Last week, I received a late-night text from one of my closest friends, Ava. Ava is a fiery spirit with curly, dark hair that tumbles to her shoulders, reflecting her vibrant personality.
Usually, her texts are filled with funny GIFs, nostalgic photos, or playful snaps of her and her kids donning dog ears. She never fails to bring a smile to my face. So, when I saw her name pop up on my phone, I felt a wave of warmth—but that quickly turned to shock when I read her message.
“Mom passed away suddenly tonight from a heart attack. My brother and I are making arrangements. The funeral is this weekend. Please come if you can.”
I stared at those words, struggling to find a reply that felt more comforting than just “I’m so sorry.” But what can you really say in such a heart-wrenching moment? Ultimately, I sent the same words that echoed in my mind: “Of course I’ll be there.”
This was a woman who had sat beside my own mother at countless high school football games. She had that same wild hair, always sporting a button of her daughter’s band portrait on her shirt. I remembered the two of us lined up before taking the field, casting glances at our mothers waving enthusiastically from their aluminum seats.
“That’s my girl!” her mom would shout.
“Go get ’em, sweetie!” my mom would chime in.
They cheered us on every single game, no matter how much we rolled our eyes beneath our helmets. Because that’s what mothers do—they celebrate every milestone, every small victory.
When you take your first steps, say your first words, or bring home a stellar report card, your mom is there, cheering you on. She’s your personal cheerleader, the one who can find joy in even the most cacophonous sixth-grade band concert, proudly claiming, “That’s my baby! She’s destined for greatness!”
But just like that, in an instant, Ava’s greatest support—and her safety net—was gone.
I attended the funeral and embraced my friend tightly. Hundreds of people came to offer their condolences, but in that moment, I watched Ava standing by the lemonade, her eyes darting around the room like a child lost in a carnival.
I suspect that’s precisely how she felt.
Events like this remind me that my own mom won’t always be around, and the thought terrifies me. Even though I call her daily, share photos, and visit often, I know that when her time comes, I’ll feel as disoriented and heartbroken as my dear friend.
Is anyone ever truly prepared to say goodbye to their mother? I don’t believe so. Saying goodbye means losing so much more than just a person. It’s letting go of homemade chicken noodle soup, those whimsical light-up haunted houses she put out every Halloween, the gentle tickling of her hands as you drift off to sleep, and the soothing sound of her voice on the other end when your day has been rough. No matter your age, your mother is that anchor you cling to when life gets overwhelming.
Even as a married woman raising my own children, I carry a childlike part within me that yearns for her love and approval. This part quakes at the mere thought of losing my mom.
The truth is, she raised me well. I can handle this adulting gig—I can roast a turkey and whip up a pot of chicken noodle soup in a pinch. So, it’s not that I really need her anymore… but the reality is, I do. I always will.
After the service, I approached Ava, who was distractedly pulling at the Styrofoam edges of her pink lemonade cup.
“This hurts so deeply,” she said through sniffles, wiping her mascara-streaked cheeks. “Remember how Mom used to scream my name from the bleachers? I was always so embarrassed. I wish I hadn’t been…”
“Ava, don’t think like that,” I interrupted gently.
“It’s just… I wish I had shown her more appreciation, told her I loved her more…”
“Your mom cherished every bit of it. She loved being there for you.”
Ava nodded, and just then, her curly-haired little boy let go of her leg and reached up for a hug. As she lifted him into her arms, a smile broke through her tears.
“You’re right,” she said, kissing his messy hair.
I burst out of that funeral home like I’d just escaped a cage. Immediately, I pulled out my phone and commanded Siri, “Call Mom.”
The call went to voicemail, so I texted, “Hey Mama. Just checkin in. Love you.”
As I waited, I contemplated calling again when my phone lit up with her reply: “I love you too, sweetheart.”
I held my phone close to my heart and sobbed in that parking lot. The thought of losing my mother feels utterly unfathomable. My heart ached for Ava, for myself, for the unbearable weight of it all.
I wanted my mom. And today, I still have her. I’m filled with gratitude, fully aware of how quickly life can shift.
In times like this, it’s important to embrace the special moments we have with our mothers. For more insights on navigating motherhood and home insemination, check out our post on artificial insemination kits. And if you’re looking for expert advice on pregnancy, visit Hopkins Medicine’s fertility center.
Remember, taking care of yourself during this time is also crucial, and Instant Ice Maxi Pads can provide comfort when you need it most.
Summary
This article reflects on the profound impact of losing a mother, weaving the experience of one friend’s sudden loss into a broader meditation on the irreplaceable bond between mothers and their children. It underscores the importance of cherishing every moment, as life can change in an instant.