the things you miss

My mom was known for some pretty fantastic tidbits of advice.

She was a wise woman in so many ways, and she was smarter than most people thought (funny how a thick German accent in southern Missouri will make people think you're dumb), but my mom was not the best mentor when it came to dating.

Mama was eager to have me married off and bearing her grandchildren. She never wanted me to be unhappy, and she never nagged, but every once in awhile her agenda came out in terrible, and terribly funny ways.

When I was frustrated that a serious boyfriend was still protecting his ex, my mom's advice was, "Why don't you just get pregnant so he'll marry you?"

Good job, Mom.

And when I was missing that boyfriend months after we'd broken up, rather than consoling me, Mom said, "You should just go over to his house now and propose."

Even better.

That was my mom. She wanted to see me be a mom, and she wanted to know those kids. Badly enough that in later years she thought the quality of the man wasn't nearly as important as the grandchild he might give her.

She wasn't serious - not completely. But she didn't filter herself. (I mean - we all knew I had to get that from somewhere.)

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. That same ex was up at the ski house with his new girlfriend while I was there. I played it cool and was very nice to both of them, but when I went to bed I lost my shit. I found myself crying and reading through old emails, and I stumbled across the ones where I shared my mom's "wisdom" with my sister.

And then I really lost it.

In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to call my mom and hear whatever crazy piece of guidance she had to offer. I wanted to hear tell me to make a scene, or go dump cold water on his head, or profess my (non-existent) love to him. I'm sure whatever I can think of that she would say wouldn't compare to the amazing gem she would have actually given me.

And THAT is one of the things I miss the most.

a thousand goodbyes

A year ago today I spoke to my mother for the last time.

I'm not sure she could hear me, and I'm not sure she could understand me if she did. She sounded like a very drunk person on the phone - someone on the verge of passing out, but trying to talk to you. The encephalopathy in her brain had taken over, and I knew it was only a matter of time before her body shut down, as well. 

I remember what I told her. I told her I loved her over and over, and I told her it was okay to let go. I told her I would be okay, that she didn't need to worry about her children - that we would all be okay. I told her it was okay.

I lied. 

More on that later. 

This had happened three times in the preceding 4 months. The first time, we thought she had a stroke. We were thankful to find out that wasn't the case, but the truth wasn't much better. Her congestive heart failure, accelerated by an infection that sent her into septic shock and almost killed her in October, was slowly depriving her body of oxygen. The other times it happened, she was rushed to the hospital and placed on BiPAP, and the encephalopathy quicky resolved. 

By January, however, my mom had had enough. She called me to tell me that they wanted to move her to a specialized facility where she would remain on a ventilator - her biggest fear and the one thing she consistently told me she didn't want to do. She told me that she didn't want that - that she wanted to go home. We agreed that she would return to the nursing home she had just moved into to spend her final days with her husband. I flew home to move her and spend the remaining time with her. 

The doctors told me it could be a few hours or a few days, but not likely more than a week or two. I set her up with hospice and helped her with all the things she wanted to do before she died. She wanted a bowl of these terrible candies I couldn't stand, a domino's pizza, and all the diet coke she could drink. She talked to her siblings in Germany. She asked me to bring her the paper she liked so she could write letters to people. 

She never did write those letters.

Mom immediately got better after arriving back at the nursing home. Her oxygen levels maintained without the ventilator, and she felt good enough to get out of bed and take her wheelchair to the dining room to show off her daughter to her new friends. We watched tv together and talked about plans. She talked about getting healthy enough to walk again and I asked her if she wanted me to get a red hat to join the home's red hat ladies club. She definitely didn't. 

I had heard from enough people that when someone is dying, they frequently get better right before they pass. That happened with my father, and I thought it was happening now. So I extended my trip home. I decided I would stay until she died. 

But she didn't die. She kept getting better. She had energy. She made jokes. She yelled at me for all the things I threw out when I cleaned out her house. She nagged me to marry the boy I was seeing who had the German last name. She let me fix her hair. We even had a photo session where she learned (kinda) where to look on the phone for a selfie!



