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April 2, 1976
Well, it’s been a minute as they say. Today is April 2, 2026. Lots of things going on in the world but you don’t need my opinion. We have too many opinions right now that have caused a huge divide among friends, family, strangers. Let’s leave it at that and hope and pray we find a way to come together before its too late.
Today being April 2, 2026 is the 50th year of my mom’s death. It still feels surreal after all these years, no–decades even. I can still see her in her final hour lying in the hospital bed at Valley General. She was skeletal thin but still had thick black hair. Horse hair is how she used to describe it. The nurse gently told me she was unable to get a blood pressure. I had just turned 22 a few days earlier and was ignorant as to what that even meant. Mom was awake but almost frantic with her words. She said vehemently, “I forgive everybody. I forgive everybody.” At the time I was a little irritated. After all, I had been taking care of her for months, changing her bandages, feeding her, sharing the baby’s room with her. So what was to forgive? Yes, I took it personally. She also told me this: “Debbie, quit smoking, tell Billy to quit drinking and get the baby baptized.”
I felt panic rising up into my throat. I hurriedly told my aunt who was with me that it was time to go. Visiting hours were up. My aunt looked surprised but acquiesced. I said, “Bye, Mom, see you tomorrow.” She didn’t respond.
She died a little bit later. I heard the phone ring and of course it was the doctor apologetically explaining that my mom had just died.
Mom died ten minutes after midnight. What anyone who knew her would acknowledge how apropos of my mother’s timing:
First: April Fools Day was her favorite day of the year. She looked forward to it every year with relish. And by relish, you should know it wasn’t against her grain to put some in one of our shoes on April Fools Day. Oh the cackling sounds she made, so very pleased with terrorizing her children.
Secondly: Mom was habitually late. Every.single.time. No matter the reason, no matter the emergency of the situation, she dawdled. OMG she dawdled. She always showed up (well most always, many times I ended up just walking home because she took so long.) So I’ll give her that. It actually wasn’t bad all the time because she was usually about 30 minutes late to church (for an hour mass) so I appreciated the shortness of the ceremony.
So that is why it makes total sense that she died ten minutes later than she would have liked.
And because this is about me all the damn time, I have felt guilty for exactly 50 years for leaving my mother to die alone. I’ve struggled with it for what seems like my whole adult life. I should have stayed. I panicked. Funnily enough, from then on, I tried to make up for it. But nope. When our little cocker spaniel needed to be euthanized, I dropped him off at the vet. Yep, feeling pretty guilty. When my second mom and beloved mentor was dying of cancer, I sat by her side at the hospital every night, all night long. Holding her hand, wishing I could keep her alive. When the time came when her breathing changed, once again I ran. I didn’t feel so bad this time because her daughters were there. This happened to me over an over until the day my son’s aunt died. I held her hand and felt so much love in the room. She slipped away quietly with me holding her hand. It felt better.
So thanks to that aunt’s son, Mom finally has a gravestone. I’ll show it off here. It’s not what I wanted it to say but I love how it turned out.
So that’s April 2, 2026, the day my mom died, the day my dog Abbey was born, and the day my dear friend’s dog Brian died.
If you have a mom, please go spend some time with her when you can. Even if you’re angry with her, make peace. Once she’s gone, your life will be forever changed.
Thanks for reading, she said to the people who never read her blog. LOL
Regrets
A mother’s influence on her children is funny. You love her, of course, she’s your mother after all. She gave you life, she spent years caring for you. You were her mom-reason, her life’s work. Her devotion and love were something you took for granted. When I needed anything, there she was, my mother–eager to help, even when her help wasn’t actual help but a semi crazy idea that any sane person could see was nuts.
But every once in awhile, my mother’s ideas hit a home run and everyone quietly and grudgingly realized she was pretty fucking clever.
