by Mere

Created on: May 20, 2009

At least ten years had elapsed since I had seen my mother. The years were catching up with her and she was not in the best of health. One day a cousin called me to suggest that I should probably consider a trip back to Michigan to visit my mother.

I discussed travel plans with my husband. It was agreed that I would take the children and fly back to the old homestead for a weekend. My mother had never met our son. Our daughter was just six weeks old when she was held in the arms of her grandmother.

We took a red-eye flight to Detroit arriving at dawn on a Friday morning. My brother met us at the airport. I had no idea what to expect once we walked in the portals of the house that had been home to me for 25 years.

I burst into a flood of tears the moment I gazed at my mother. She had failed so desperately. If we had been in a crowded room rather than the familiar living room I would have never recognized her as my mother.

That evening she became very ill and needed to be hospitalized once again. Hospitals are not conducive for cheery reunion visits; especially when the patient is laying on a gurney in the hallway waiting for an available room.

By Sunday she was in a room. The children and I were leaving late in the afternoon to fly home to California to our husband and father. Before we walked out of that cold, sterile room I am certain that I did not say good-bye. It is a word that I detest. It seems so final.

Months later my brother called to share the news that our mother had passed away earlier in the day. Immediately I told my brother not to expect me at the funeral. I gave him the alibi that I wanted to remember her alive; not laying in a coffin. Really, I wanted to avoid at all cost any confrontations with my brother and his wife regarding funeral plans and estate issues.

To some it may seem cold and heartless that I was not one of the mourners shedding tears at my mother's funeral. Emotionally, I had already buried her that Sunday afternoon in a hospital room in Warren, Michigan.

Since my high school years the relationship that my mother and I shared had always been rocky. She had a domineering personality. She really refused to let me cut the apron strings and mature. I had a golden opportunity to come to California enabling me to start a new life. I never heard one word of encouragement from her. Before leaving for the airport I vividly remember her standing in the kitchen telling me not to come back home for her funeral. I honored her wishes!

Learn more about this author, Mere.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.