Exactly one year ago today, I hugged my sweet Mama for the last time. I still remember holding on tight to her and not wanting to let go, scared and uncertain of how exactly I was supposed to do that. I soon came to realize that it’s not until the physical body is gone that you truly begin to hold onto the soul. At that moment, when there is nothing left to grasp onto, the best part of a loved one’s soul holds tight to you instead and helps guide you through the most difficult moments of your life. It is at that time that you begin to feel the magnitude of love that has ebbed and flowed between the two of you.
There is not a day that passes that I do not think of Mama all the time. Her face is at the forefront of my mind as I rise and her words of wisdom comfort me at night as I try to wind down from the challenges of the day. She is in the stories that I share with friends and the advice that I offer to my students. Her words lift from my tongue without realization until the thought pops into my mind that it is exactly something she would say. When I’m feeling sad, thoughts of her kindness comfort me. When I’m feeling angry, memories of her strength and perseverance enter my mind. When I’m feeling happy, recollection of her laughter envelopes my heart.
She is with me today just as much as she was all the years before. I cannot hug her tightly in my arms; but, I can feel her arms wrapped around my heart. I cannot share in conversation with her; but, I can sense her words of comfort daily. I cannot taste her food, ask her a question, or comfort her when she cries. But there is one thing for certain I can experience…..each time my chimes ring….which tends to be often these days….it sure feels like her voice rising just above all the other angels on high to sing a song of happiness and support.
One of the things that stands out so strongly in my memory of Mama in her final days is how positively she acknowledged her final visits with friends and family. Instead of saying goodbye each time someone came to visit her during that final week, Mama tended to say, “See you tomorrow.” It remains as one of my most cherished memories of her final days. I love that goodbye was not an option for her, but instead a simple statement reminding us all that we will enjoy a loving reunion somewhere later on down the line, was.
Miss U! Love U! Mean it, my sweet Mama!!
“See you tomorrow!!”
It was exactly one year ago today that I boarded a plane back to my sweet Mama to hug her, full of certainty that all would be okay. Truth be told, somewhere beneath the conscious state of life there lied a hazy cloud of fear and a true clarity that if hope could be suffocated I would have certainly accomplished that with how tightly I was holding onto it. That was the longest three hours of my life. It’s strange how the body is what is oftentimes associated with restlessness when confined to a small space; but, the mind can be just as restless when equally as limited. What I discovered that day is that it is also possible for the heart to take up so much room in your chest that it becomes fitful as well.
In all honesty, my memory of the day is much more like a snapshot of events displayed in a photo album. I often wonder if in order for the mind to hold onto important experiences during stressful times, it must reduce the impact of information to snapshots instead because the full documentary would be way too much to relive. I liken the day to a viewing with the old View Master from my childhood. I’m able to peer through the eye piece, clicking through each picture, but not recalling all of the little information in between each slide…..wiping a tear from behind the sunglasses shading my swollen eyes….hugging my sister at the airport….walking into the hospital….seeing my aunt and cousin approach in the hallway…the look of concern on my twin’s face…my brother holding hands with his lovely fiance…my Dad’s comforting embrace…my aunt’s beautiful blue eyes filled with worry…….Mama’s smile………Mama’s laugh………Mama’s strength…….Mama……..
The whole day is sealed in my memory this way, which is so out of the ordinary for me. My mind typically runs a reel of recollection, not simple snapshots. I can only guess that my mind, heart, and body have decided to work together to ensure I’m still standing throughout the constant highs and lows of reliving these days.
It does stand that some information is too close to the heart to even place down on paper. It’s as if it’s secured in a special spot that is only allowed access by those that experienced it together. I know the struggles my family is having during this time and find comfort in the notion that they truly understand every single snapshot that invades each of our hearts and minds during this recurrence of emotions and feelings of such great sadness. I also know that Mama is with me. I can feel the warmth of her presence and see her smile at the forefront of my mind. I will make it through this day….and tomorrow as well…and so on. My promise to myself is to let the tears flow when they come and the laughter bubble up as each snapshot clicks into clear view reminding me of the amazing mother that I was so very lucky to call my Mama.
