Parenting
Last week, I received a late-night text from my dear friend, Sarah. Sarah is a vibrant soul with bouncy chestnut curls that frame her face, perfectly mirroring her lively personality. Typically, her messages are filled with funny GIFs, nostalgic photos, or amusing moments of her kids caught in Snapchat filters. She’s always a joy to connect with.
So, when I saw her name flash on my phone, I anticipated a lighthearted message. Instead, my heart sank at the words that confronted me like a punch to the gut: “Mom passed away unexpectedly this evening from a heart attack. My brother and I are making arrangements. The funeral is this weekend. Please try to come.”
I stared blankly at my screen, grappling for a response that would offer more comfort than a simple “I’m so sorry.” But in such a moment of loss, those words felt inadequate. Ultimately, I typed, “Of course I’ll be there.”
This was a woman who cheered alongside my own mother at our high school games, her curly hair bouncing as she sported a badge of her daughter’s band portrait on her shirt. I recalled the moments when Sarah and I would line up before taking the field, stealing glances at our mothers waving vigorously from the stands.
“That’s my girl!” her mom would shout.
“Go for it, sweetie!” my mom would echo.
They were our biggest fans, unwavering in their support.
Isn’t that the essence of motherhood? From your first steps to your first achievements, a mother is there, always cheering you on. She’s your personal fan club, your cheerleader, the one person who can find pride even in the most chaotic sixth-grade band concert.
But just like that, overnight, Sarah lost her anchor, her safety net—an unbearable devastation.
I attended the funeral and held my friend tightly. Hundreds gathered to convey their condolences, but amidst the crowd, I watched Sarah standing by the lemonade table, her eyes scanning the room blankly, much like a child lost in a fairground. I could only imagine the turmoil she felt.
In these moments, I’m reminded that my own mother won’t be around forever, and the thought terrifies me. Despite calling her daily, sharing pictures, and visiting often, I know that when the time comes, I will feel just as lost and shattered as my dear friend.
Can anyone truly be prepared to say goodbye to their mother? I don’t think so. It’s not just about losing a person; it’s about saying farewell to the comforts of home—like the warmth of homemade chicken noodle soup, the twinkling decorations she sets up each Halloween, the gentle caress of her hands, or the solace found in her voice after a long day.
It’s relinquishing the feeling of being a child at heart, secure in the knowledge that your mother is there to comfort you. Even as an adult, married, and raising my own children, there is a child within me that yearns for my mother’s love. The mere thought of losing her is chilling.
Yet, she has raised me well. I navigate life, manage household tasks, and even whip up a Thanksgiving turkey. So, I shouldn’t need her as much anymore… but deep down, I know I always will.
After the service, I approached Sarah, who was nervously fiddling with her pink lemonade cup. “This hurts so deeply,” she said, wiping her tears away. “Remember how my mom would yell from the stands? I used to feel so embarrassed. I wish I had appreciated her more…”
“Don’t dwell on that, Sarah.”
“I just wish I had expressed my love more often.”
“She cherished every moment, trust me.”
With a nod, she scooped her son into her arms, a smile breaking through her sorrow as she kissed his tousled hair. “You’re right,” she said softly.
As I exited the funeral home, I felt an overwhelming rush of emotion. I pulled out my phone and said, “Call Mom.” When it went to voicemail, I quickly texted, “Hey Mom. Just checking in. Love you.”
Moments later, my phone lit up with her response: “I love you too, sweetheart.” I clutched the phone to my chest, tears streaming down my face. The mere thought of losing my mother felt unbearable. My heart ached for both Sarah and myself. I longed for my mom, and today I still have her. I am profoundly grateful, now more than ever, for the fleeting nature of life reminds me how quickly things can change.