Beth Alexander

Gone Too Soon

Written by Beth Alexander

Fuck death. Fuck its blinding, deafening and muting permanence. Knowing you will never see your loved one again, hear their voice, or speak to them with the absolute confidence they’ll hear you. Sure, I “talk” to my mother daily, but how do I know whether some form of her can hear me? She only responds in my dreams, if I’m lucky enough to dream about her. I pray for those nights when we can be together, even if only in my subconscious.

The death of a loved one at any time, and under any circumstance sucks. But when you lose someone before their time, and unexpectedly, it’s an even more bitter pill to swallow. Where is Mary Poppins with her spoonful of sugar? Not even Dame Julie Andrews can help this medicine go down. 

I lost my mother about a month ago. Feels like yesterday and forever ago all at once. The grief comes in waves. Sometimes it’s a little ripple, like when I think of a reason I want to call her, but realize there’d be no one on the other end…other times it’s a tidal wave, like finding a Diet Pepsi she’d left in my fridge for the next time she’d come over (cause the woman drank nothing else, bless her soul). But there won’t be a next time, so now it just sits unopened in perpetuity – a caffeine free shrine no one dare throw out or drink. 

It’s funny what triggers me, an undrunk soda, a gift from birthdays past, nothing at all. I can be perfectly fine one moment, and sobbing like a 90 day fiance cast member the next. Today was my first birthday without her. My first birthday without the person who birthed me. It didn’t feel like a day for celebrating, as much as my living loved ones tried to make it. It felt like she died all over again. 

I went on errands to try and distract myself. Driving in the car I asked her for a sign that she was still with me, praying it might really happen, but doubting it really would. Tears rolled down my face as I parked in the shopping center, but I was determined to pull myself together, to try and enjoy the day as I knew she’d want me too. Little did I know an early mother’s day display at the dollar store would be my demise. The end cap of sparkly pink and purple tributes to “mom” taunted me the second I opened the door. So much for a dry-eyed stroll through Dollar Tree.

The icing on my tainted birthday cake came when my cell rang later that afternoon. It had been buzzing all day with well wishes from family and friends, but as I quickly looked to see who was calling this time, my heart jumped into my throat. My mother’s number and picture appeared, as if she was calling from Heaven to wish me a happy birthday, as she’d done every other year. As much as I wished it was really her, I knew it couldn’t be. And of course it wasn’t. My father had her cell in his car, not knowing her blue tooth had connected, and it was he contacting me from his Rogue – not my mom from the beyond. At first seeing her pop up on my cell felt like some cruel joke, but then I thought maybe it was the sign I’d prayed for earlier. I mean, what were the odds of that happening today? The jury is still out on whether my glass is half empty or full on that one. My dad felt awful, apologized profusely for the blunder, but man, that was certainly a trigger. A frigging monsoon. I cried until my eyes were so puffy I needed a benadryl.

My poor dad, like he needed something else to feel badly about. As devastated as I am to lose my mom, he lost his whole world. They were married just shy of 50 years. 50 fucking years. Together since they were basically kids, she was his sun – and he orbited around her light. She was the social director, family glue, house manager, bickering partner and love of his life. A life that will never be the same. To watch a person that raised you, someone who as a parent is supposed to have all the answers in life, just crumble under the weight of shock and grief is hard to bear. I want so badly to take away his pain, desperately trying to shove my own further down into the depths, but what can you do? A hug seems so inadequate as consolation for an imploded world. You’re never going to see your wife again, but here’s a squeeze Pops. Doesn’t quite relieve the pain. He needs a spoonful of Prosac, sugar definitely ain’t going to cut it.

