Turning thirteen is such an exciting moment in every girl's life - dances, dates, cell phones and make-up all become a quintessential part of our lives starting then. I just had my thirteenth birthday party, yes at the skating rink because that was the "cool" thing to do and was beginning to like the idea of being thirteen. I was an awkward kid, mind you, and I still am. Thirteen was going to be my year, the year I really come out of my shell and begin to make friends and be happy. Or so I thought.
A couple weeks after I turned thirteen, my mom took a trip to Texas to see one of my aunts, nothing unusual there. She usually went down a couple times a year, and if she could, she'd take me. Those trips will always be one of my most favorite of memories - blasting her Power Rock CD playing Boston, The Eagles, and Ted Nugent.
I don't know what made this trip so special, she was going to be gone a couple weeks, nothing unusual there either. For some unknown reason, though, the thought of her leaving was too much for thirteen-year-old me to bear and I cried and begged and pleaded for a couple hours in a last-ditch effort to get her to stay. She wouldn't.
She left and every morning and night that week I'd call her to say good morning/night and tell her all about my dad. The last time I talked to her was on Thursday night, May 13. I called her that evening around six or seven and she told me they were going through some pretty hellacious storms (her words), and she wanted to preserve her already low battery just in case.
We exchanged I love you's and that was that. A little background information: she was always sick. She was young, 42, disabled, had more surgeries than I have fingers and toes and was just in poor health. There were definitely good days, but there were bad, bad days, too.
Friday, May 14, I went to my friend's house to stay the night. We had a lot of fun, I'm sure, but the memories of that night elude me. I woke up sometime around 10:15 a.m. that morning. I called my dad, as per usual, to ask if I could stay over longer. Usually, I would get a "Yeah, that's fine," but this time, was different. I got a very stern "no" and was told he'd be there ASAP. I had a sinking feeling because of the tone of his voice. Moments later I was walking outside with my things and I see him whipping around the corner in his truck. "Oh, Shit," I thought. I'd really done something wrong this time.
We pulled up to my house and my brother and aunt both were there, cars parked out front. Extremely odd, extremely.
"Daddy, why are Aunt Kathy and Bubba here?" I remember asking. Not a word, he wouldn't even look at me, and when I think about it I remember that he hadn't looked at me the entire drive–which was pretty short. I hopped out of the truck and walked inside, and my brother and aunt were sitting on opposite ends of the couch; only the middle seat was open for me to sit. Dad sat in his chair across from me, and the events that ensue will haunt me for the rest of my life.
My dad looked at me and started to talk, and for the second time in my life, my dad, the strong, burly man I called Daddy, got up and went into the kitchen sobbing. I'll never forget that sound, ever. I don't know why my instincts jump to where they went, but the second I said anything, I heard the words nobody ever wants to hear in their life:
"No, Aly, I'm sorry. She passed away this morning."
No. No. NO! This can't be happening. This is the sickest joke! That's exactly what I thought in that moment. I bawled my eyes out. I cried on my aunt for a bit and instinctively went to my brother. Why? I don't know, but I did. To this day when I get upset about missing her, he's still who I want to go cry to. Eighteen, almost nineteen-years-old, and I still want my brother to cry on when I get upset. Funny how things work.
The next few days flew by in a blur. I was taken out of school for the last ten days of seventh grade. Everyone gave me passing looks of sympathy and pity everywhere I went. I spent a lot of time in and out of the funeral home making arrangements, helping pick out a casket and the songs that would play. To this day, going into Lindley's, or any funeral home for that matter, brings upon me a surge of emotions and I feel like I'm suffocating.
The funeral was five days later on May 20, a rainy, gloomy day. I put on the outfit I bought, of course wearing purple, her favorite color. I sat in the front row and listened to the pastor of my old church talk about my mom and death and dying. I cried until my tear ducts were swollen. I got up towards the end to get one last look at her before she was taken away from me forever and buried in the ground, and saw all the people that came. The family I couldn't even remember the names of, friends that were pulled out of school to come, and teachers and staff from the school, including the principal and counselor.