She was happy. 

Almost three weeks after she decided she didn't want anymore treatment, we also decided I should return to San Francisco. She was doing fine. The doctors said it might be months before something else happened. I had already taken 8 weeks of unpaid time off at a job I started 3 weeks before Mom got sick. I was paying for so many of the bills that me losing that income was more of a factor than I would have liked. I was also scared that maybe Mom was just hanging on for me. I wanted her to hang on for me, but I didn't want her to fight through something if it was really her time to go. I struggled with the decision for a while before I finally booked a return flight. 

We talked about death. We talked about how this might be the last time we saw each other. We talked about what she wanted. I knew that I might never see her again - that the next call might be the last call. But I didn't really KNOW it. I made plans to come back and see her in March - a mere 5 weeks away. 

As I left her room after telling her goodbye and hugging her about a thousand times, I heard her call my name. I will forever remember her voice in that moment. 

I turned back, "yes, Mama?"
She looked at me with skepticism, "If you want to get me a red hat, make it a really funky one."

That was my Mama.

I promised, we laughed, and I went back and did the hugging goodbye ritual another few times before I finally left.

I called her as soon as we landed, and we talked the whole way home. We spoke every day for the next 11 days. I could tell she was getting a little more tired, but she was doing okay. And then she wasn't. 

I noticed on the 9th that she seemed a little more tired than normal and she wasn't responding fully. On the 10th I could tell the encephalopathy was taking over her brain again. 

On the 11th I talked to her for the last time. 

I tried to call her on the 12th, but her phone was busy. I called my sister instead. As I was telling my sister that I was ready because I didn't want Mom to hurt anymore, as I was telling my sister that I wanted this to be over, as I was fooling myself into thinking that it could ever really be over, I was telling my sister that I had already said goodbye, and that I could only say goodbye so many times - I got a call from my brother. Mom had just passed as her husband held her phone to her ear with my brother on the other end of the line.

Mom died knowing how much we all loved her. She died knowing that we all had good lives and people who loved us. She died having taken control of the decision and having chosen not to suffer more than she already had.

But she also died with me having just lied to her.

I told her I would be okay. 

I'm not okay. 

I honestly don't know if I'll ever be okay again. Or maybe I'll just find a new definition of "okay".

 

It's been a year since I last told her I loved her. I wish I could say it again and again and again. It's been a year since I told her goodbye. It's been a year since I believed I had said goodbye more times than I could.

Today, a year later, I wish I could say goodbye to my mama again. I wish I could say it every day and never have it be the last one. I wish for a thousand more goodbyes.

habits aren't easy to break

Last night I felt the weight of losing my mom more than I thought was possible at this point.

My mom and I didn't always talk at regular times. She'd call me every Saturday morning super early, forgetting the time difference, and I'd let it go to voicemail and call her back sometime within the next couple of days. We'd call each other when something happened or we just needed to talk. But we never had a standing phone call.

We did, however, start our own tradition of always talking before and after flights. When I started flying pretty regularly in 2006, Mom would always worry a bit. So I called her on the way to the airport, and I always ALWAYS called her when I touched down back at SFO. The cab drive back into the city was OUR time. It was a reminder that coming home to SFO was also coming HOME. Sometimes it felt maybe a bit annoying that I needed to report in, but mostly I cherished that time with my mom.

When I was flying to Malaysia or Thailand or China every other week, we spent hours on the phone before and after my flights. Even when I was dead exhausted, that call home was my top priority. I loved sharing my adventures with Mom and hearing about her life that I'd missed while I was way. 

When I flew home from the Funeral at the end of February, I cried as I landed because there was nobody to call. It hit me hard and I spent the next week wallowing in bed (and sick as a dog from some airplane bug).

I haven't flown since then. Until last week.

I recognized the temptation to call Mom on the way to OAK to head out on this trip. But I also was aware enough to realize I couldn't. I let myself feel sad for a moment, and then I moved on.

Last night was different. Last night I was exhausted. It had been a long flight in with tons of turbulence and a 30 minute delay on the tarmac. I was tired and fuzzy and not really thinking. As soon as I got into the cab to take me home, I picked up the phone and hit speed dial on my mom's number.

