It’s the day after Mother’s Day and I’m sitting alone in the quiet, early morning hours. Getting up early is not new to me. While I’d love to have a late-morning lie-in, my circadian rhythm doesn’t rock that way. For years I bucked my own system and wrung my hands in frustration wondering why I couldn’t sleep late when given the opportunity? But now, I look forward to the quiet moments. Today, the day after Mother’s Day, my thoughts aren’t far from my own mother and those who made me a mother.
When are you coming?
I lost my mother in 2008 to a blood clot. I lived in Malawi at the time and was contemplating flying back to be with her when she died. The last time I spoke with her was on a Saturday. She was in the hospital and said, “I’ll come out of this.” But she didn’t come out of it and died two days later. I felt guilty for being away. Not only that, I felt guilty for not being with my firstborn son, Tommy, who lived near her at the time. He was just 22 years old and had only lived in the USA for three years (he grew up in Africa).
When mom had passed, I spoke with Tommy on the phone and he asked, “When are you coming?” The words still sound in my ears. In response I said “I’m on my way.” And I packed my bags. My firstborn has always been independent so hearing those words had an effect. They still do. At that moment, I learned another lesson on how much an influence a mother has on their children. My own mother had gone, I was grieving, but all I thought about was my son at that moment.
The day after Mother’s Day hits different
While nearly 16 years have passed since my mother died, the day after Mother’s Day is always difficult, it hits different. Why? I’m not sure but I think it’s because on Mother’s Day, I need to put my tears aside and enjoy the ones who are with me. Yesterday, I enjoyed long phone calls, text messages, lunch at a restaurant, a homemade card, and flowers. My mother would have given me serious flack if I ignored yesterday’s blessings.
But today, in the quiet, I’m remembering my own mother. Her sacrifices, sorrows, and joys somehow affect me today. I miss her still.
