What My Mom Said To Me.

So many of my conversations with my mother had similar elements to them. The same greeting, the same exchanges, the same parting words. The last thing my mother said to me was the same thing she said at the end of almost all of our calls. "Here's your dad." This last time, she said it before she handed over the phone to head to surgery. 

Because of that repetition, I can vividly create conversations with mom now. It feels like I know what she would say to me. The experience becomes more striking when I have the conversations while looking at a photo of my mom. It very much feels like we are having a conversation.

And sometimes the conversations surprise me. The other day, I was speaking with Mom, and I told her that my dad and I were having a tough time dealing with her being gone. She told me that was normal, and that we were going to have a tough time for a while, but that was normal too. She told me that we'd get through it though, because we're strong. The entire conversation was very much what my mom would have said, but I had never thought of it until I spoke to her about it. 

I'm happy that her voice lives on in me. I just wish I could talk to her again.

Josh's Memory of My Mom.

Back in high school, the morning after a sleepover at my house, my mom offered everyone breakfast. We had eggs, pancakes, bacon and cereal available. Josh, a Jewish friend of mine, opted for a bowl of Lucky Charms. After he had slurped down the milk, he asked, almost as an afterthought, "Are these Kosher?"

"No! Do you keep Kosher?" replied my mom, as Josh's face dropped. 

Josh told me the other day that whenever he eats Lucky Charms, he still thinks of my mom. In a million little ways, a part of my mom lives on.

Furious 7 - The Paul Walker Tribute

I saw Furious 7 tonight, and it was pretty much the best movie of its type that I can imagine.

Yes, I did almost cry watching the Paul Walker tribute at the end. The tribute is very well done, but my mom's passing has given me a different understanding of the loss of a person's life. Seeing Paul's car drive off on the separate path, I get a lump in my throat. He drives off alone, and as his car shrinks in the distance, we know this is the last time we will ever see him.   Even writing this now, I can't help but cry as I think about my mom taking that path away from me and my dad. 

"Lasts" That I Didn't Know Were Lasts.... The Last Movie.

The last movie I'd ever watch with Mom.

Towards the end of my trip to Michigan, it was getting late in the evening, but I felt like I hadn't done as many things with my mom as I had wanted to on that trip. I asked her if she'd like to watch Bridesmaid's with me. We sat next to each other on the couch, laughing throughout the movie.

I love Bridesmaids for a lot of reasons, but one of the big ones is the ending. (SPOILER ALERT) Even after Kristen Wiig reconciles with Maya Rudolph and the two become friends again, Maya still rides off with her new husband and Kristen is still left along in the crowd. Life doesn't have the neat happy ending we want it to. So it goes. 

I've watched Bridesmaids several times, but it'll always remind me of my mom now.

MSU goes down.

I thought it would be worthwhile to reflect a little on MSU's loss to Duke. My wife and I turned on the TV after the game had started, and Michigan State was leading 14-6. I couldn't help but feel a surge of delight mixed with hope that Michigan State might be able to win. For anyone who watched the game, things went downhill relatively quickly from there. There weren't many moments for me to cheer, so the ultimate defeat didn't feel like as much of a loss for me as I would have expected. It helped a lot that my wife (a Duke alum) was very supportive of my wanting Michigan State to win, and not as concerned about the outcome for Duke. 

One more way to connect with Mom is gone - at least for a while now. 

"Lasts" That I Didn't Know Were Lasts... Laughing At My Jokes

The last time Mom would laugh at one of my silly jokes.

When I was in 11th grade, I devised a test to figure out if a girl was into me. I would say something to her that was painfully not funny, but I would say it with a tone of voice and a look in my eye that made clear I was trying to be funny. If the girl laughed, I was in. 

The test works because when someone genuinely likes you, everything you do is charming to them.

My mom would laugh at every little joke I made, whether it was clever or stillborn. That unconditional approval made the world seem like a safer place. I knew that no matter what was going on in my life, I could go home and find total acceptance. It was the truest safety net for life that I could ever hope to find. 

My mom was definitely into me.   

The best version of me.

When my mom died, the best version of me died too. My favorite version of me. He existed only when I traveled home to Michigan, and only at night. 

As my mom grew older, she came to need help with ordinary tasks. The pace of her day slowed. Putting on shoes and tying them was an exhausting hour-long process for her. By the time she would finish breakfast, it was usually time to eat lunch. My dad carefully balanced giving my mom the help she needed while still allowing her to exercise her independence. 

At night, preparation for bed was a ritual. It started in the bathroom, a typical nighttime routine - brushing her teeth, washing her face - but at a snail's pace. The last dose of medications of the day. A last chance to use the toilet while it is nearby. This part of the ritual could take 40 minutes, and was something that my mom would do on her own. When she emerged from the bathroom, it was my turn to join in the process. She held my arm as we walked from the bathroom to the bedroom. We might talk about the day that had passed and the day to come, or we might just focus on walking steadily and let the quiet of the house surround us. When she got to the couch, she would begin the process of changing out of her clothes and into her pajamas. Mostly, I would encourage her as she would succeed in pulling off a sock or getting her shirt over her head. Occasionally I would help her if she was really struggling. With her pajamas on, I'd walk with her over to the bed, and I'd help her climb in. She didn't have the strength to get all the way in bed and would end up right on the edge, at risk of falling off during the night. I'd help shift her to a more secure place, sliding her legs in a bit, then her body, until she was safely in the center of the bed. Then I'd tuck her in and sit on the bed with her, and we'd talk for a while. She would say that having me was the best thing that ever happened to her, and I would say it was the best thing that ever happened to me too.  We'd laugh, I would touch my forehead against hers, and I'd give her a kiss goodnight. 

My part of the ritual would last around an hour. My wife will confirm that because when I told her that I would call her after I finished helping my mom go to bed, she would have to wait it out. It was, however, the greatest privilege of my life to be able to participate in caring for Mom. She had given all herself to raising me. This was my chance to show some small amount of appreciation and to spend some quiet time with her in the stillness of the evening. It was our time, when I could be the son I aspired to be, and she could feel proud of the man she had raised.