Four Years

I never got to say goodbye. Four years later, that truth still stings as bitterly as it did the day she died.

Patrick and I were coming home to Oklahoma City and time was being such a tricky bastard. Slow, slow, slow - it felt so slow. We felt rushed for time. We couldn't get there fast enough. Every second felt surreal. We were back on American soil; we were losing her. We wanted to be home so badly, but not for this reason. It took ages to get home - convoluted airline schedules, delayed flights, tornadic weather, 26 hours of travel, and we were just ready to be home.

Before we left England, I remember taking pictures of beautiful things, all with the knowledge of death and sadness looming in the background. We had to go home. We had to go home. It was a mad dash to get us moved out of the apartment, the train ride to the airport - but which airport did we even go to? It must have been Birmingham, but I can't even remember. Everyone was just going about their lives as ours was drastically changing. It wasn't just changing, though. It felt like it was falling apart at the seams.

Once we did land at Will Rogers Airport, it all happened so quickly; even my memories feel rushed and patchy. Charlie and Jonathan picked us up. The van felt silent on our drive back to the house despite the fact they talked almost the whole way home. I vaguely remember getting updates on her condition, being told what we should and shouldn't expect. I kept seeking the hidden thoughts behind their words, squished in the moments of silence between us and the luggage. I knew they were there, but where? The ride home was so dark. They had no good news. The whirring of the wheels held more expectation than the words we were told. The truth rode with us, hidden in the darkness. Its time would come.

The house felt eerily the same. Nothing had changed, but everything was different. The pungent sweetness pierced my senses, surrounded by the warmth of the house and the coolness of the night air. The house was filled with a loving, hopeful sadness. The floors creaked and our footsteps echoed down the carpeted hallway. We didn't want to wake her if she was asleep, but she was waiting for us - she was waiting for her son. He hugged her again just after midnight on May 28th; she died less than 24 hours later.

We all look at the face of death through our own lens. No one experience will ever look the same, nor should it. Bernice's few remaining hours look completely different to her husband, her two sons, and her daughters-in-law. Nothing that has happened can be changed or filtered or forgotten, nor should it - it just is.

I never got to say goodbye. It was that truth that I didn't want to speak aloud. I didn't and don't want it to be true for so many reasons - it just is.

Once we got back to the house, Patrick was my first priority. I cannot fathom the agony of watching my mother die after being physically absent for nine months prior. No child should have to endure such a thing. I tried to become very small, to provide everything I could for him in those hours, days, weeks, to not demand a thing from him or Charlie or anyone else.

The lights were dimmed and the bedroom held a warm, comforting glow. The quiet was screaming everyone's pain, but it was so peaceful, too. I can't even remember if I hugged her. I'm sure that I did, but then we all left and went to bed. It was so late. Everyone needed rest.

The next day was beautiful in the most literal sense of the word. The weather was uncharacteristically pleasant and mild for late May. The recent rains made everything lush and full of life. I don't know if it was a blessing or a sick joke that the world was so beautiful during those early days of losing her. I watched the revolving door all that next day. I watched as I made sure Patrick got to spend time with his mother. I watched as Rachel and the nurse and whoever else was there go in and out to care for her. I saw all of them spend time with her, alone, even just to sit with her - and I made myself small. I demanded nothing. I wanted to scream, "LET ME BE WITH HER, TOO!" But I didn't. I became quiet and folded into myself. I didn't demand a single minute to be by her side. I made everyone else comfortable. And I will regret it for the rest of my life.

We did get our moment, the two of us, but we weren't alone.

I was standing at the foot of her bed. Everyone else was in the room trying to make her comfortable. Everyone had a job but me. People at her sides, pulling her forward, fluffing her pillows, adjusting her blankets, getting ready her medicine and water and whatever else she wasn't going to consume. I stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed in front of me, trying to hold myself so I wouldn't fall apart. She looked up at me - people fluttering all around her, arms pulled out from her sides as she got as comfortable as she could. We locked eyes and she blew me a kiss. I blew one back to her, and it took everything I had to not unravel in that moment.

It took me four years to type that out, and it seems so trite and void of meaning just looking at the words. It was anything but trite and meaningless for me, though. As she was hours away from dying, she looked at me, saw my pain, and gave me all the love she could offer. I felt so small, so unseen, so unloved, so unwanted, and like it wasn't my place to ask for any of it. In true Bernice fashion, she saw me, she loved me, she accepted me, she wanted me, and she offered all of it to me with just one simple gesture. That's all we got, that one moment. It was fast. No one else even noticed, and I was glad. It wasn't enough, but it was such a gift. I have thanked God so many times for that fleeting moment.

I've learned a lot about myself since that May. There has been so much heartache and so much growth, but I suppose those two generally go together. I think of her and miss every single day. When she died, I wrote letters to her; it felt so natural to still be talking to her. I stopped after a few months, but I miss talking to her. Sometimes I worry that I am forgetting the little things about her, but then I see her picture and it all comes flooding back. Bernice had such a comfortable, familiar presence. The sweetness of her spirit could put anyone at ease. I miss that, too.

It guts me some days thinking about how much she would be head-over-heels in love with Benjamin. It guts me knowing that she never saw her youngest son become the most incredible father and musician. Honestly, the only solace I have is knowing that she is far better off than we are. Bernice is the one living the good life, truly. I believe that. But on this side of heaven, it hurts like hell when we lose someone as special as her.