May is always a tough month for me, because it’s when my mother died. My mother did not have an easy life, but she loved being a mom, taking good care of her sons and always lending an ear or supporting us whenever we needed it. She loved the Cleveland Indians and silly jokes. More importantly, she was the kindest person I’ve ever known, and she taught me to have compassion for those less fortunate. I’ve thought of her every day since she died.
The pink “WHILE YOU WERE OUT” message slip was sitting on the chair in my office. The message was brief: “Call your brother at home.”
Uh oh. Tony doesn’t have my work number. He must have gone to some effort to reach me.
It should be a rule that really bad things can’t happen on beautiful, sunny days, like Thursday, May 5, 1994. Just another day; get up, shower, go to work. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Yet nearly every moment of that day is etched into my mind. Even seemingly banal details still stick with me. For instance, I can still see myself driving to work, listening to Pearl Jam, stopping at the traffic light on W. 25th Street before turning into the garage at MetroHealth Medical Center, where I worked in the Marketing Department.
When I got to my office, I greeted Kathy, our department secretary. She and I had grown close in the two years we’d worked together. We were usually the first ones in the office, and it was our daily routine to walk to the cafeteria together to get coffee (29 cents with employee discount).
I stopped at the ATM and withdrew $60 for a planned trip to Toledo that weekend. I bought a banana, orange juice, and coffee at the cafeteria, and went back to my office. It was about 8:30 a.m. It was just another Thursday.
And then, at 10:30–everything changed.
I had gone back to the cafeteria for another cup of coffee. On my way back, I saw Kathy in the hallway.
“Hey,” she said. “Check your desk. You have a message.” No banter, no joking.
My nervous system snapped to attention. “Okay, thanks,” I said, and walked into my office.
The message slip was on my chair, almost daring me to pick it up. I read the message. Adrenaline.
I sat down, put the coffee cup on my desk, took a deep breath. It was like a scene from an old movie, a telegram bringing bad news.
Tony was still living at my parents’ home. I picked up the phone and dialed the number quickly, before I could stop myself.
Tony answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said.
“You tell me. You called –” I was trying to keep things light, trying to keep at arm’s length the news that I was sure I didn’t want to hear.
And then everything began to swirl…
Tony cut me off. “Listen, Mom died today.”
What?!” Tears, immediately.
“Oh my God! What happened?” And why the hell didn’t you prepare me before telling me?
(Author’s note, with 25+ years perspective: I know you’re not supposed to be mad at the bearer of bad news, but I was furious with my brother for the abrupt way he told me the news. Time has since mellowed me, especially since Tony was the one who found my mother’s body.)
Tony was still talking.
…she hadn’t woken up, he went to check on her…oh my God, an ambulance came to the house…
She was only 59…
She called me last night, like she always did–at 7:30…she asked about my cold.
Kathy closed the door to my office, but I’m sure everyone could hear me crying.
“How’s Dad?” I managed to choke out.
“Listen, I have to go. I still have to call other people,” Tony said.
“Okay, I’ll be home as soon as possible,” I said, and hung up the phone.
Staring at my desk…My. Mother. Is. Dead.
It’s a beautiful day…doesn’t the universe know what just happened?
Almost mechanically, I reached for my coffee cup. Still warm…feels like I bought it years ago…
The phone rang. I picked it up, also mechanically. Kathy. “Do you need some help?” she asked.
“Do you know what happened?”
“No.”
“My mother died.”
Wow, I said it out loud. It must be true.
“Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry.”
Kathy didn’t know my mother, but she and I had been through a lot together, so it was like telling an old friend.
“Will you please tell everyone in the office?” I asked her. A moment later, there was a knock at the door, and Susan, my boss, walked in and expressed her condolences.
After Susan left, I stared out the window of my office.
My. Mother. Is. Dead.
Why is the sun still shining?
Feeling, and reality slowly…slowly…crept back in.
As I picked myself up from under the rubble of the news, I was trying to imagine what had happened at my parents’ house that morning, while I was at work, oblivious.
At what moment did my mother die? How long had it taken the ambulance to arrive? What was my father going through?
Guilt…she said she wasn’t feeling well…why didn’t I listen?
Just the other day, when I was visiting, she’d made a point of it. “I don’t like the way I’m feeling!” Did I listen? Not really. She’d said things like that before. I thought of her as a bit of a hypochondriac.
I gathered my things and left the office.
My. Mother. Is. Dead.
I drove home first before going to my parents’ house. Should I start calling it Dad’s house? I called a friend to tell him the news, and to ask him to let our friends know. Then I called my friend in Toledo to say I wouldn’t be making the trip.
Every time I say it, it seems more…real…sort of…
Finally, I pulled myself together enough to drive to Bedford, to my parents’ (my father’s) house. My brother was outside, working on his car, and I greeted him. He responded, quietly.
I walked onto the front porch, pausing a moment to stare at the chair where my mother had sat thousands of times—probably even the day before—smoking cigarettes, and watching the world go by. (The flower bed next to the porch was always littered with cigarette butts.)
I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked into the house. I forced myself not to look to the left, at the bedroom where my mother had slept, and died. (For years, I refused to ever enter that room.)
My father was in the living room, leaning against a cabinet. Staring at the floor. He didn’t acknowledge me at first. He’d been through a lot in his life, going back to his life in Europe before he came to America, but right now, he was at a compete loss. The last time I’d seen him like this was when my grandmother died.
Eventually he looked up. We made noises at each other by way of greeting.
The first order of business—arrange a funeral. Arrange. A. Funeral. My father and I piled into my car—he was in no mood to drive—and drove to the St. John Funeral Home in downtown Bedford.
Chuck St. John, the owner of the funeral home, greeted us and ushered us in. I think he knew my mom from church; Bedford was a relatively small town, especially for Catholics. We all kind of knew each other.
How many times has Chuck had gone through this routine with a family? How sincere when he says how sorry he is?
After going through the paperwork, Chuck took us into the casket room. We walked into a room that was filled, floor to ceiling, with caskets, and we had to pick one.
Okay, Mom’s dead, Dad’s in shock, and we’re picking out a casket.
I remember spending a fair amount of time and effort assessing the casket models. Rejecting some because they were too, what, ornate? Rejecting others because they weren’t good enough for Mom. Wishing I could just reject them all, and wake up.
What the hell am I doing? We’re picking a box for Mom’s body to lie in for eternity. What difference does it make what the frickin’ box looks like?
Somehow, eventually, we got through the task of choosing a casket, and got the hell out of that room.
After finalizing the funeral details, we went back to my parents’ (my father’s) house. Walking up the front steps, I instinctively, and against my better judgment, looked at my mother’s chair on the porch. Another jolt.
Okay, now she’s not sitting there. I guess I have to get used to our new reality…
Mom is no longer a part of my life. No more phone calls from her every night at 7:30. No more asking me when I was going to get married and give her grandchildren…
In three days, it would be Mother’s Day.
May 5, 1994, was just another Thursday. Until it wasn’t.
My. Mother. Was. Dead.
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