As it rang I realized my mistake, but I couldn't hang up. I needed to hear that out of service message on the other end. I needed to hear the finality of it. And then I lost my shit.

After all these months, my first instinct upon returning to SFO is still to call Mom. To tell her I'm okay. To find out how she is. To tell her I love her.

It's heartbreaking. It's gut wrenching and it has thrown off my whole day today. I'm not very good at functioning while trying not to cry all over my computer.

But I hope that impulse NEVER goes away.

the benefits of never deleting voicemails

My mom left me practically the same voicemail every week. Thankfully, I didn't delete them manually, so I still have the last few before she got too sick to leave them.


I've been listening to my little playlist of 2 and 3 second Mom snippets for the last half hour.

I only wish I had more.

an unusual birthday present

I picked out a casket like I would shop for any other large purchase. I went into it thinking I wanted a rich wood casket. Unfortunately, caskets are ridiculously expensive. The cheapest wood option was over almost four thousand and was not what I would call “rich”-looking. The cheapest casket of all was just under a grand and was literally a dark black metal box. It looked like an ugly safe. The funeral director patiently walked me through the catalog so that I could view the metal choices in between those two price points. The online system had a terrible user interface and all I could think was how I could help them fix this so that grieving families didn’t have to suffer through the horrible waiting times during all the clicks it took to view each option. We clicked (and clicked and clicked) through the slate grey and cheesy blue options for almost an hour. I didn't cry. I didn't waver. I shopped. I planned. I managed the situation as I would handle any professional project. I settled on a warm tan casket that had a wooden feel at nowhere near the price and moved on to choose the flowers, the programs, and the guest book. After I confirmed everything with my siblings, the funeral director brought in the paperwork so I could sign on the dotted line. 

The problem with signing things is that you have to enter the date. I can never remember the date. Even if I've written it a gajillion times that day, even if I've been monitoring my calendar like crazy - I can never remember the date when it comes time to sign a form. This time, though, it flowed out without me thinking. 

2/17

My mom's birthday. 

I wrote it without thinking. I wrote it knowing the significance, but without it hitting me until I filled in the year.

1943

Over the past several months, I had become so used to filling in my mom's birth date, that I couldn't write 2/17 without filling in her birth year. I looked down at the papers and realized my mistake. My chest tightened and for just a second I wondered if I could take another breath. The air felt like tar seeping and blocking my lungs from filling. I had just purchased my mom's casket on what would have been her 72nd birthday. 

I scratched out 1943 and wrote in 2015, wondering briefly if the blurred wet ink would be a problem. The funeral director must have thought I was having trouble with the date because he helpfully chimed in, "It's the 17th."

I looked up at him through tears for the first time and made a horrible imitation of a real smile.

"I know."

pure self-indulgence

It has been almost two months, and I have yet to write about my mother.

I know a lot of people process emotions by writing. My challenge is that I process them by talking to people, but I don't internalize them and really feel them until I spend time with them on my own. When I try to write in my journal and keep this to myself, I end up cheating myself. I tend to use a short hand that I expect future Monika to understand. I write a prompt, and then I get caught up in that one thought or distracted by life and I never come back to it. Writing here is different. It's terribly self-indulgent and probably narcissistic, but it forces me to follow through on my thoughts and actually deal with whatever I'm feeling.  

I'm posting this disclaimer of sorts to explain why I’m choosing to share so much in such a public way – why I always do, really – but why it is particularly important now.  I haven’t yet really cried over my mother’s death, or the last few months of her life. I’ve had little spurts, but I’ve shoved them aside. I have yet to honestly grieve, and I feel like I need to start. Now. 

Soon.

Capital One Handles Account Holder Death with Grace and Assurance

I know most of us think of credit card companies as awful - and I agree they often are. But today I encountered a human and surprisingly ethical side of Capital One that I had to share.

