Mommy, I gotta go

Just a few days ago, my mom left this earth to spend eternity with the God she worshipped all her days.

I still remember the day I stopped calling my mom “mommy” and my dad “daddy.” It was April 22, 1977. How do I know this? We lived in rural Clay County, and our closest neighbors were about half a mile away. I had two of them I “ran” with. They were a lot of bad influence for me, and I was a lot of trouble. I remember being outside on an old broken swing set. The kind you get with a little yellow slide, a couple of plastic swings, and if you’re lucky, it has an attachment. I was lucky. My parents cared for us kids. All 5 of us. They spent far too much money on us but always made us feel like our parents were rich (They weren’t and they were quite the opposite). We had one of those attachments on our swing that let you grab a bar above and try to make it all the way to the other side, hand by hand.

A couple of my friends from down the road (Down the road meant half a mile away.) It was a different time and a different location. Parents didn’t start to worry until bedtime and darkness didn’t matter. Tom and Paul (my friends) were at my house and we were having contests to see who could make it all the way across the hand over hand attachment without dropping. I turned 7 that day and when I won, I bragged that I was 7 and that’s why.

I remember lying to them and telling them I was having a birthday party that night. It was already dark, and if you knew my mom, you know she didn’t ever host birthday parties. However, I had it all planned out. I was going to go in the house and call her “Mom.” I knew it would get her attention and in my 7 year old mind, it would make her feel more important. I walked in the house and said “Mom, what time is my birthday party? I need to let Tom and Paul know.” She looked at me puzzled and I still remember the smirk. I also remember feeling uncomfortable calling her “mom” instead of “mommy.” She looked at me, giggled a bit, and said to me, in front of my friends “its in just a bit, and I’m about to start making the cake.”

She was so on to me. She knew exactly what I was up to, and it didn’t matter. In my little mind, calling her “Mom” worked like a charm. I walked out of that house, feeling like such a big kid.

After about half an hour or so, mom had us all come inside for “birthday cake.” She sang happy birthday to me and made a big deal of me being 7 and the oldest child of the 4 of us at that time. It was all so cool and my friends said that I was the luckiest kid around.

Then…..

Later my friends left. My “Mom” came to me outside and said “Jamey, I need your room cleaned up and I need all this trash taken out, and I need all your stuff cleaned up from the yard, before bed. I said “Mommy! Wait!”

She said ‘Don’t you mommy me! From now on, you call me Mom. You’re a big boy now and you call me Mom like big boys do!”

I’ve seen death. I’ve seen a lot of it. I’ve held hands of many who closed their eyes for their last time. It’s different when it’s someone you love. It’s also different when you see death coming and you keep your breath. A few weeks ago, I went home to bring my grandkids back to Arizona to visit. While I was there, I spent each day visiting mom in her nursing home. She had been sick for several years and we were told a few years back; it wouldn’t be long. On the last day I was there, I brought her some soda and some chocolate.

Mom and I talked a lot. She was lucid and awake each time I was there. She complained she missed me and asked if I could take her to Arizona to see the mountains. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t.

On the last day I was there, her and I spent our time reminiscing. We talked a lot. We talked about my 7^th birthday and she reminded me of something. She told me about the first time I ever called her “Mom.” She was proud of me and told me she had so much fun using it to make me do more work, because I was trying to be such a “big boy.” We laughed about it.

I mentioned earlier that I’ve seen death a lot. It’s different when you can see past their eyes and you feel like everything they ever were, has already been sent ahead. I saw this with my mom. I saw only what remained of her and I knew she was soon to see God. I knew that everything she was, the artist and painter, the mother, the wife, and the worshipper she was, had already made its way to Heaven. What lay before me was just enough to give her goodbyes and to make me laugh one last time.

My last words to my mom were “I gotta go mommy.” She laughed and we hugged, and she told me we would see each other again.

I’ll see you again, Mom. I love you.