Today, as I was looking through some paperwork in my study, my gaze fell upon a silver box holding several cards. I have often glanced at it over the past year, but have hesitated in rereading any of the notes filling it. I finally lifted one out and opened it again, knowing that what I would read inside was sure to bring tears. No one tells you when you lose someone that through all of the hurt and pain you experience there is an additional emotional tide that waves over you each time you feel the support of those reaching out to you. The love that is experienced in those moments is so bittersweet. It is a pure mixture of sweet kindness and bitter reminders. I don’t know how to ever truly thank those that have reached out to me in my lowest moments and carried me through my biggest struggles. I know that I have expressed thanks in various ways, but there is a place deep down in my soul that fears I will leave someone without proper acknowledgement. I hope they know how much all of their kind words, deeds, support, presence, and hugs mean to me. I also hope that Mama feels it too. I so wish that she could see how people love her and how much of an impact she made on all of our lives.
I read through each and every one of those cards today. It felt good to re-experience the kindness of my friends and embrace the love that was included within them. I have one friend in particular that gave me a statue of two figures in an embrace. It was gifted as a reminder that Mom’s embrace is always with me. I look at it every day and remember its message. I draw a certain sense of strength from it and am very cognizant of the blessing of friendships that I have. There are so many special things in my house now that seem to take on much more importance than others and only those closest to me realize the magnitude of significance they hold. To some they might just appear to be objects, but for me, they are constant reminders of those that have supported me, loved me, guided me, and continue to help me regain my footing throughout this difficult year. The cards are exactly that….a reminder that even when I feel I am all alone….someone is keeping me close to their heart and right in the center of their well wishes….and that brings a different sense of comfort.
The events of a year ago are flooding back in as if they’ve been out to sea for a while and have decided to return for a visit. I remember very vividly hanging up the phone with Mom and being profoundly affected by the change in her voice. The effects of her last radiation treatment had left her with slurred speech and this hit me like a ton of bricks. It was the beginning of a loss so great it shatters one’s soul. I remember crying at the thought of never again hearing the sound of my mother as I’d known it all of my life. It devastated me and fueled me into an all out search for anything that had Mama’s voice on it. I can remember replaying messages in hopes of rediscovering it. One night, as I sat idle in my car under a blanket of foggy night sky, I called my brother and confessed my concern of never hearing my sweet Mama’s voice again and how selfish I felt for even wishing to. I knew I should be focused on comforting and supporting her as opposed to fulfilling my own self-centered wishes. I couldn’t help it though. Just once I longed to hear the sound of her unaltered tone.
Somewhere in all the sadness and longing, I realized what the alternative would be and soon embraced a new hope that all would be okay and her eloquent dialogue would return. My aunt reassured me that there was a good chance that the effects would lessen as time marched on. The exhilaration of knowing this was almost too much to contain. I called Mama at various times in the day to listen to the differences. It was evident that morning was always a bit better and as fatigue set in; the evenings were more of a strain. One morning in particular she was very clear and glimpses of her former quick witted tongue were evident. I look back on that phone conversation in particular and realize it was just a few days later that I boarded the plane to return to her. We are approaching that day now. I know this is why I am faced with sleepless nights and an increasingly aching heart.
It’s always in hindsight that you realize you should embraced each moment as they come; because now, I wish I could hear anything associated with her, her laughter, her tears, her humor, and yes, even her slurred speech. I would welcome any sound from her and hold tight to it with every ounce of my being knowing full well how precious each utterance is.
The most amazing thing is, right now in this very instance………I can hear my wind chimes ringing…..and you better believe I’m going to embrace it wholeheartedly!
Some nights the hurt from her loss is so deep that sleep evades you and no comfort can be found within the warmth of your covers. These nights are by far the loneliest of all.