Nonetheless, I try to be strong for him, put on my brave face like the smiley masks in an antidepressant commercial. Hold up that cardboard hand drawn face on a trusty popsicle stick for the group photo. That mask comes in handy with my daughter too. The poor, sweet girl is only 8 years old. I had both of my grandmas around long past my wedding, but she won’t even have my mom for a double digit birthday. And she was the best grandma too. Lovingly called Noni, she would dote on her 3 granddaughters any chance she could get. She always had a thoughtfully picked gift for any and every occasion, souvenirs from trips, personalized party favors, you name it. Plus more genuine love, hugs and kisses than anyone could ask for. She was famous for keppie rubs (a gentle temple massage) and birdie kisses (a series of quick, soft pecks). She made her home a grandkid oasis, with toys waiting in the corner and a pantry stocked with their favorite snacks. I’m so grateful my baby got to have at least some time with her, and so sad and angry it wasn’t for longer. 

My own journey to motherhood wasn’t easy. Due to medical reasons, my husband and I struggled to conceive, and eventually were warned not to even try by doctors. Not being able to carry a child was a huge blow. I definitely had to mourn the loss of that opportunity. But we were determined to be parents, and after a long and strenuous approval process, we were blessed to adopt my angel. My mother supported me through every step, shared my sadness when I couldn’t conceive, my stress as we jumped through endless adoption process hoops, and eventually my elation when we finally brought my love girl home. Not for a second did she question that this baby was my child, or her grandchild. She welcomed her with open arms; more like she demanded to hold that precious angel any chance she could get.  She loved her just as fiercely as the girls with her blood running through their veins. They all had Noni’s love in their hearts. I pray it stays with them throughout their lives. That they’ll look back fondly on their brief but special time with her. I’ll do my damnedest to make sure they do, to honor her the way she deserves. 

What she really deserves is to still be here. I’m so pissed she got cheated out of so much of her life. Much smarter people than me have identified the stages of grief, and anger is definitely one of them. Not sure how long it’s supposed to last, but I can’t imagine I’ll get past it any time soon. My mom still had so many plans, places to see, milestones to witness. She wanted to take us all on a family trip to Hawaii to celebrate the 50th anniversary that was only months away. She should’ve been able to experience that. To watch her cherished granddaughters play on the beach and attempt the hula at some overpriced luau. She was robbed of that joy, and in turn so were we all, and the unfairness is enraging. 

My dad, bless his heart, wants to make that trip in her honor. As the remaining half of the duo of overly generous parents/grandparents, he’s determined to take that holiday because “that’s what she would’ve wanted.” Of course it is, but it won’t be the same without her. Sure, I can wear some of her tropical themed jewelry and toast her with a Maitai, but I can’t stroll arm and arm with her while our toes sink into the white sand. Only in my dreams now, which again, I pray for every night. 

That’s one way I console my daughter, in fact. She still cries most nights at bedtime because she misses her. I do my best not to let my own tears flow as she clings to a stuffie from her Noni in hopes her hugs are being felt by my mom. We plan dream dates to visit her, most often trips to Disney World – their shared favorite destination. She’ll pick a ride or place to meet and we’ll have a REM adventure. Honestly, the nighttime rendezvous are just as much for me…I’ve even dreamt about a scheduled adventure a few times. I always wake up a little happier after those nights. Even though it’s not real, I feel like I still have a piece of her with me the next day, and I cling to it as hard as I can. Good Lord, I miss her. 

Another way we cope is by looking for signs or reminders of Mom. Shortly after she passed we started seeing butterflies, so we quickly agreed that any time we saw one it was really Noni saying hello. My sister in law, who sadly lost her own mother even younger, taught me this little trick. Mimi, her mom, visits via ladybug. Whether or not the beautiful bugs are signs from beyond or not, it is comforting to think it’s a possibility that the monarch that landed on our trampoline might be my mom stopping by to watch my dolly jump to her heart’s content. Not sure I believe it, but I’m sure I want to. And my daughter does – so that’s a comfort to me too. Not a comfort to my wallet, cause every time we see something with a butterfly we have to get it cause it’s Noni, but it’s really not a big price to pay to keep her memory alive. 

