Ordinariness

Four years ago this week, my mother left home for the last time. I didn’t know it at the time, or maybe I would have tried to make it more special. She left in her own way as much as she could, fussing the whole time that she was just fine.

She was hurting in her chest that morning and said she needed to go to the doctor. I knew I better call an ambulance right then because Mama would never casually suggest going to the doctor. When help arrived, she did not agree to leave in the ambulance (because she was fine), but she would go inside the vehicle and let them check her. I can still see my husband Bart standing in the yard beside the ambulance mouthing the words “heart attack” after talking to the paramedic.

The rest of that day is a blur of loved ones and of my mother looking so fragile and somehow strong at the same time. It was July 3rd and my mom needed open heart surgery. With the next day being Independence Day, the surgery was scheduled for July 5th.

I’ve often heard people say they wish they could have just one more day with someone they love who is no longer here. July 4th, 2019, was one more day for me and Mama. Bart and a few other family members and friends came and went that day, but mostly it was just me and Mama sitting around, doing what what we liked to do best – watching Fixer Upper and cooking shows, drinking coffee and talking about all the things we’d do if we had time and money.

Those were our last real conversations. I have wondered if I could go back, would I change them? I like to think that instead of talking about Chip and Jo’s latest home renovation project, maybe I would take the time to tell Mama she was the best mother and friend I could have possibly asked for. But maybe the day was what it needed to be. When I look back on the blur of Mama leaving home and the blur of her surgery and death three days later, there was this window of ordinary time that slowed down enough for me to pull it from the chaos and hang on.