Missing Her

It doesn’t matter how you old you are, or how much time you’ve had with your mom or dad…you are never ready to lose a parent. Watching a parent age or struggle with dementia or a terminal illness, or losing them suddenly, is a difficult reality to face. I know. My mom died unexpectedly when I was 24, and it took me years to find my way through the devastation of the loss of her. The first time I wrote publicly about my mom’s death was nearly 7 years ago. After a decade, I finally felt strong enough to describe those first hours and days around her death. I felt like I needed to speak…to give voice to myself and others struggling with death in a society that pushes us forward and operates on a “just move on and get over it” response to loss. We never get over it. We simply learn to live without that person. Talking about my mom’s death brought further healing to my life and also set me on a course of helping others through loss and death as a hospice Chaplain. Some days are challenging, but I absolutely love what I do. And, I know my own experience informs my approach to supporting and comforting patients and families though the last season of one’s life.

A Cup of Coffee
September 17, 2012

It’s been ten years. Ten……..years. Sometimes I wish I could forget that day….a day that changed my life so drastically. I can still recall the details and feelings as though it were yesterday. I remember being startled awake by a firm knock at my door, my eyes staring into the serious face of a security guard standing on the other side. I trembled as my heavy legs made their way down the hall and staircase to the nearest telephone, my heart breaking along the way. I had never felt so alone. And as I reached the telephone, I already knew. I dialed the numbers anyway, hoping my older sister’s words would tell me that my intuition was wrong.

It felt like I was experiencing life’s deepest cruelty as I made my way home on flights from Philadelphia to Chicago to Sioux Falls. I remember standing in those security lines and sitting in those waiting areas, announcements blaring from the loudspeakers while hundreds of people bustled about. I sat alone. I found myself trying to make sense of a new reality as tears spilled down my cheeks in a continuous stream. The people around me couldn’t possibly know what was going on, but I’m certain my face communicated sadness and pain. For them, it was just a typical day of work and travel. For me, it was a day I would never forget. It was the day my mom died.

There is a portrait that will always remain planted in my mind, the first image my eyes captured that day as I opened the front door to the house that would now be referred to as “my dad’s house.” I can still see my younger sister sitting at our family’s kitchen table, completely alone, her face buried in her hands. Recalling this image still brings tears to my eyes. Many meals were shared at that table. But I think it’s the countless unplanned table moments each of us shared with our mom, our one-on-one conversations about life and faith, which have carried the most meaning. In that long ago moment, as I looked upon my sister, I realized our family’s time around the table would never look nor feel the same. My sister was sitting alone at the table, waiting for Mom to join her.

I miss sitting with my mom at the table. We would ask and share anything and everything with one another. She engaged with attentiveness and wisdom and unconditional love. I didn’t acquire a taste for coffee until after she died [two words: graduate school]. I know my mom and I would have enjoyed many coffee chats over the years. Much has happened in my life….there are so many things I’d like to tell her and so many questions I’d like to ask. Today my heart is overwhelmed as I recall our many meaningful conversations around the table, and I can’t help but smile at the beautiful memories of my mom’s presence and laughter and love.