Today, as my body was pulled from its heavy dose of slumber, I seemed to instantly wake with pancakes on my mind. This is highly unusual for me. I typically wake with thoughts about Mom. I was saddened by the prospect that today may be the preface to that inevitable evolution in this process. At any rate, pancakes were on my mind and I could tell it was going to be one of those cravings that just wasn’t going to evaporate into thin air. Something concrete was required to help it dissipate.
Since I am not one to make pancakes very often, a cookbook was going to be necessary. As I browsed through my treasured collection of recipe filled bibles, I found that I instantly went to my most recent additions in hopes of stumbling upon a new favorite concoction. However, as I flipped through, peered at, and contemplated adjustments, it became clear that sometimes new isn’t best. Sometimes, the old, tried and true is ultimately what one needs. I finally reached in and carefully pulled out the very first cookbook I ever received. It is not one that I go to often now, typically opting for the newer, more en vogue cookbooks, but I had high hopes and few other options to rely upon.
As I laid it carefully on the counter, I found my fingers gently running over it and memories of Mama coming to me. Although the color was fading and the pages browned, spotted, wrinkled and torn, I felt certain what I was seeking was hidden inside. I took my time in savoring this moment as I knew exactly what I would see when I opened the cover page. In our family for years we have included an inscription in those cookbooks that we are offering to one another as gifts of celebration. I knew that I would find that and as my anticipation lingered just under my emotions, I opened the book and found myself staring at exactly what I feel was destined for me today, “Happy Cooking, Love Mom and Dad, Christmas 1986.” As I looked at the signatures, I realized that Dad had filled out the inscription. I’m not sure why this affected me so much, but I found myself absolutely loving the fact that both of them had touched this gift and left their own mark to linger.
So as I collected ingredients and supplies, measured amounts and blended to combine, I thought about how long it had actually been since I made traditional pancakes. I truly couldn’t even remember. It felt like old times. It felt like being home with Mom in the kitchen and it felt nostalgic; but most of all, it felt like the mending of a broken heart and it soon filled me with love and happy moments with Mama.
There are times when I know deep down inside that I’ve just walked through the threshold of something that only a select percentage of people will ever experience. This is partly due to the hush hush, mysterious workings that encompass such a phenomenon and then also partly due to timing. You see, I truly believe that with each tick of the second hand, this secretive, “underground” speakeasy becomes more prominent and visible as the name escapes through the lips of one of those that knows along to one of those that doesn’t.
When I first joined the social network group, I wasn’t really sure what it was all about or even why I cared. All I really knew was that I needed to hop on for the ride. I’ve always been a thrill seeker, curious about all the fuss. I just never realized it would be to score a loaf of bread. At first I sat back and perused the volumes of chitter chatter brought on by the brain washed clan that seemed to have a language all their own. But as time passed, I realized, I too had started adding to the gab. Instead of “them” it was now “we” and before I knew it I was setting my alarm clock and staring unblinkingly into my computer screen longing to be one of the select few to be blessed with the Holy Grail of sourdough bread.
As I reflect on the whole process, I must say, although Mama never made homemade bread and I have no definite story to relate to this; what I do know is, she would have LOVED every minute of it. Being one of the select few that was “in the know” would have thrilled her. Mama was adventurous that way and had no fear when it came to experiencing all that life had to offer. I feel certain that she would have not only become best friends with the illustrious baker, but would have been welcomed into the kitchen and served up some bread and wine. That’s just how she was.
By now some of you might just be wondering where this place is that I speak of. Prepare, because…”if you know, you know”…and it will alter just how much you’re willing to sample just a morsel. You must be committed, persistent, and even a bit insane, to conquer the challenge of seeking a loaf of your own. But I promise that if you stay focused and are finally allowed the indulgence of this delicious bread, handcrafted by Scott Ervin in his underground hideaway, “The Speakeasy Bakery,” you will not regret it. The experience alone is worth it; but the fact that the bread is incredible, and a true work of passion, is the real hidden gem.