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Time Freezes
It was a cold Camp Lejeune evening Friday, November 15, 1985 that I last spoke to my mother and sister.
“Momma, we are going to have another baby,” I had announced over the phone. She shared the news around the house until my little sister, then 9 years old, came to the phone jumping up and down.
“I get to be an aunt again?” She asked me and squealed like young girls do after such news.
“Yes, you do.” We did our thing, and said good bye as always with “I love you” before signing off. A regular family phone call to share exciting family news.
I don’t remember much about the next day. I think we had just finished breakfast. My 13 month old daughter was wearing the same dress she wore on her first birthday, a blue polka dot thing. I don’t remember what my husband (now my ex) wore that day. I had on a red t-shirt & flannel button down with a pair of cammie pants that he’d picked up somewhere. My daughter and I were playing our “What’s this? Que es esto?” game she was pointing at my nose saying “noooo” when the phone rang at 10 something that morning.
“Yes sir.” My husband looked at me with an expression I’d never seen, and when he had hung up the phone, walked to me, made sure I sat down, and took my hand.
“There was an accident” . . . he struggled to say it.
“Your mother and sister . . .”
Time landed in a big ice cube where world crashed in one second as my husband shared the news of their deaths.
“K Mommy….K Mommy,” was all I remember hearing for as I held my daughter, who in turn, patted my shoulder as I nearly squeezed the breath from her.
As a sailor, my husband was able to give information to my father about contacting the Red Cross so that he could arrange for emergency leave and a loan to get us home for the final arrangements. They were able to transport us home the next morning.
Arriving home, I was able to gain some sense of “things will be fine now, more or less.” I saw that my room had been transformed for my sister. I sat on my old bed as I remembered how she would enter each morning to be with me until I got out of bed. I removed choking hazards from a baby’s reach and set my daughter in there to play. In the “music room” I tinkered on Momma’s old piano. She had played it from long before my birth. I learned Middle C on it in 2nd grade. I started to play a tune repeatedly until my fingers remembered it all. I let the melody wash over me as I thought of my mother hearing me play it during my last visit home from college. Then I remembered the days of practicing, struggling over notes.
“You’re rushing again,” she said often, and I’d growl under my breath, start over, and rush again.
At church Sunday nights, it was a tradition to sing favorite hymns requested from the congregation, but since my mother was the main pianist, everyone struggled the day after her death. We made it through “Victory in Jesus” and others, but when it came to the second verse in “Because He Lives” I fell apart and had to leave. My sister would not grow up, how could they sing those words?
Daddy allowed my brother and I to make arrangements for the funeral. Afterward I went through Momma’s things and set bags of things aside that weren’t needed anymore. I handled Thanksgiving like a crazy matron of the house, setting Momma’s guest towels in the bathrooms, and setting out the good dishes just as she would for our Thanksgiving meal even though the church family insisted on preparing everything and bringing it to us. For two weeks we had eaten casseroles and vegetable dishes made in every concoction. I’m sure baby number two learned about the wonders of rice and macaroni variations during that time in my 2nd trimester tummy as I dined on Texas family tragedy support cuisine.
I stayed with Daddy through Christmas. Every night he held my daughter in his lap as they watched the news together. By the time I left for North Carolina at the end of December, I had nearly returned to normal, except for days like today.
Today I weep, mourn and grieve. But I remember a mother who loved me more than anything in this world. Our last words were not an argument, but “I love you.” I mark today as an important. I don’t get to visit her grave states away, but I do get to say thank you for a mom that shared her music, her philosophy on life, and her faith with me—a mom who, for all her faults, never gave up on me.
Everyone who knew my mom loved her. Everyone. She was a precious lady with a sweet heart that truly loved people. All people. Without conditions. She loved children. She would love your child just as much as she loved me. Regardless.
Some days I still get angry at my mom for dying, and for taking my sister with her. But then I remember that I prayed seven years for a little sister (from age 5 to 12), and that I was blessed to share 9 ½ years with a wonderful little sister. I gave her a niece she loved. She died as a happy child, even if I couldn’t protect her when I felt I should have. It hurts, but it happens, and we don’t get to choose when or how.
I have learned that there are worse things than growing up in a loving family with a mom stuck in past tradition and courtesy, than only having classical music available at home, than having to call to ask permission before I leave one person’s house to go to another, and make sure their mom spoke to my mom. I was very blessed to have such a mom. I wouldn’t trade her or my life for any other.
Thank you, Mom. Hugs Little Sis. I miss you.
