I Just Don't Think I Will Ever Get Over You...ever.

I'll never forget the phone call...or the drive...or anything about that last day...

The soundtrack from Garden State always reminds me of sitting in my car outside my apartment in Oxnard, late at night, the smell of the sweet ocean air in the breeze, my body crumpled up against the steering wheel, bawling uncontrollably. A sob that escapes from so far deep inside that you didn’t know that you went that deep and it escapes from your lips in a blubber and you fall apart.

You just. Fucking. Fall. Apart.

7 years ago today I got a phone call that my mom had passed away. She finally let go of what she was holding on to. She finally accepted the facts and let go.

It was a Tuesday morning. 7am.

The significance of that is what is so heartbreaking.

I got a phone call in late February that I needed to come see mom. They brought her home from the hospital because she wanted to spend the rest of her days at home.

I drove up the next week.

Mom and I had talked and I told her that in the second week of March that I was going to come see her. On March 7th. But because of her progressing condition I bumped my visit up early.

I will never forget the last day I saw her. For the rest of my life, until the day I die, I will never forget what it was like to say goodbye, never really realizing that it was goodbye forever.

Mom sat in her bed in a white tank top and dark blue sweat pants. Her hair was short, gray and curly; a far cry from her once long luxurious red tresses. But even in this state, in her final days, she looked angelic. The sun came in soft and bright through the window. On the television she watched “The Mating Game” on the Game Show channel. One of her favorites. I laughed.

“Oh mom,” I said with a laugh, shaking my head. I spoke to her like she understood me. Like she wasn’t delirious from pain medication. Like it was any other day and not the last time I would ever see her on this earth.

She had scooted to the edge of the bed and I sat next to her. I looked at her as we sat shoulder to shoulder. Her skin was soft, like silk, pale and elegant, just like her. Even without makeup she was still the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Like Linda Carter. Wonder Woman.

She was my Wonder Woman.

And so I talked. She would nod and respond in whisper. The esophagus cancer had left her unable to speak, so she would whisper, or softly clap her hands together to get your attention. Her long elegant hands had grown thin, her rings jangling loosely as she clapped. A nurse came in and I left while she answered my mom’s request. When they were done I came back in to talk some more.

At one point in our conversation, or what little of it there was, we locked eyes.

I could have just about lost my shit at that point.

I wanted to crawl up in her arms like I did when I was younger. I wanted to lay my head on her tummy like I used to do so many times before while Golden Girls played on the television. We would be back in our old house on Newell street. I would listen as mom’s stomach would growl softly, our bodies moving softly and slowly to her breath as the water bed rocked us to sleep.

That damn water bed.

And now we just sat there, a knowing look on our faces, but I pretended like I didn’t see it. I pretended like this was just a bump in the road and once this was over it would be like it had always been. Long, drawn-out conversations over the phone; Tearful goodbyes; nights full of laughter; stories and stories and more stories. I would dance for her like I used to when Pretty Woman would come on the radio, or dance slowly with her to a sweet love-filled country song, the smell of Listerine on her breath; the soft smell of her clean shirt. The way she used to tickle my back or read me stories in bed. She was the epitome of a mother.

The greatest one on earth.

But there I sat with her, pretending like it would be ok. Pretending like I was going to come back. Pretending like I wasn’t dying inside.

All of a sudden mom broke the silence.

In a whisper, while softly touching her arm, as if feeling it like a sweater, she looked down at it and said, “Cashmere”. My heart stopped and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Yes, mom,” I said, tears began streaming down my face and I laughed, “Cashmere”.

That was my mother. Elegant, beautiful, smart, witty, sassy and bold. Only my mother would see herself wearing a cashmere sweater while sitting in a tank top and sweats. Only my mother would envision herself as elegant and pristine as she has always been. And so I cried, and I laughed and we sat in that moment for a long time. I don’t think she understood how much of an impact that moment had on me, but for the rest of my life, I will always remember her in that moment…in cashmere.

As I stood up to leave I turned around at the door frame and leaned against it, watching her as she looked ahead at the television.

“I’m leaving now, mom” I said, looking behind me down the hall at her husband, who was still holding the urn he had showed me a few minutes ago while the nurse was taking care of mom.

Fuck that urn.

I hated it. It was ugly and didn’t do mom justice. She needed to be in porcelain and gold and diamonds, not some brown urn that blended into the back ground. I turned back to look at mom as she looked my way. She was in the room in front of me, and her urn lingered behind me…the feeling is inexplicable.

“Do you want me to come back?” I asked, the words tasting bitter and confused as they left my lips. My heart sank. I think deep down I thought if I said it like that she would stay longer. That she would come back from this and it would be something we laughed about over tea, or tequila, or spaghetti. Anything, as long as we were laughing…and living.

She looked at me and slowly shook her head and I could hear her whisper “no”. And in a small way, that broke my heart because I wanted her to want me, but I understood. So I stood in the doorway and took it all in for a moment, then turned and left. I left her all alone. And I will never forget that feeling.

A week or so passed and I got a phone call on Saturday that mom had slipped into a coma and that she was to pass any day.

Sunday came, and she was still there. Waiting. Her husband had called and he didn’t know what she was holding on to. But she was still with us.

Monday came she still stayed. Patiently she waited. She held on for one more day. For one more day. For the day that I said I would come see her.

But I never did.

I forgot that I told mom I was going to be there that Monday, March 7th. She waited all day, and I never showed up. So, on Tuesday morning, she let go and left.

She left and I never really got to say goodbye. And that breaks my heart into a thousand pieces. She left and I wasn't there. She would have been for me.

For the rest of my life I will always remember the day of her wake. The sweet smell of spring and wet earth. The colors, the bright sun, the sounds, the feel…every damn thing as if it just happened yesterday.

So today I remember how magnificently beautiful it was when we celebrated her life. I miss her more often than not. I keep that to myself and love her quietly and cry to myself when I miss her most. She was my everything, and it took me losing her to really appreciate who we were, who she was. I will never be loved like I was loved by her, and I have learned to accept that. I guess the best I can do is love myself the way she did…though, if I am honest with myself, I don’t know if that is entirely possible…

I love you, mom. And for the rest of my life, I just don’t think I will ever get over you….ever.