Mourning Mom…This Can’t Be Real ??

Fourteen years ago (yesterday) I had to mutter three words I never thought I’d have to string together for at least another couple of decades.

Those words? Mom is gone.

My wonderful, clever, loving, witty mom passed away in her sleep.

One last exhale without the inhale.

Mom is gone.

Hitting me even harder — like a sucker punch in the spot my appendix once occupied — she passed sometime between going to bed Thanksgiving eve and Thursday morning’s sunrise.

Mom had her freshly baked apple pie (with a perfectly pinched crust) ready for the Thanksgiving feast, and she always told me if (when) she died, she wanted to be dressed in a really nice outfit so that she’d look her best.

On Thanksgiving Eve, Mom decided to go for comfort and headed to bed in one of her favorite, well-worn flannel nightgowns.I knew she would’ve been more pissed about being in that old nightgown than leaving us, but that was my mom.I didn’t care if she went to bed in a Dior ballgown.

There were no warnings, no clues, no nothing, and now no mom.

Mom is gone. Mom is gone. Mom is gone.

I found myself repeating those words over and over.

I couldn’t believe this was real. Between taking belts of whiskey just to self soothe, crying until (no more water was left in my body) my tear ducts went dry, and getting major cases of the gags, I felt like I was in a stupor — a walking coma. Part of me also WISHED I was in a coma, and when I awoke (or not), this whole shocking mess would be nothing but a bad dream.

A dream it wasn’t, however. My house was filled with condolence cards and arrays of colorful flowers with touching notes from a zillion family members and friends but…somehow it still didn’t seem real. It COULDN’T be real.

Mom was SO ALIVE, so funny — always ready with a wisecrack, or words of wisdom. I so loved her advice. She laid it flat out like no one could.

Here's a funny sample: “You can’t ‘take’ somebody’s husband unless he wants to go. "Kidnapping doesn’t count,” she added.

So...Despite knowing she was gone, I’d still dial her phone number and expect her to pick up. I remember wanting to call her about who was just told to f*ck off on Hell’s Kitchen, or whom we thought should have gotten fired on The Apprentice (we won’t speak of that show now, but we did then), or the new black patent boots I snagged on sale, but then the cold harsh smack of reality would hit me right in the face, telling me those days are over.

Oh Mom, why did you have to leave us?

Part of the reason she left was I think in her soul she was ready to be with her beloved (my dad) who passed away 3 years prior. It certainly wasn’t her age, as mom was 11 years younger than Dad, and she just turned 70 (which is the new 50 now).

Mom did tell me a week or so before she passed that each year without Dad was harder instead of easier, and with Thanksgiving being one of Dad’s favorites — we’re Italian after all, so any holiday with a feast was a win — it did seem poetic that she drifted off in her sleep to spend Thanksgiving with him.

My mom was a mom, but she was also a best friend. A best friend who loved to shop! I think they came up with the term shopaholic for people like her.

Mom had HSN & QVC on speed dial, and she was always hiding a jewelry trinket she found from those channels in my house for me to find after she left, or if I happened to admire a ring or bracelet she was wearing, I’d often find it waiting for me in my jewelry box. I think she hid some of her loot from my dad too. “Oh, this old thing?” she’d say.

One of my favorite pastimes was mixing up a couple of bold whiskey sours and listening to dozens of Mom’s humorous stories. She’d chat about her life in the fifties and sixties, and those anecdotes now occupy a notebook of mine, which would be the first non-living thing I’d reach for in an emergency.

Loss of any kind is a tough pill to swallow, and when you lose someone you’re very close to, you feel like your heart is literally ripping apart inside your chest. It’s ten years later and I can feel a tiny new tear forming as I write this, and for some reason my keyboard is getting soggy.

Yes, death does leave a heartache no one can heal, and my love for her leaves many precious memories no one can steal, so I’ll try to keep my brain ultra-sharp until the day we meet up on the other side. I have soooooo much to tell her!I think I’ll mix up a couple of whiskey sours tonight. I’ll leave one on the coffee table in Mom’s honor. ????