethargy and headaches that had been plaguing her for a long time.

In the small, sterile office with clean, white walls, the doctor came in and sat on one of those rotating stools with the black seat. He told my mother, matter-of-factly: “You have liver cancer.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say anything, so I asked questions that did not provide solace. Any treatment would be painful and useless because, based on how the disease had metastasized, she had less than 30 days to live.

She told the doctor she didn’t want any treatment, not with such a short time left.

The only thing she said to me on the drive back to her apartment was, “I need a bottle of vodka.”

I purchased a liter. I walked her into her apartment thinking I might stay awhile, but she told me to leave because she wanted to be alone. “I’ve lived my life,” she told me. “You go live yours.”

As soon as I left, I wondered, what do I do now? Who do I call? Who should come into town to say goodbye? This was the first time I had to plan for the death of a loved one — and it was daunting.

Telling my children — my son was 9 years old and my twin daughters 11 — was the toughest part. My mother moved here in 1997 to get away from the madness of New York and to get to know her grandchildren. They loved her beyond words, and I consider it a great tragedy that they didn’t have her longer than they did.

One of my brothers, my sister and an aunt came to town a few days before Mother’s Day.

On May 13, 2001, I sat at the edge of my mother’s bed and watched her take short, shallow breaths. Every now and then she’d moan and her face would scrunch in agony, and it was clear she was getting close to the end. At one point I reached over to hold her hand, and I felt a faint squeeze. Maybe I imagined it, but if I did, that’s OK. It was a sign of life that was slipping away before my eyes.

I don’t think she could hear anybody, but we all wished her a Happy Mother’s Day anyway. It wasn’t a time for happy stories, not while seeing her prone on her bed, blankets up to her neck, her eyes closed.

I had hoped that she would have one more lucid Mother’s Day that we could all remember. I had hoped for a few painfree hours in which she could have a nice meal and enjoy a

‘At one point I reached over to hold her hand, and I felt a faint squeeze. Maybe I imagined it, but if I did, that’s OK.’

vodka.

But hope often fails us. I went from hoping for one more day to wishing for an easy passing, and that’s what happened. My mother died in her sleep at the age of 66 at some point during the early morning of May 14.

This isn’t a sad Mother’s Day story. She was lucid until two days or so before she died. She got a chance to hug her grandchildren one last time and had her small family around her for her final days. She died in her own bed, in her own apartment, and on her own terms.

That brings me to the moral of the story.

You never know when your mom will be gone. Don’t wait for that one day a year to show her how special she is.