Hey Ma, Thank You For Everything
I’m writing this in an attempt to begin the process of accepting my mother’s death. I apologize in advance if my malaise gets the better of me. As someone who never envisioned living their life past 22 — it was unfathomable to imagine burying a parent; although that’s the ‘natural way things’.
My mother was compassionate, vulnerable, and refreshingly nonchalant.
She was an excellent self-trained pianist born in New Orleans. Her passion for music was as boisterous as it was infectious; often teaching kids the basics of key matching and chord progression. Her knowledge of blues/funk/jazz was encyclopedic — which made things more frustrating when I would play music of that era and she would respond with “boy, what you know about this?” as if she didn’t play these songs every Sunday morning before church. Her cooking felt like Home. Creole aromas filled the house as the sun set outside. Every Thanksgiving she would send me home with plates of food and desserts. Her homemade quiche was my favorite.
She carried her home wherever she went. Her slick southern accent would punctuate any “I’ll tell you what” or a “baby”(pronounced “babeh”) whenever she talked. She was thin but strong and walked as if she was undiscovered royalty. She always held herself in high regard but never suggested she was better than anyone else; eternally humble.
My mother and I bonded over our love of music and dark, offbeat humor. She could go from singing “Ain’t no Mountain High Enough” to “Prom Night Dumpster Baby” with just as much same glee. My mother and I would sit and listen to music for hours. She was also, not for nothing, a pothead. The thing that I admired most about her is that she always separated herself from me whenever she smoked. Always interrogating me about my crimson-tinted eyes, “boy, I know you're not high!” — I wouldn’t start smoking weed until I was 20. As our relationship grew, she went from “you better not be high!” to “did you bring any weed to smoke?” We would smoke, laugh, and listen to music from her era. Some of the best times.
She had cancer. One week, she’s vibrant, walking around, joking, making plans to drive up to Santa Barbra — the next week; she’s bedridden, unable to move her arms or speak. I honestly couldn’t believe how much life had been drained out of her. Her body’s still here but she’s gone, I wept. It’s a very odd feeling waiting on your mother to die. After receiving the call that she had passed, I was relieved to know she was no longer suffering. Having the anticipation of one’s death is a less harsh blow than an unexpected one. For that courtesy, I suppose I’m grateful.
When she called me to tell me she had cancer, she was discreet, soft-spoken, and sounded almost ashamed. Punctuating the conversation with prayer and plans for the future. For her last birthday, we held a Living Funeral. She loved it. For those unaware, a Living Funeral is a mock funeral where friends and loved ones come together to speak about the person as if they’d passed; giving the person the opportunity to smell their flowers while they can.
She was my friend. Gave me advice, listened to my problems, allowed me to fall on my face, and would bandage me when I came back bloodied. I owe a lot of who I am to who that woman was and how she raised me. A few days after her death, I had thoughts of resentment toward her for not preparing me to deal with life without her. As if she could’ve.
A few months before her passing, I started becoming infatuated with the idea of having children. This desire came from this random image I had of my mother holding my newborn and me thinking, “that would be pretty fucking awesome.” I was never opposed to having children but never felt like I was ready to have them; until that image. It’s so hard to think about all the things in my life she won’t be around for.
Cancer is a brutal cunt. I don't know if my mother knew she had it before telling anybody. I’m not sure if her happy-go-lucky personality was a result of the fate she knew was coming for her. I can’t imagine the weight she carried; not just for her, but for me as well.
She never had a fear of death. She understood it was a natural process and would even joke about how she would want her funeral to go; insisting she wanted wardrobe changes throughout the service. This acceptance of the inevitable laid a foundation of assurance in herself that everything will be okay. Her faith in her Lord was concrete and enabled her to relinquish her fears in the afterlife and find comfort. On the morning of August 8th, A family friend called me to tell me that she had passed, a reluctant sigh of relief.
I truly don’t know how to process this. If anything, this has shown me how short of time I have with people, prompting me to be more, at best, impulsive and vulnerable; at worst, secluded and distant. For the last 6 months, I’ve been living in a type of reclusive loop of attempted tasks to take my mind off the gnawing numbness that clouds my mind. I really want to go out and attempt to be more social in hopes that I won’t be on my deathbed with regrets; whenever that may be.
My mother was truly the best. There won’t be a day I won’t think about her smile, voice, and tender hugs. I can’t be thankful enough for the time I spent with her and our relationship.