The first vehicle behind the hearse, I sat in the backseat wedged between my two at-the-time best friends and began the long 20-minute procession to the burial site. I stared at the hearse, seeing the casket holding my mother–my mommy, my best friend, the one person in the world I was never afraid to tell my secrets to or cuddle with in the heat of a thunderstorm. The woman who did cartwheels with me outside despite literally not being able to. The woman who picked me up from school when I had a 104-degree fever when I didn't want to call my dad. The woman who was literally everything to me was in a lined wooden casket in the back of a hearse in front of me, minutes from being put in the ground forever, and I was pissed about it. I wanted her back, needed her back.
We sat in the rain under an awning for her burial. Words were said, hands shook, and sympathies given. We left and I went home with Dad. I couldn't sleep–I was overtaken with memories of her and when I closed my eyes that made me just wake up and cry some more, so I didn't really bother with it much.
The summer passed as no more than a mark on the calendar and I couldn't tell you what I did at all those three months. School picked back up and my friends and classmates, teachers and faculty alike gave me those familiar looks of pity, words of sympathy, and hugs when I looked damn near tears.
All of this took place almost six years ago now, in 2010. I've accomplished so much since losing her. I finished eighth grade and went on to high school. I took so many awesome classes in those four years, and almost got my CNA license (I didn't want to go back for a second year to get it because I didn't really feel like it was taken all that seriously, and I really didn't enjoy the first year). I was on the honor roll every semester, I was an officer in organizations almost every year, and I was inducted into NHS. I took my senior pictures in the fall of 2014. An amazing, amazing photographer did them for me and took me to where Mom is buried to do some pictures. She captured pictures and memories that I will have for a lifetime. They do say pictures say a thousand words, but for me they hold a million memories.
May 2015 rolled around and I graduated high school. I got a good amount of scholarships and graduated 15th in a class of 126. Graduation was so bittersweet for me. I was so excited to have finally made it. I was so excited yet I felt so defeated as well. I wanted so bad for her to be there, welcoming me afterward in a big mom hug and kiss my cheek and tell me she was proud of me. I'd have given anything for it.
Here I am now, in my second semester at Northwest Missouri State University. I've changed my major three times and am now Pre-Nursing. My current (potential, will probably change knowing me) plan of action is to finish out the next year at Northwest and transfer to Truman State University in Kirksville to get my degree in Health Sciences in 2018, and my Accelerated Bachelor of Science in Nursing by the end of 2019. I have big plans for myself - and the biggest angel of all is on the sidelines, cheering on her Aly-Cat.
The moral of this story can be told using three pieces of advice:
1. Time won't heal everything 100 percent.
Time will, however, heal a lot of it. Surround yourself with family and friends, join a sorority like I did to be surrounded by phenomenal women to have as a shoulder to cry on, even at two in the morning. Remind yourself on sad days where all you want to do is skip class and cry and sleep to smile - be happy. That's what they'd want, after all.
2. Your loved one doesn't want to see you sad.
I don't know about you, but I know for sure that my mom would kick me in the ass if I was always sad. She'd want me to move forward and keep doing the awesome things I'm doing and to make her proud. It's okay to cry sometimes, but don't let it consume you.
3. Please, please, please, tell your mom you love her.
If there's anything I would take back in life, it would be all the times I was an angsty kid who told their mom they hated them, or yelled and argued with them. I'd love her more and cherish her existence because just like that, she'd be gone and I'd not be able to say anything to her face again nor hear her voice.
I miss her so much. I would give anything to have her back, even if it were just for a day. I know she's there in spirit and she's always listening, but it isn't the same as talking face to face, hugging her, hearing her voice. Nothing ever will be. I love you, Mommy. Always and forever.
