Jill's Journal: The call
It was the call I that I knew would one day come.
And the words the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone was saying will long be engrained in my mind.
“I’m sorry to tell you that your mother passed away this morning.”
Those words stung.
My heart hurt.
And tears flowed from my eyes.
In that moment, I knew my life was forever changed.
No longer will the woman who I’ve long considered my best friend be just a phone call away or a 105-minute drive down the road.
No longer will I walk through her door and announce, “Mom, I’m home.”
No longer will we share laughs at the kitchen table or decide what we should have for supper that night.
No longer will my eyes water when it’s time to say our good-byes from a weekend trip to enjoy the special times that only a mother and daughter can share.
It was just over a month ago when mom called me on a Monday morning at work to tell me she no longer had the strength or energy to live on her own. That announcement came as surprise. I had talked to her only hours before, and all was well. She was happy her prized Minnesota Vikings had won that day, and was excited to have received a visit from my nephew Ben and his girlfriend, Ashley, that day.
The call came just a few weeks after a PET scan revealed a large tumor – the size of a fist – that had gone from her lungs to heart. In the weeks to follow, the tumor invaded her breast. And mom began to become a shell of a woman, as her world was confined to her bedroom, the bathroom and the living room. These rooms are all within close proximity and were all the further that she could maneuver by using the aid of a walker.
We enlisted the help of an in-home hospice program, and my sister-in-law, Chris, graciously stepped up to care for mom in the comfort of her home the past three weeks.
Every week when I visited, I watched her energy decline and her appetite lessen. She slept a lot and spent hours daily in a recliner. I hated leaving her each week and I know she was sad to see me go. But she was always understanding of the work I needed to do. She often told me of how proud she was of the newspaper that I created from the ground up and looked forward to getting a copy of the Brandon Valley Journal in her mailbox every week.
Today, my brother and I are making funeral plans for my mom. As I walked into her home this morning, it felt empty. The usual noise of the machine that gave her the oxygen she needed to breathe was silent. The TV wasn’t tuned into her favorite channel – 109 – which was re-runs of old game shows from the 1970s that I often teased her about.
We will soon disconnect her landline. For the first time in over 50-some years, no longer will I hear that familiar, “Hello, Jill.”
But I do have my memories – lots of them – and I’ll treasure each and every one of them, from the giggles at the kitchen table over a cocktail or two to the last time I hugged and kissed her good-bye and told her that I loved her. Yes, my heart hurts and the tears I’m pretty sure will continue to roll down my face over the next days and weeks to come. Because she was my mom and my best friend.
