photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
News of My Mother's Death
by Stuart Habley
I’d been a freshman in college for around six months, and in that time had said goodbye three times to my terminally ill mother. Once when I left for college. The second time after my visit home on Thanksgiving. And the last time after Christmas break. Each time it was harder to see her eyes, but she always had a big smile for me. Every time I left, her condition seemed to worsen.
I wrote her letters almost every day. I heard back that my letters were a source of joy and laughter. I was never sure if it was because of my comical way with words, my overuse of the word GREAT, or my habit for forgetting words and not proofreading well.
I was eating alone in the large ugly school cafeteria when I caught sight of my roommate making his way to my table, carefully slipping between closely packed chairs and tables, excusing himself as needed. By the time he got to me, I knew what he was going to say. “There is a call for you on the pay phone.”
I got up. I was deliberate in my moves, not wanting to trip or fall. I knew what I would hear before I picked up the phone. The receiver was cold and clammy, like my hands. I can’t remember who called. I think it was my oldest sister.
“Mother died. Come home.” I felt a jumble of relief and also a sense that a major part of my life had just ended.
I didn’t have time to cry. I had to get home, as though if I really hurried, she might still be there waiting for me. Run, run, run. Airline tickets, a cab to the airport. Run, run, run. Away from the news, escape to nowhere. Everything entered a very quiet, very directed time warp.
I was relieved that she was out of her misery. Out of the world of being sick, the oxygen tent, hanging on for my father. Out of being the object of pity. All I could do was remember the last time I kissed her goodbye when we both realized that it would be the last time we would see each other . . . .
And I will always remember her breath reeking of gangrene, at least that’s what I thought at the time.
It is hard to put a pretty smell on Death.
I wrote her letters almost every day. I heard back that my letters were a source of joy and laughter. I was never sure if it was because of my comical way with words, my overuse of the word GREAT, or my habit for forgetting words and not proofreading well.
I was eating alone in the large ugly school cafeteria when I caught sight of my roommate making his way to my table, carefully slipping between closely packed chairs and tables, excusing himself as needed. By the time he got to me, I knew what he was going to say. “There is a call for you on the pay phone.”
I got up. I was deliberate in my moves, not wanting to trip or fall. I knew what I would hear before I picked up the phone. The receiver was cold and clammy, like my hands. I can’t remember who called. I think it was my oldest sister.
“Mother died. Come home.” I felt a jumble of relief and also a sense that a major part of my life had just ended.
I didn’t have time to cry. I had to get home, as though if I really hurried, she might still be there waiting for me. Run, run, run. Airline tickets, a cab to the airport. Run, run, run. Away from the news, escape to nowhere. Everything entered a very quiet, very directed time warp.
I was relieved that she was out of her misery. Out of the world of being sick, the oxygen tent, hanging on for my father. Out of being the object of pity. All I could do was remember the last time I kissed her goodbye when we both realized that it would be the last time we would see each other . . . .
And I will always remember her breath reeking of gangrene, at least that’s what I thought at the time.
It is hard to put a pretty smell on Death.