Funnily enough, as I went through her jewelry recently (talk about a typhoon trigger), I found a teal and purple butterfly broach I’d never seen her wear before. A butterfly, in her favorite colors, just sitting there amongst the many familiar baubles. That one really felt like a sign. I’m starting to believe in signs, I think. I’ll be wearing that broach to my niece’s Bat Mitzvah next month. 

Screw my birthday, the Bat Mitzvah is the first major milestone where Mom will be absent. The anticipation of missing her there is so heavy none of us can bear it. After she passed we found a folder labeled with my niece’s name and “Bat Mitzvah” in proud, perfect script. My mom lived for events like this. Raring up to celebrate with a long list of invitees to include. She’d already offered to buy the dress, sponsor a brunch and set aside the pearls she’d worn to her own Mitzvah day for my niece. People got invited, there will be a brunch, my niece will proudly wear her necklace, and I went dress shopping in her honor. But her absence will be sorely felt, and nothing can fill it. We will all lift up our antidepressant masks and smile for photos, but I’m sure we’ll be balling in the bathroom more than once that day. Along with a gift, I plan to bring a lot of tissue. 

I hope my niece loves her gift. We keep trying to bring my mom into our continued lives as much as possible. So in that effort, I got her a charm bracelet with a collection of charms including a butterfly and a ladybug. Now she has a piece of both her grandmothers who should be, but cannot be with her in person for this major life event. In spirit as they say. I hear that all too often now, “In spirit.” I’d much rather have her here in the flesh. In the warm, soft, huggable flesh. I will never hug my mom again. 

I did hug her at the hospital after she passed. I didn’t make it in time to say goodbye. I was parking at the ER when my dad called to tell me she was gone. 

“What?” I cried in shock. 

“Please don’t make me say it again.” He replied sobbing. 

She looked like she was sleeping, she was intubated, but other than that she just looked like her normal self. It took everything in me not to try and shake her awake, to wake us all from the nightmare. But as I kissed her forehead, my lips were met with cool skin, and I knew the nightmare was real. We stayed with her in the silent ER room a long time as we waited for them to move her to a private family area. My family stood dumbfounded, randomly bursting into tears as we stumbled through the “what now” conversation. No one knew how to navigate this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now, not to her. A few times an employee’s cell phone rang that played the theme song from the TV show ER and we awkwardly laughed, Mom would’ve found that funny. But the comic relief was as short lived as her. 

The last time I hugged my mom was in that private family room. We each took a turn to say goodbye. It’s all a blur now, but I know I clung to her and told her what a wonderful mother she was, how much I loved her, and how much I would miss her. No words were enough, or could ever be enough. I gave her birdie kisses on her cool temple before I ran into my husband’s waiting arms to sob. He was so amazing and strong. He took his turn to say goodbye, but other than that he never left my side or let go of my hand. He’s the only reason I got through that day. I’m forever grateful for that. 

That wasn’t the last time I saw my mother, though. As a Jewish family, we did not have an open casket at the funeral. However, my dad, brother and I were offered a final chance to say goodbye. I was terrified to see her in that state, but I knew I would regret it if I didn’t. When the lid was lifted I again saw what appeared to be my mama just snoozing away. Her makeup was done just like she would’ve done it, her auburn eyebrows drawn on to perfection – which we knew she’d insist on. Her lovely brown eyes were softly closed, as if she were simply dreaming. I timidly asked if I were allowed to touch her, the funeral director said yes, but warned me she’d feel cold. I was thankful for that, but even with the warning it was still a shock. The cool forehead I kissed at the hospital was now nearly frozen. That made it real. She was not sleeping, she was gone. 

“A last keppie rub,” I muttered through heavy tears. My thumb stroked her eerily cold forehead and I said goodbye with a gentle kiss. That was the last time I kissed my mom, touched my mom, saw my mom. 

Fuck the permanence of death.