For example: When I was little, our dog Penny had 11 puppies. (No clue why I remember the number 11.) She birthed them in the cellar of our old home. One of the puppies, eyes not open yet, fell down the drain in the cement floor. The puppy’s plaintive cries echoed loudly through the pipe into the ears of the helpless adults. The relatives told her to fill the drain with water–drown the puppy to put it out of its misery. There were plenty of other puppies anyway. My mom, watching Penny who was whining and pacing around the drain hole, was horrified.
An idea came to her. She grabbed her prized Electrolux, shoved the long hose down the drain and hit the power switch. Up came the tiny puppy, reunited with its anxiously awaiting Penny. Mom was clever. Oh yeah, she was as loyal to her animals as she was to her children.
But more often than not, despite love, my mom could irritate the absolute shit out of me. The unwelcome advice, the constant questions, the jokes and OMG she spoke in puns. Oh and that laugh after one of her jokes. Ugh. It can make you want to pull out your eyelashes, one by excruciating one. Funnily enough though, my friends thronged around her like she was some dumb ass comedian.
All this baby love aside, I had a shit show for a childhood. Not only were we poor, we were stinking poor. The type of poor neighbors pitied all the while furtively looking away. My sister and I were surrounded by pedophiles. Father, uncle, neighbor, grandfather, everyone. There was no place safe for us. It was a cesspool of abuse for me and my sister. Something that my mother didn’t notice.
I grew up composing a semi-unwritten list of things my children would never have to experience. It grew as I did. I would not, could not, be anything like my mother. That constant laugh, the irritating puns, the practical jokes and, most importantly, the hidden depression disguised by that raucous laughter and jokes.
When my son was born, Mom had “suggestions. Lots of them. They were all so very wrong. In retrospect, they probably weren’t wrong but I was defensive. First time mom power! I didn’t need suggestions, dammit. I read Dr. Spock, by God. Cover to cover. Twice. I vehemently knew what to do. Leave me alone! But the super experienced baby making machine wouldn’t, couldn’t stop. After all, like a good Catholic girl, she made a lot of little humans. And she loved babies. So she knew this shit like the proverbial back of the hand.
But like it or not, with all her faults, she’s still there alongside me. No matter how alive she isn’t, I can still feel her voice, her laugh, and those damned hugs that kept you hugged for a long time.
She died when she was 45 from a miserable, pre-effective chemo cancer. I was 21 when she moved in with me. I took care of her. When I turned 22, she died, leaving behind her youngest for me to raise alongside my own two year old.
Most of the time it’s so subtle I’m unaware of her influence. But there it is, imprinted in my soul. She was a guilt ridden strict Catholic, hence all the damn babies. Every Sunday she would walk down to church. Late. Always at least a half hour late for a one hour service. I realize now her consistent lateness was her own subconsciousness defying the heartless cruelty that was the Catholic church.
How is this affecting me as an adult? Well, I had that list of course. I tried to follow it. Like her though, I’m fiercely loyal to my family and friends. Stupidly loyal, no matter how wrong they might be. Puns? I got ‘em. I love animals. I love love love my kids, my grandkids and my great granddaughter. I walk all the time. She used to say we were ancestors of gypsies who wandered from town to town. She walked everywhere. And crap, you should hear me laugh. Or push my advice onto my kids, their kids and my grandkids.
For all of her married life, my mother was treated like shit by the relatives as well as my father. Kids are sponges so we grew up sort of scorning her, retreating from those bear hugs. I am ashamed of how I felt about my mother. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her and treated her well, but dammit, she died so soon after my teenage years, I didn’t get a chance to tell her I was ok and thank you for trying your best even when you were constantly overwhelmed by us messed up kids.
Sometimes the regret overwhelms you. Yes, there is always the losing-her grief, but when regret comes for a visit, it’s always a surprise. It hits you like a punch in the gut.
Happy birthday, Mom. Wish I had one more day with you. Or one hour. Or one minute. Or just one of those damned bear hugs. Dammit.
Lucy Nose You Laughed 