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I can’t believe it’ll be 24 years tomorrow since MOM, Mrs. Mary M. Bell Marshall (1925-2001), left us. It’s still hard to believe she’s gone at all. I talk to her all the time. I’ve felt her presence more this year than in previous ones.
It was early morning. July 4, 2001. I was in a dream-like state It seemed Mom was at the foot of the bed talking to me.
The phone rang. I knew it wasn’t good news. It was my oldest sister telling me Mom was gone.
Mom kinda said goodbye the night before. I wanted to stay at the nursing home a little longer, but she insisted I go home. “You need to rest,” she said. “You’ve been here all day.” I didn't want to leave.
The air felt different. There was a quiet that hadn’t been there before. I didn’t want to upset her; didn’t want her to worry about me driving late at night—it was already past 9PM—so I left. The drive to Brooklyn was longer and felt different.
The next morning, my roommate and I were awakened by the phone ringing. She listened as I spoke to my oldest sister who told me Mom was gone. I said, “I’m on my way. Would be there in twenty minutes.”
It was early morning. The FDR would be empty. I knew I could drive a little faster. I needed to get to the nursing home. Wanted to see my mother. Told my sister I’d meet her at the nursing home; told her not to let them move mom until we all got there.
What was normally a 30-40 minute ride took 20 minutes. I tried not to speed but know that I did. My thoughts were racing faster than I could drive.
Two of my sisters were there when I arrived. The floor seemed quieter than normal. It wasn’t unusual for me to be there at 8 o’clock. The nursing staff knew me as I was there everyday and also served on the Family and Friends Committee, a committee that monitored how well the administration and staff cared for residents.
I went into mom’s room. My instinct was to hug her, but my sister—the nurse—cautioned me not to do that. I restrained myself, but it wasn’t easy. I kissed her forehead instead. She looked peaceful. I still wanted to hug her.
My sisters had already packed mom’s things. There wasn’t much to pack as she had only been back in the nursing home for about a week. She’d had surgery on her birthday, June 8th, remained in the hospital for a week or two before being discharged back to the nursing home.
We talked with the nurses who were with her when she had a massive heart attack. They performed emergency care to no avail. She was gone. They told us it was quick.
All emotion left me. I went into administrative mode. My siblings and I said goodbye and regrouped at my oldest sister’s home. She lived across the street. We were all expecting mom’s death..one day…just not that day. No day would have been the right day. We spent the next several hours making phone calls and visiting our youngest sister who was in a downtown hospital.
We knew this sister would want to sign herself out of the hospital. We spoke with her doctor and nurses before informing her of mom’s death. The doctor accompanied us into her room and stood by as we shared the news. Our sister knew something had happened because we were at her bedside way too early in the day.
My sister immediately started trying to get out of bed. She was adamant about leaving. It didn’t matter that she’d had surgery and needed to remain hospitalized a few more days. We finally got the doctor to agree to discharge her given the circumstances.
Within a week we held Mom’s Home Going Service, flew her body home to Georgia for a graveside service and burial, which took place on July 14th—the day before my birthday.
We didn't celebrate July 4th much as children. Ice cream, hot dogs, watermelon. In later years, different foods and drink were added. I didn’t celebrate it at all after I left home for college. It still isn’t a day I celebrate.
July 4th is America’s Independence Day. It is also, as my therapist at the time told me, “the day your mother declared her Independence from this plane, this earth.”
I appreciated the therapist words. They allowed me to feel the freedom mom now had from pain and three times a week dialysis.
It was a long time before tears shifted my pain. Shifted because, like a never ending toothache, the pain of grief is still present. Tears sometimes suddenly fill my eyes and my heart aches without notice. I’m not a crier, but will often find tears rolling down my face upon hearing something that reminds me of mom.
June 8th mom would have turned 100. I made a short video to celebrate that day. I celebrate her everyday and tomorrow will celebratory, too. She’s always present. Always in my thoughts and heart.
Thank you for sharing your experience and the story of your loss with us. I think most of us struggle to celebrate the going home of our mommas, no matter their lives nor their pains relieved. Your writing about yours is lovely. ❤️
Thank you for sharing your experience and the story of your loss with us. I think most of us struggle to celebrate the going home of our mommas, no matter their lives nor their pains relieved. Your writing about yours is lovely. ❤️
A beautiful story. I never got to be with my mum when she passed in her sleep at 59. I count my blessings I made it to 70.