About my mom

Twenty-six years ago today, my mom passed away due to complications caused by anorexia, and I miss her today as much as I did the moment she took her last breath. I still remember so many details of that day. It was a Thursday. I was wearing my favorite grey pants and a pink sweater with a white turtleneck underneath. My shoes were funky but comfortable black platform shoes that made me look so tall. I had taken a turkey sandwich with me to school, but since my lunch and planning period were back to back, I decided to run to the hospital to visit my mom instead of eat.

We all knew these were the last days. She had slipped back into a coma and wasn’t waking up. Her 88-pound body—swollen with fluid retention—was so hard to look at. She was fifty-two but looked eighty-two. When I arrived, my dad and grandparents were already in the room. If all three of them were there at once, it meant something. We usually staggered shifts so no one had to stay all day. Overlapping schedules signaled a deeper truth.

Against my own will, I returned to school for the second part of the day, but I was laser-focused on getting back to the hospital as quickly as possible. No one told me I had to hurry back; I think we all just understood what was happening without saying anything out loud.

As I made my way to my classroom, one of my colleagues stopped me in the lounge to ask me about an Austrian play. It was clearly not the right time, but I attempted a polite response. Others intervened, interrupting his question, because they could read the sadness in my eyes. They knew. Another moment where words weren't needed.

When I returned to the ICU waiting room after school, more friends and family had gathered. This was something I used to appreciate deeply about my family. No matter what, we showed up. We all showed up. I can’t say that anymore. I think that philosophy died with my mom.

For the next couple of hours, we took turns going in and out of her room, holding her hand, and talking softly to her. I cried every time. I wanted her pain to end, but I did not want to let go. I didn’t want my dad to have to let go. I didn’t want to see my grandmother trying to pretend she was strong. I didn’t like any of it.

My mom’s body had been fighting hard for many years, always trying to repair itself. But her mind couldn't meet her body in the same place. She simply couldn’t eat. She couldn’t stop crying. She couldn’t find the joy she once had.

Around 6:15 p.m., a group of us stood at her bedside when I noticed her heart monitor struggling to register her stats. A close family friend who was also a nurse caught my eye. Her tears doubled. “You know, don’t you?” she asked. I nodded, and I felt my whole body break.

She sent her oldest son to the cafeteria to get my grandparents, who had gone to grab a quick bite to eat after skipping meals all day. It felt like I blinked and they were back in the room with us. The nurse returned multiple times to adjust the pulse oximeter, switching it from finger to finger, hoping for a better reading. It was futile.

Just after 6:30 p.m. on December 9, 1999, my mom took her last breath. It was a moment we had been waiting for for years, and yet a moment none of us were truly ready for. I was twenty-four and suddenly without a mom. I wanted her back the instant she left. My mind raced, my heart pounded, and I was sweating and shaking, barely able to stand. We took turns holding her hand, saying final goodbyes, and hugging one another before stepping out of the room.

There was a strange magnetism pulling me back toward her. My grandparents had to walk on each side of me to help sever that pull. Somehow we all knew we could only do this together; none of us could do it alone.

In the years since her death, I have told myself countless stories to try to make sense of it all. Life experiences offer us lessons, ones that shape who we become. Her death provided me with an opportunity to reflect, to hypothesize, to understand, though none of it fills the space she left. I asked God why and repeatedly answered the question myself. 

The truth is this: I have now lived more of my life without my mom than with her. As I approach the age she was when she passed away, I feel sick. In my head, I’m still twenty-four. That moment cemented me there somehow.

And regardless of the years that have passed, I have not spent a single day without her love in my heart.