When It Rains, It Pours:  Goodbye, Mom

From time to time during my life, I’ve contemplated the awful thought of what it would be like when one of my parents passes away. Each time I quickly put it out of my head and refused to even consider it. Unfortunately, I now know how it feels, and it’s come at a fairly “rainy” part of my life. 

I just received the news that my beautiful mother, Kathy, passed away last night. Although she had been having some medical issues, her death was completely unexpected and has stricken me with paralyzing grief. So I will turn to my computer to write and hope to receive some solace from pouring out whatever comes. Bear with me, as this will be raw, disjointed, and maybe even a little weird. I don’t know what it will look like by time I reach the end of this post or even when I will reach the end. I’m not going to edit. There will be a little humor, as I always use large helpings of it when things are rough.

My mom was 70 and was only a few weeks from celebrating her 71st. Although I’m here 9,000 miles away in Africa, I was looking forward to calling her on WhatsApp and singing my usual happy birthday song to her. Because I won’t be able to do that, I’ll go ahead and do it now, and I will do it again each year on her birthday:

               Happy birthday to you,

               You live in a zoo.

               You look like a monkey,

               and you smell like one, too.

For anyone who has attended a birthday party with me, you know that this is indeed how I sing the birthday song. I learned this much more appropriate version in elementary school and refuse to sing the original. Mom always laughed when I sang over the top of everyone else at birthday parties to ensure that they would hear MY WORDS. Ha, enjoy Mom. I will sing for you on your birthday and cry tears of sadness and remembrance.

I am consoled a little to know that Mom passed in her sleep. Peacefully. If anyone deserved to pass that way, it was my Mom. I talked to her just hours before she passed. She was in great spirits, and we laughed much during our call. At the end, we exchanged “I love yous”, and she promised to contact me after she saw a neurologist the next day in Seattle. But a few hours ago I received an urgent text from my brother telling me to call right away. I knew the news before he told me. I FELT it. It was early morning in the States when he texted, and good news doesn’t usually travel during the wee hours of the morning. This was no exception.

A LITTLE ABOUT “BOMB”

I am certain my father will create a wonderful obituary for my mother, but I just want to say a little bit about her. She is my rock and my comfort. During difficult times, she has always been there, unswaying in her determination and support, even when she disagreed with what I was doing. She never let her emotions take control–she was always cool, calm, and collected. She was always positive. ALWAYS. I think I get my eternal optimism gene from her for sure. She would always counsel that despite what dark times may have been hovering over family or friends, it would eventually be okay, and things would improve. She was always right. 

Unfortunately, during this very dark time, I don’t have her to lean on, to cry on her shoulder, to laugh about stupid things with. Her death IS the darkness for me now. The tears flow ceaselessly today, and I know it will be a while before they stop. That’s okay. Mom always said you should cry–let it all out. I’m doing that, Mom. For you and for my family and friends, who lost a wonderful woman today.

Mom was a professional, and her composure served her well in her job. She was an administrator at Juvenile Court for like 40 years or something! I don’t know very many people who can say they held a job at the same place for that long. EVERYONE respected her. I was impressed by her confidence and competence. Even the judges held her in very high regard. I will always be proud of her.  Here are some photos from her retirement party:

She was very active in her church and well-liked. Heck, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like my Mom, or “Bomb” as I call her. I don’t remember exactly how that nickname came about, but I think it happened when I was a kid and had a bad head cold. “Mom” came out sounding like “Bomb,” so there you go. It stuck. 
If you didn’t know my mother, I’m sincerely sorry. She doesn’t qualify for sainthood in her church, but she should. She certainly does in my book. Behold Saint Bomb, the newest angel in Heaven.

BEAUTIFUL FAMILY AND FRIENDS

Although this is a very difficult time, there are bright lights shining all around me: family and friends. Within 30 minutes of finding out, I started receiving emails and text messages from family members, giving support. I also notified my friends in Africa, and they were at my doorstep within 1.5 hours of learning the news. I am so grateful that they dropped everything to check in on me, someone they don’t even know that well. The messages continue to flow in with the tears. I will be forever indebted for the kindness that everyone has shown so far, and for the kindness I know will follow in the approaching hours, weeks, months, and even years.  You honor my mother every time you console those who are left behind. 

I don’t know how long it will take me to “get over” my mother’s death. I don’t think you ever really do. For her sake, I will try to have that calm, levelheadedness that she always exhibited, even during the saddest and most difficult times. Thank you, beautiful friends and family, for loving us now and loving my mother while she was here on this earth.

GOODBYE, BOMB

As I write, it seems appropriate that the last portion of this blog entry be a message to Bomb. So here’s the best I can do for now. There will be much more, but I’ll just whisper it as I think of it, and I know she’ll hear it. 

Bomb, I love you. I told you that last night before I signed off our phone call, and you told me you loved me, too. You sounded so good, so healthy, so happy! You were excited that Snoqualmie Pass had opened up so you could travel to your doctor’s appointment tomorrow (today). We laughed about some other things, and you gave me support for some “stuff” I’m experiencing right now. You tried to find Dad for me to say “hi,” but he was outside. You told me you’d check in today after your appointment to give me the low-down.  I never heard from you. 

I’m so sorry that you didn’t get to see that doctor today. Who knows? Maybe he would’ve figured out what was going on and fixed it. But I can’t think about that because it will drive me crazy. And if you were here, you’d tell me to “relax” and just let nature run its course. You would tell me to accept what happened and rejoice in good memories. I will try, Bomb, but it isn’t going to be easy. In fact, it’s going to be damned near impossible. But I will do it for you.

You were the best Bomb a daughter could ever hope for. But it is just now sinking in that I will never talk to you or hug you again. I will never eat cherry noodles or broccoli cheese casserole that you made just for me. I will miss you so much. Please tell me this isn’t really happening, Bomb.  It’s too much for me to handle. 

I feel lucky that I have no regrets, though, Bomb. Our last encounter was extremely positive and fun, so my final memory of you is fantastic. I got a chance to tell you how much I appreciated you recently. Some people lose close relatives or friends without having a chance to tell them how much they loved and appreciated them. I will cherish that you went to sleep last night for the last time with my love and affection very near. 

I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, but I’ll figure out how to manage. We will honor your memory. By the way, Dad is doing really well. He is very calm and collected–just like you. Did you pass some of your “way” on to Bad [my nickname for Daddy!]? I’m pretty sure you’re an angel sitting on his shoulder right now, comforting him and the rest of us, and giving him the strength to be strong when you can’t be there to do it for us. Thank you.

I’m awash in tears now, Bomb, and my head hurts really badly, so I need to sign off on this blog post and take a hefty dose of ibuprofen. But just know that I love you and will never ever forget you. Help me get through this pain, Bomb. It hurts more than anything I’ve ever experienced–even more than that time when I blew my thumbnail off with a firecracker. I would gladly experience that pain again if it would bring you back. In fact, I would experience it many, many times.

Oh: Give Frampa “hell” in Heaven, Bomb. Tell him I said he’d better behave himself! Also say hi to Nan, Grandpa N, and all the other loved ones and friends we’ve lost over the years. Kick up your heels and rejoice in paradise. You certainly deserve it–you were the best.

Ich liebe dich, meine kleine Mutter. I love you, my little mother. Watch over me. 

-Badger down and out