I called the bank to tell them that my mother had passed away, fully expecting them to ask me to pay the balance on her cards. Other debtors have already tried to push me into paying her debts, even though legally I'm personally not responsible for any of these financial obligations. I thought Capital One would be the worst. Obviously I was wrong or I wouldn't be writing this post.

First of all, they have a dedicated line that when you call, they know you have lost someone. Meaning - that person on the other end is prepared for what you are dealing with and knows how to handle it right away. The first thing she said to me was that she was sorry for my loss and she wanted to make the process as simple as possible - before I even told her why I was calling. They don't require a death certificate, which makes things so much easier, and the process wrapped up in about 2 minutes. The other 3-5 minutes or so were the representative expressing her condolences, and then the thing that surprised me:

Rather than trying to get me to pay, the representative firmly stated that I am not responsible for the balance. Only the estate, if there is an estate, is responsible, and I should not make any payments to any creditors holding accounts in my mother's name. She reiterated this several times.

I knew this already, but I thought I was going to have to be the one defending that. I was so surprised that someone representing a large bank would be so adamant about my rights.

So thank you, Capital One, for making this easier. And for making sure you're not exploiting grieving families.

Normal exchange at mom's house

mom: Judge Judy is on!
mom's husband: that smart-mouthed woman
me: there's nothing wrong with a smart-mouthed woman
mom's husband: oh we've got miss women's lib over here
mom: yeah, and who do you think taught her that?

Dad Stories

My aunt posted this lovely response to the video I posted of my dad singing Hound Dog. This is so like him, and it's heartwarming to know that the video wasn't of him singing some unknown version of the song, but his own application of the lyrics:

While Kenny was working at Hawkins Petroleum Equipment Co., every now and then when everything was quiet in the office, he would cut loose with the actual rendition of "Hounddog", about as loud as he could. It would certainly wake us all up! Then one day he was experimenting and found that the words to "Hounddog" would lend themselves to several familiar gospel tunes. I think the only tune that he couldn't get to work with the "Hounddog" words was "Amazing Grace". Fortunately. That's my story for today.

My favorite part of this is her the "Fortunately." I love my family.

Family Song Circles

I just found this video of my dad singing the original version of "Hound Dog" with my aunt. This is definitely a treasure, and I wanted to share.

Just Another Day

This morning I was sitting in my office producing a report that I update each week. As I changed the date, I was hit with the reminder that my dad's birthday is tomorrow.

October 19. Tomorrow. Dad's birthday. 

The best way I can think to describe what happened in that instant is that the reminder somehow physically and mentally knocked the wind out of me. I felt like I'd just taken a hard fall. I couldn't inhale or exhale. Time just stopped for a minute.

October 19.

I don't think I actually realized that I had stopped breathing until I finally heard myself gasp a bit for that next breath. I had to go into a meeting, so I told myself it was just another day, shoved it back down, and went on with my work.

~~~

I don't understand why it happened so suddenly. For the last week I've been informing people of an October 19 deadline, creating meetings for Wednesday, and discussing timelines. It just hadn't occurred to me yet. Now, though, even typing it hurts.

~~~

My dad and I didn't talk all that much, but October 19 was different. Even if we were really upset with one another or our lives were so busy we couldn't make time, I always called him on his birthday.

My dad would have been 73 tomorrow. I would have called him and asked him what he did for his birthday. Most likely he would have just had a nice lunch at home and spent time on the farm - like any other day. I'd tell him to make sure and treat himself to something special, and he'd tell me that my brother and sister called and pass along updates. After a pause in the conversation he'd slowly say, "Well, I reckon I better get off here," and we'd end the call with assurances that we'd keep in better touch.  For a few days after the call, we'd text each other quite a bit. The quick hellos and silly dad jokes would come less frequently as my response time increased over the following week or two. I'd let it slide knowing that we'd have another call on Thanksgiving for sure. I would feel a little badly that we didn't talk more, but I'd get wrapped up in my life and move on.

But tomorrow we won't do that. We can't do that. Tomorrow is October 19, and for the first time in my life that day will pass without my talking with him. 

I'm trying to tell myself it's just another day. It is, ultimately. 

And yet, looking at that date, 

October 19

I just can't breathe.