Five years ago today, the Texas Longhorns beat the Ohio State Buckeyes. I remember this because I was sitting on my friend Roger's couch, eating buffalo wings and pizza from the BP gas station in Ellendale, North Dakota. You may laugh, but they served Hot Stuff pizza, and it was the best in town. Granted, the other gas station was the only other place that served pizza and I don't think anybody had buffalo wings except the BP, but to be fair they were all pretty good.
Then, I got a phone call, I can't remember who it was from. Not the first one. I think it was from my dad, but I know I soon got plenty of others. One from my grandma, one from each of my sisters, one from my uncle Michael. The rest of the night goes a little gray.
But I still remember thinking, "Maybe Texas will win."
They did.
I remember all of this because that was the night my mom passed away. The first few calls were telling me she'd been in an accident. Wrecked her motorcycle. Even now, I still think, "Do I tell people my mom died wrecking her motorcycle?" Not out of shame or anything like that, but most people hear that and think I'm joking. Like its another one of Jeff's poor humor jests. It's not.
I got an update saying they couldn't get her to stop bleeding long enough to helicopter her to Evansville, Indiana. Then the bleeding finally stopped and the whole family was driving to Evansville, while I was sitting hopelessly from the sidelines way up in North Dakota. Hearing everything as if I'm still watching that football game, not a participant or even in the crowd, just watching it on the television or hearing it on the radio, just waiting for the next phone call like you'd wait for a poor sportscaster to update you on the score.
I started trying to figure out how we'd fly home. Voices in my head had only questions: Do we have the money? What about class? Will the school be okay with me being gone for a week? What about Jen's class? What about work? Doesn't Northwest give discounts when you have a family member pass away? She's not dead yet, so why are we considering that?
That's when it hit me and I knew, in my heart, she was about to go. Something about the way people talked on the phone; the way they repeated the doctor's words. I'd never get to see my mom again.
But I pushed it all away. I buried it. Because I was in Bible College, and my family was going to need me to be a pastor, be a son, be a brother. Be a man. I couldn't mourn, I couldn't be me. Not for five seconds. That's what I told myself and I got lost.
We went outside and could see the Northern Lights as we loaded the car and headed to Fargo. We'd gotten the news and were making as many last second plans as we could. I learned of my mom's passing and packed for her funeral all in the same hour. The lights were a beautiful thing to see amidst the swirl of emotions. For the next few days, I'd find my mind scattering every which way and think back to them and they'd be my mental anchor. The beautiful northern lights. Texas won. Don't cry. Think about now, deal with that later.
Like I said, so many things are gray. So many things I remember, so few I remember crystal clear. I remember my mother-in-law hugging me at the airport, I remember talking to a lady over the phone about the procedure for securing a discount on tickets, I vaguely remember talking to a coroner about what to do with her organs and telling him to donate what he could. I remember not crying. I remember my uncle Todd in St. Louis hugging me. I can't tell you any other time Todd has wrapped his monstrous arms around anybody, but he cried and said, "She's gone, Jefrey. She's gone."
I remember everyone else crying but me.
I got a little choked up during the funeral, but I only remember crying afterwards. Months afterwards. If I did cry at all that week, I don't remember it at all. I remember fall break, crying half the way home as I drove from Fairfield, Illinois back to our apartment in Ellendale. Half of the way through Iowa I prayed and cried and finally built up the nerve to ask God "Why?" let him know I wasn't happy about the whole situation. In South Dakota I remember feeling a peace in my soul but still feeling like I'd somehow been bamboozled.
And today, I held my daughter until she fell asleep. I had fed her some oatmeal, which in the cutest way possible she splattered all over her face and bib. I laughed as I wiped her face and afterwards we watched t.v. together until she fell asleep on my shoulder and the thought hit me. I hadn't blogged today. I laid her down in her pack and play, and it hit me, today is September 10th.
I looked at Evelyn, completely oblivious to the calendar and well into her nap, beautiful as ever.
And I thought, my mom's really missing out on this.
I cried.
