Mom's Last Hug

You know when you have a memory that causes such sharp pain, that you hide it away, and only take it out when you're feeling especially brave?

For me, one of those memories is the last day I saw my mom.

It was March 5th, 2006. Six months prior, she had been diagnosed with Cirrhosis. She was very close to death; her liver had all but stopped functioning. She quit alcohol cold turkey. I didn't think she'd be able to do it, but she did.

None of us saw her as in the last throngs of life. We were not painted that picture; it seemed that if she quit drinking, and took pills to keep the water retention down, that she would get better. Truth be told, I was only 22 at the time and didn't ask enough questions.

A month before she passed, I remember her grasping my hand at the kitchen table and saying: "It sucks. I finally have energy to do things, and I won't be able to do them. Little things, like wash the curtains." I was confused as to why she didn't think she'd be able to do those things. And then she started to cry, and I got up to comfort her. I had never seen my mom so vulnerable. She had always been so stoic.

When I visited her March 5th, she was confused. This is the part I hate to remember because I've learned so much since then, and now I would know on insisting she go to the emergency room. Instead, what I got from her was a promise to call the doctor in the morning. I can't begin to express how much I've dwelled on this and regretted my actions in the past 8 years. I have learned to forgive myself: I didn't know. I was young.

When I said goodbye to her that day, she was sitting in her usual spot at the kitchen table. When we hugged, she hugged extra tight and extra long, something she never did. I know, now, that deep down, she knew she was near the end. She was giving me her last goodbye.

When my 16 year old sister's phone call woke me up the next day, I felt my heart drop out of my chest. In an instant, my reality shifted into something much darker. I never felt as lost as I did that day.

It was a dark day and a dark year. I got married just a few months later, knowing my mom would not have wanted me to change things. I was in a haze.

One thing that gave me great comfort was the quote: "You don't get over someone passing away. You get through it." I will never get over my mom's passing. It is part of my story, one of the hardest moments of my life. But I did get through it, and part of that, for me, was putting aside memories like the one I've written above, to only take out when I want to remember, when I need to remember.

Today, on the anniversary of the day I last hugged her, I needed to remember. I love you, mom.