Missing Mom

          It's my birthday. It's also a year since I last talked to my mom. She called to wish me a happy birthday, and at my husband's instigation, they sang "Happy Birthday" to me, Doug standing by my side and Mom on the phone, her voice growing stronger as the song progressed.

            My mom died in the dark hours of early morning two days later, before we had even begun our planned trip to see her. It was the birthday of one of her younger sisters, who had died twenty-two years earlier, and of her youngest granddaughter.

            I last saw my mom about ten days before she died. The final month of her life was a blur, from driving through the night to see her twelve hours after she went into ICU, to settling her into a rehab center, to another emergency hospital admission, to hospice in my brother and sister-in-law's home, several hours from our home. Just shy of ninety-two, her intellect remained stunning to the end, and she'd lived on her own for the nearly ten years since my dad had died, but her heart was plumb worn out.           

            I cut tall white calla lilies from our garden that I placed across Mom's heart when we arrived at my brother's. I wasn't sure I wanted to see Mom dead, but I didn't want to wonder later if maybe I should have. I had a good cry. My younger son, who had arrived before me, came in, and we had a good cry and talk together. After a while, I pulled him into my lap, never mind he's a grown man and towers over me; I needed to be his mother. My nephew said the lilies helped him feel at peace when he went in to see his grandma.

            I told my siblings I need a third parent. My sister was with our dad when he died. My brother was with our mother. I was hours away both times. But at least I shared a long, long hug with Mom the first night she was in ICU; I got to enjoy all the grandkids and great-grandkids who came to see her during her last month; Mom sang to me on my birthday; and Mom suffered little and was intellectually strong until the end—what more blessings could one wish for.

            I don't know what I saw, sensed, or heard in Marshall's a week or so ago that made me suddenly aware it has been a year since I last saw my mom. The sensation of missing her seems to happen frequently, then not at all. Occasionally when thinking of her, I laugh. Sometimes, like the day in Marshall's, I feel like I'm going to hyperventilate. More often than not, I think of something I want to tell Mom or ask her, then remember she's not there anymore to pick up the phone and take it on what always seemed like a long journey to her ear before she said Hello.

            I remember my dad saying decades after his mother died, "I miss her still." My mom could be frustrating, annoying, selfish, unbelievably stubborn. My siblings and I tell our own children to call us on it if we ever behave similarly as we age; I think they smile knowingly at us. All the ways Mom could get to me slid away with her, and now, I just miss her. I miss discussing books and teaching with her. I miss watching her concentrate on a crossword. I miss laughing at her amazing ability to pronounce a French word ten different ways in her attempts to get it right. I miss her tender moments. I miss the connection she gave me to Dad. I miss her utter love for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I miss her intellect. I miss her stories about family and friends from now and long ago. I miss her enthusiasm for golf. I miss talking with her.

            Mother's Day last week began with Doug's loving voice wishing me a Happy Mother's Day, as he rubbed my back like my mom used to do. Next was Earl Grey tea with warm milk, reading a book in my favorite morning spot on the living room couch, with the early sunlight and a cool breeze filtering in through the shades. Earlier that week, I'd decided that since I don't have a mother, I'd send Mother's Day cards to my relatives. My emotional brainstorm having arrived late, the cards were tardy, but so what—and the thank yous were wonderful.

            A Mother's Day card from my older son awaited our return home from UCLA this week, where Doug's brother had heart surgery. It was good to have family and friends there, along with a gazillion electronic devices, to pass the twelve hours before he was in ICU and everyone could heave a gigantic sigh of relief. During the wait, I kept having visions of Mom last year at this time, along with memories of Dad in various hospitals due to his heart problems. Being able to be outside on a beautiful campus in perfect weather reading a book was a good salve for all the emotions.

            My birthday began yesterday with a card from my older son. My younger son was going to visit, but I called him off when he admitted he and his wife had not been at home for the weekend in a month and she is leaving town Monday on business. My husband woke me today with song. There have been text messages and internet birthday cards and phone calls. I cried through the first few minutes of my phone call with my sister. I share my birthday with a good friend's now nine-year-old daughter, who wants to know when we are going to celebrate our birthday.

            My birthday will always have the memory now of my mom singing to me on the phone, of the last time we spoke. Today I was awake at the time Mom gave birth to me, just after midnight, sixty-two years ago. Just like I felt part of me died with her, I felt how so much of her dwells in me, a part of the great chain of life.

            A miniature pink calla lily from my parents' yard bloomed in our yard for the first time just before Mother's Day. Yesterday, a second pink bloom, on a neighboring plant, joined it.