Home at last

Parents are precious things

My mother died Jan. 11, 2019. She lived for 91 years; 13 years longer than the current average of Americans.

Earlier on that day, I visited with her in the ICU. She was heavily sedated, not doing well. Old age had finally caught up with her. It was 5:30 in the afternoon and my wife and I left to go home after spending the day there. The hospital is a 20-minute drive from my house. No sooner had we gotten home and settled, a nurse called my cell phone and said we needed to come back to the hospital.

That was all the information we received; even when I asked if she took a turn for the worst, she repeated that we need to come back immediately. I knew deep down what was going on, but couldn’t accept it.

We rushed back and took the elevator to her floor, and we were greeted by the nurse right before we entered my mom’s room. She then told us what we suspected. I pushed the door open and, with my wife in tow, entered the darkened room, and saw my mom.

She had a peaceful look on her face. Maybe a slight smile? She looked comfortable. A feeling of relief suddenly overwhelmed me, as I knew she wasn’t suffering anymore. I spoke to her softly, telling her how much I loved her. I bent over and gave her a kiss on her cheek.

A few minutes after our arrival, my older brother and his wife showed up. All four of us were standing around my mom, confused and not saying anything to each other. It was like we didn’t know what to say. Just nodding at each other at the acceptance that our dear Mom had passed. After a short time of small talk, we filtered out of the room to go to the nurse’s station and make arrangements.

Mom, well, was Mom. Mom the protector, Mom the wise one. The only Mom I knew. The only Mom who guided, nurtured, and looked after me. The Mom who corrected me when I made decisions that Mom deemed were “sketchy,” such as lying when I told her I had done my homework when actually I was talking on the telephone with my girlfriend, or had done household chores I was charged with that weren’t done. This includes, well, almost everything I did “wrong” as a typical rebellious teenager growing up in my parents’ household.

Mom always had my and my older brothers’ best interests at hand, as any mother does. I just didn’t realize it then. Oh boy, I do now. I can’t help but think that all children at one time or another think of their parents as “teachers” because of their age and wisdom. Then when we turn 14-15 years old, we kids think we know it all and don’t need their advice anymore.

Of course, later on, we realize how wrong we were to assume that. Funny how that is.

Mom was very smart. Reminiscing, I didn’t realize how intelligent and forthright she was until later in life. After all, she was my mom. I thought everybody had one. When I moved out of my parents’ house and experienced “life” on my own, it then hit me that Mom was right all along when trying to raise me wholesome and make me pick better choices along my path.

No one, or no one I personally know, ever thinks there will come a time when both parents had passed. I certainly didn’t, and I asked my brothers the same and they confirmed what I always thought. Dad passed away seven years ago, leaving us boys and his wife to grieve. Mom was very comforting to us boys and helped us have closure. Hey, at least we had Mom left! Hooray!

We never thought we would lose another parent any time soon.

Mom had pre-arranged, like Dad, to have her remains sent to the UAMS Anatomical Gift Program. Without sounding gruesome, bodies are essential in research and as a teaching aid for future doctors, surgeons, etc. It is a wonderful program, and everyone should at least consider it upon their demise.

Mom, like Dad, wished to have her remains cremated upon completion of the anatomical program. A year had passed before her ashes would come back to UAMS for me to pick up. I was excited to go pick Mom up and have her cremated remains interred next to my father’s remains, as she wished.

As I went to the designated area to pick up her ashes, a very nice lady delivered them to me in the waiting room and gave very sincere thanks and condolences to me for Mom’s donation. I thanked her and departed the building.

As I was walking to the parking lot with Mom’s remains in both arms, it hit me like a ton of bricks. An epiphany, so to speak. I was holding the box of ashes, actually Mom, cradling it like a mother would cradle her own baby. I was now cradling Mom.

I got very emotional with every step I took in the parking lot. Tears ran down my face. When I arrived at my car, I carefully put the box containing her ashes in the passenger seat and strapped the seatbelt around it. After all, she insisted I strap up too when driving with her.

Who would ever think they would cradle a parent much like the parent who cradled you? The phrase “from the cradle to the grave” came to mind; so did déjà vu. But was it really? Or was that “moment” a reminder of how precious parents can be?

I now know the answer.