Fourteen years ago today, at about 10:00 in the late evening, my precious little Mama left this horrible world. Many times over these years, well meaning people have told me how sorry they are for having lost Mama. I know they don’t mean any harm, but I’m always quick to correct them. You see, to say one has “lost” something implies one has no idea where the object or person they are concerned about is located. It is missing from existence as far as they can tell. Now this next little part won’t sit well with any atheists or agnostics or members of any other religion, so if you feel offended or need to avoid triggering, just scroll on by and be done with it. Having said that, I know exactly where my Mama is right now. She’s where she’s been for the last fourteen years: she’s sitting at the nail-scarred feet of Jesus listening to Him talk about whatever it is He talks about currently. She can breathe easily and not gasp for breath because of COPD. She is free from the constant pain that plagued much of her later years. Most of all, she is happy, and Mama wasn’t happy much of the time because of the life she led. So yes, she’s not lost. I just can’t see her or hear her voice, and as much as I would love to see her again and hear her speak to me, I wouldn’t recall her to this miserable place even if I could. I’ll just have to wait my turn.

The last fourteen years haven’t been easy. I guess I’ve traversed the stages of grief about a hundred times in this period. I sometimes still feel in denial that she’s gone. Next to Budge, Mama was the most important person in my life. For the first twenty-five years of my life, she held pride of place. She was my rock in the storms life threw at us. For twenty years it was just the two of us making our way. I could always count on Mama and I tried to make sure she could always count on me. That’s why, on that dark day fourteen years ago, I told the nurse to disconnect all the various monitors and forced air machines. Mama’s eyes fluttered open and I told her I loved her, I was going to keep my promise to her, and that she would be in her new home in time for whatever celebration they have in Heaven on Easter.

Mama was terrified of smothering to death. She was on oxygen, and it helped some, but she still had a hard time breathing. Years of smoking and working in textile mills had taken their toll on her lungs and they could no longer sustain her. I asked, then begged, the pulmonologist to use one of my lungs for a transplant. I had to be a match. I was half her. He shook his head no, and I still don’t know why. He never explained. Anyway, I promised Mama when she went on oxygen that I wouldn’t let her smother to death, that I’d end things before it got that far. So I did. The nurse, with a consult with the doctor and a palliative care team, began administering small doses of morphine. They don’t do for humans like they do for our beloved pets and give us one shot to take us through the veil. I don’t know why. I’m sure some of you may. Mama went back to sleep and I left for a little while. I came back in the early afternoon with Budge.

At that point, Mama was in and out of consciousness, but she managed to open her eyes wide one last time and I told her for the last time that I loved her. She told me in a whisper that she loved me, then she closed her eyes. The doses of morphine got much bigger and closer together after that until, about 10:00 PM, she slipped away. I was holding her foot because Budge was holding her hand and our cousin Rhonda, who was almost like a daughter to Mama, was holding her other hand. She just got very still, so I went in the hall and told a nurse, and she came in and listened to Mama’s heart, shook her head, gave me a sad smile and told me she was gone.

I land on the stage of anger a lot, and I’ll tell you why. Mama only got sixty years. She was two days from being three months past her sixtieth birthday. She had a co-worker, who happened to be the father of one of my former students, who often said that lots of people were going around breathing the air other people should be breathing. For good or bad, that’s how I feel. Mama was the sweetest person imaginable and she got sixty years when there’s people who are vile to the core and they get seventy and eighty years. It makes me irate at the gross unfairness of it all. I feel anger often with no good target to put it on because it’s no one’s fault ultimately. Death follows life and none of us know how long we will have. One thing is certain, unless Jesus returns soon, everyone reading this is going to die. We can’t get away from it.

I don’t bargain anymore. As a matter of fact, I did all my bargaining when Mama was in the hospital leading up to her death. I made the Lord a boatload of promises, but I knew when I was saying it that it was no use. He doesn’t work that way. He has His plan and He feels no need whatsoever to let us know what it is. So I sit with the stage of depression. Some days I still pick up my phone to call her before I think. I dream about her sometimes, but she’s always angry with me and I never know why. Budge is extremely understanding of my continued grief, but she worries. I’ve had several people tell me it’s been a long time and I need to move on past this. I try. I just haven’t managed to do it. I’ve never gotten to acceptance, which I know is foolish, but it’s how I feel and I just can’t bring myself to lie to myself about that.

Fourteen years. In a way, it seems a long time ago, but in other ways, just a few minutes. I cherish her memory and look at what few pictures I have of her. She hated having her picture taken. I do what I can and the pain really isn’t as sharp as it once was, but the long and the short of it is, I miss her, and when March 25th comes around, I can’t help but feel the pain again. I am her only child and she has no siblings and I never gave her grandchildren so when I’m gone, no one will remember her. She’ll just be a bronze marker in a sea of others. I guess that’s the way it’s meant to be sometimes.

As for y’all, know that I love you always. Be safe, enjoy the Spring, and keep your feel clean.