Thoughts of mom’s last days

Mother’s Day promotions start showing up in my inbox earlier each year. Emails beckon me to make brunch reservations or send Mom flowers. What was annoying five years ago is now just a reminder of who is missing in my life. As I approach another Mother’s Day without my mom, thoughts of her last days consume my thoughts.

I know my loss is not unique. There are fellow travelers whose mothers didn’t live as long as mine, but that is little consolation. My mom lived until 88 years old, but it was still too short for me.

My mom wasn’t in ill health — until she was. Like most people in her 80s, she suffered from a litany of ailments that put her into a spiral of complications. Ultimately, she stopped responding to treatment and came home on hospice.

She was my best friend, a term I do not use lightly. Ask anyone who ever saw us laughing at an absurd joke or buying matching sweaters. Today, I treasure the saved voicemails that always start with “it’s your mother” as if I didn’t know.

The weekend before she lapsed into a coma, I was going away for a week to an exotic locale, and she was so excited for me. She wished me a safe trip and told me she couldn’t wait to hear all about it when I returned. I arranged for my brother to spend the weekend and felt reassured that they had plans to go to the beauty shop and watch old movies, something I knew would make my mother happy.

Then everything changed. Frantic calls told me she was in a coma. I raced to her side convinced that as soon as she heard my voice, she would wake up. But this was not a movie ending — it was just the end of life. I stayed by her side, talking to her and playing bits of our favorite movies, to no avail. Four days later, in the middle of night, she passed quietly without ever waking up. Arrangements were made, and alone in her apartment, I wept.

If you are a fellow traveler, go ahead and delete the Mother’s Day promotional emails, cry as long as you want, and then tell one funny story about your mom to a total stranger. I know I will — I have a lifetime of them.

— Janet Williams, Chicago