Hurricane Life
Emily | Monday, August 29, 2011 at 9:49AM On August 31, 2006, I sat in the living room of an oceanfront beach house with my mom, my
two daughters, my Aunt Betty, and my mom’s best friend, Margaret. We were watching the
weather channel’s rain-soaked, wind-blown forecaster explain that Hurricane Ernesto would
charge ashore somewhere around our couch and kitchen table.
The prediction was off a bit. It was a lot worse on the second floor in the bedrooms. We
survived the storm. We just rode it out. The sun came up the next morning and we found some
rockin’ shells along the waterline among the pier and house debris.
Nine short days later, my mom died. As my friend Chris Lewis says, “Sometimes, facts trump
feelings.” Shit happens.
I would like to wax all philosophic here with a profound message of understanding. If I
understand anything … it is this … life has an accomplice called death.
I was not ready to lose my mom. I still need her here to give me advice on raising my
daughters, to remind me how long to fry chicken on each side, to mix a special blend of voodoo
plant herbs and dried bananas to help my struggling rose bushes. Of course, other people have
stepped in to be kind and motherly to me. I appreciate the intentions of these people. The cold,
hard, selfish fact is that they don’t love me like she did.
My dad died four months before my mom. I loved my father. His death didn’t really shock
me because he had been old since I was born. He stopped living sometime in the early 80s. On
the brink of death, fixin’ to pass in that southern, old man way … that was just his style.
My mom l-i-v-e-d. She traveled her last summer. Equipped with a compass and a pain pump,
that chick was on the move. She went to the beach with her family during a hurricane the last
weekend of her life. She was transported home from that trip in an ambulance.
She talked her last days about a cruise she had booked to travel the Panama Canal. She had a
will to live that kept her alive, not just in body, but in mind and spirit.
Finally, the cancer raged shutting her systems down. Her physical body was done. She said
near the end, “I have lived a good life. It hasn’t always been easy, but it has been good. I am
ready to go meet my Maker. I am at peace. I just hate not to get to see my grandbabies grow
up.” Facts trumping feelings.
In her last hours, I found myself struggling to come up with something to say. She was in and
out of awareness. Hospice had released her to the all you can eat morphine buffet. There were
several times that we talked briefly. I told her, “You have always been such a great mom to me.
I can’t believe I don’t have anything better to say right now.” “Shug,” she said. “We’ve been
saying what we needed to say it all along.”
Losing her totally shook up my world. I went straight from the denial phase to Hurricane Anger and
paused there hovering in my bad luck. My rage was white hot and blazing. My hands hurt from
me clenching my fists all the time. I yelled. I cried. I am glad that God is big enough for me to be
mad at him, because we had words, he and I. It did not change that she was gone. Rock, paper,
scissors, facts, feelings. Facts.
There are still times when I dial her number, times when I select a greeting card that she
might like, times when I print out extra copies of pictures to mail to her. There are times when I
ache to tell her things that her granddaughters said or did. Times when the distance from this
world to the other side seems too far and long to bear.
After my mom’s systems began to shut down, I called her oncologist and pounded her with
questions about my mom’s status, “Was the medication wrong? Why didn’t we know that the
end was coming? Why was she in so much pain? PLEASE SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!”
The oncologist said to me, “Ms. Howard, your mom has known for some time that there isn’t
anything else we can do. She has had all the treatment her body can tolerate. She knew that this
was coming.”
When I asked my mom about this, she answered, “I thought they would get me on a trial
drug. I thought something would turn up. I didn’t want to give up.”
In the end, she didn’t give up, not really. The pain took her. It was just a few days that it was
unbearable. I am grateful for that. I know that there are some people who suffer for months,
even years, in terrible pain. At the very end, she went quickly.
Her final breath was holding the hand of her sister. My aunt launched into a rallying pep talk
for my mom to pull through, that she was going to be okay. My brother, Andy, quietly stopped
her. “No, Aunt Margie, tell her she can go on,” he said. My aunt then calmly said, “Go on Jean.
It’s okay. We will see you again soon.” And, with that, she did. She went on. Facts suck.
My mom ate well, exercised, and read her Bible daily. She is the only person I have ever
known, including my dentist (sorry Laura,) who flossed twice a day. She married my dad when
she was 21. She raised five kids. She taught Sunday school. She sang in the choir. She could
grow anything. She was an introvert. She was funny. She was smart. She was the 2nd daughter
in a family of nine. She buried her parents, two brothers, nephews, lots of friends. She was
particular about things. She could hold a grudge. She could love without end. She loved to
read. She loved to go out to eat. She loved to go shopping. Her favorite color was pink. It all
reads so simple for someone whose absence is so great.
Her biography cannot even touch the reality of who she was to me. I hope Riley and Ryann
feel her with them. I hope there is a special window in heaven where my mom can look down
and watch her girls shine. My mom was a fortress for our family. No wonder her death made
me so angry. I miss her without ceasing. I miss her all the time.
There is a difference between being alive and really living. You can blame your family, your
work, your boss, your ex, your in-laws, your childhood, your alma mater, but the choice to live
is ultimately yours while here in human form. Stop shoulda, coulda, woulda. Wake up and
live, the earth clock is ticking. Fact: we are all taking up a space that could have been my
mom’s.
Reader Comments (4)
Hey Emily... I've just read the post about your mom. I met her only once or twice. I was very touched, it puts into words exactly how I feel about losing my Granny Hales. She was a wonderful woman and I do miss her every day. I wish my children had been old enough to retain memories of their time with her. I am fortunate to still have my mother and don't feel I can quite relate to that circumstance. Your writing does inspire me to make the most of our time together and to continue building those memories from which I may pull strength when I no longer have the opportunity to "reach out & touch". I'm sorry you don't have your Mom around for those special chats, Q/A sessions and life lessons we yearn for our children. I have this comment in closing.
As you and I were never close in school, this is a very revealing side of you I've never seen nor thought existed. I am very touched by your thoughtfulness and eloquence of personality traits that made your mom so special. Proves teenagers don't really "know it all" afterall. Regardless of cliques and groups, non-meshing personalities and childish preferences, we're all human and hopefully grow up to be thoughtful, responsible, open-minded adults who cherish our family, friends & memories.
Cathy Flowers Asbill
Chapel Hill, NC
Beautiful article Emily. It made me cry. I wish you mom was still here to help you with fried chicken and all that stuff. I grew up without my mother and still long for someone to help me with those sorts of things. I see mothers and daughters together of all ages...shopping, having lunch, going to church and I wonder if they realize how fortunate they are. You are such a gifted writer...Keep writing, chick, keep writing! Love, Ivy
I was excited to see notice of something new from you in my inbox this morning - your writing is always so spot-on, relatable, real. Five minutes later - running late for a meeting - I had to stop reading. Tears were streaming down my face, taking me more than little by surprise. I'm not a huge crier. But there you have it. Your mother lives on in the legacy of strength she passed on to you and the rest of her family members.
Back now, ready to return to work, I saw this up on my screen and had to finish it. Forget about work for a few more minutes - I'm going to call my mom. Thank you for the candor you're so willing to allow into your writing. It's the kind of writing that stays with people.
I am incredibly sorry for your loss. It's clear your mom was an amazing woman. And I have no doubt she's looking down with pride... at all of you. Love & Light...
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