My Cry

She fell not with a crash nor crescendo; without fanfare or particular notice, not with a roar, but with a whisper. There was no dimming aura, no rush of wind or a fluttering of curtains or sheets from feathered wings. She simply slipped away. She fell; and as she fell, memories arose.

There was once a girl, a girl with dreams that all girls have. Girls grow into young ladies; young ladies into women. The dreams of this one girl grown to woman are unknown to me. I can only assume, because of the culture of the time, this young girl had aspirations of eventually being a mother, to share her huge heart full of love with ones who could not help but to love her in return. This I can only assume, because by the time I was able to recognize this woman as who she was, I merely knew her as Grandmother.

It was 1971 and the picture of a family crashed to the floor, shattering like the broken glass incased in the wood frame. Ripped apart by recklessness and by sheer accident, one left this world, leaving the others behind to wonder, wish, and wander alone. She didn't want to leave; she never meant to leave. This particular fate was hers, and another fate beheld the ones who remained. A father, one who lost the love of his life and was thrust into a new role of both mother and father; and three children left to wonder why mommy wasn't coming home. Of the three, I was the youngest.

Adults cope with death as adults do. They either face the reality of it or look for an escape from it or answers to it. I think a child might do the same. I don't know how I coped with the death of my mother. I was only a toddler with a scarred face from broken glass, a broken leg, and a broken heart. The most important woman in my life was gone, and as the thinking of a toddler might go, there were no answers given to satisfaction. I surely cried. I might have found comfort in a favorite toy or stuffed animal. I probably found comfort in the company of my brother and sister. Aunts, grandmothers, and female friends and relatives stepped into temporary maternal roles, but the one who eventually stepped in to raise not only me, but my brother and sister and two other cousins as well, was my grandmother. My mother's mother, who became known to me as Mom. She was my mom.

When I sat down to write about her, my mind started out with thoughts of eloquence. Flowery, thoughtful words that sounded grand, but still fell short of who she was. No amount of eloquence can match the truth. She was a saint. She was a hard worker. She was a teacher, a nurturing caregiver, a symbol of strength. I knew her for almost forty years and that's long enough to know who she was. I would elaborate so much more on memories of my childhood, but I've forgotten more about that time than I could ever remember.

I received a call from my cousin while at work on Thursday, May 21st. I knew that mom had been in the hospital since the week before. She had woken up from a nap and she hurt too much to get out of bed. My brother, unable to assist her, called my uncle to come help. When he helped her out of bed, he realized her pain was too great and called for an ambulance. I was told that she had pain in her hips and legs. I didn't know that things were worse than that. In conversation with my cousin on that Thursday, she said she was being moved from the hospital to a hospice facility. She was in the final stages of kidney failure. I was blown away.

While mom was in the hospital, I had called her. Our conversation was short, due to health care workers needing to do things that took her attention. She sounded weak, but still was able to talk to me. I didn't know then what I learned from the phone call a few days later. If I had known, I would have made more of our conversation than what I did.

Two days later, on Saturday, I was eating what perhaps was the best chicken biscuit I've ever eaten with a new friend when I got a text message. "She's going downhill." I was suddenly emotional. The reality had set in. My friend could see the change in my mood.

I looked up from my phone. "I wish I had met you last week. Or even next week. I have to go to Florida. My grandmother is dying." In the wisest of ways, my new friend put things into perspective with, "Or maybe we were supposed to meet when we did." I instantly agreed.

A few short hours later, I was on my way. The original time frame was for me to leave on Monday, which was Memorial Day. The consensus from the professionals at the hospice facility was that we had maybe a week. But with that text at breakfast, I knew that time was short. I wanted to have one conversation with her while I could. To tell her things that I should have told her long before; to tell her that she was the best thing that had influenced my life; to tell her that she had done a great job and that the reason I am who I am today, a person with a kind heart, an empath and lover, was all because of her.

I arrived early in the morning, and after waking my brother and getting settled in, I crawled into bed at 4:30am. Sleep evaded me, and thankfully, so did dreams. I awoke to my brother telling me that he was getting a ride to see her and to come on over when I finally woke up. As tired as I was, I didn't want to waste time with something as trivial as sleep. Coffee, shower, dress, drive. I parked in the lot of the facility and prepped myself to enter. I didn't know what I'd see, but I was ready. I found her room and found her asleep. She was doing a lot of that, I was told, due to the comforting drugs they had her on. I knew the reason she was there. The workers were not there to prevent her death, but to alleviate her pain and to make the transition as smooth as possible.

I had seen her at Christmas. She was mobile, but each step seemed steeped in pain. Now,as she lay there in bed, immobile, I knew that her pain was over. She seemed ages older. Her hair was thinner, and so was her face. She was snoring, and it was a sound I had never heard from her. I wanted my conversation with her, so I got to it.

"Mom? Hi. It's Travis. I love you." She didn't respond. I repeated myself, louder.
"Mom? Hi."
Quiet, yet clear..."Hi."
"It's Travis."
"Travis..."
"I love you."
"Love you..."

That was it. That was our conversation. A short series of words spoken by me, repeated by her, and as short as it was, it said it all. All the words meant to be said and words meant to be heard were both said and heard in the final confession of "I love you."

Less than 24 hours later, she took a final breath in, then out, then none. I was at her feet. I was intently watching her, looking for any sign of the soul leaving the body. I keenly observed with an open heart and open mind and open eyes and closed mouth. Stories of whispers and winds and fluttering and the soft exhale of breath floating towards the heavens stopped short of the reality of being there. There was nothing. Nothing at all. She simply was, then wasn't. That's all.

My sister and mother are buried in a cemetery close to my mom's house. After we all left the hospice, I stopped by for a moment, wishing for a wet wipe or cloth to wipe off the haze of aged dust and algae from the weathered pictures. I did what moms do when they spy a smoodge there on the edge of your mouth. I licked my finger and wiped them off. I stood there, in the presence of the earthly memorials that denote the absence of these important women in my life. I passed glances between both gravestones, mulling over the thought of yet another woman who left. They've all left, they all leave, in the end, but the difference between them and the others who have left is this: these three didn't want to leave. This I know. I muttered as I turned to go, "She will be with you."

It isn't hard to realize simple facts. If you want something, do what you can to get it. If you have something, do what you can to keep it. If something leaves, grieve, accept, and move on. Realizing these facts, as I said, are simple. Action? That's another thing. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is apply all you've learned; it's sometimes difficult to understand there's liberation in listening to your own advice and acting upon it

It's been over a week now and I still haven't had my cry. I mean, I have cried. I had a few tears at her bedside and cried a little in my car after leaving the facility. This was done by myself, of course, not in front of anybody, by no means...I try not to do that. Just like sending up a prayer, crying isn't meant for others, it isn't meant to be a public spectacle. I cried, yes, but I haven't had MY CRY. A body-wracking, eye-reddening, nasal-blocking, throat-constricting CRY.

I do miss her. The reality of her not answering the phone when I call or being there when I go to visit is setting in, but still, no CRY.

There's lots to deal with, emotionally with the missing and the physical with the estate. Before I left her home, I spent the night in her room. Family photographs and hand drawn pictures we drew for her as kids hung on the wall, holding memories held for many years. I saw them for all that they were and still no CRY.

I left my brother and other family and made the nine hour trip back home. I had lots of time to think and reminisce and create worry, all of which I did, but still no CRY.

Forty-five years ago, this small boy coped with the death of his mother with a heart-wrenching CRY. This man still yet has to cope with the death of his mom. He still has yet to CRY.

Sara Mae Richardson
02/27/1922 - 05/25/2015