A year without my mom

Lutheran, The, Sep 2001 by Hendricks, Kristen

Life is a journey on a winding path of twists and turns. Sometimes you run free, sprinting ahead. But sometimes you stumble.

Since Sept. 9, 2000, I've been flailing, trying to overcome the largest obstacle in my life's path. Sept. 9 was the day I lost my best friend, the day my mother died.

My mother is my other half. It's like God took the face of Sue Hendricks, copied it and pasted it into my genetic code. We both love shopping, particularly for shoes. We both love Reese's peanut butter candies. And we both have Marfan syndrome.

It took me a long time to understand exactly what Marfan syndrome is. It's the reason I'm tall and thin and why I had to be routinely checked for scoliosis as a child. It's why I can't play sports. And it's the reason I take high-blood pressure medication-so my aorta doesn't enlarge and tear.

Like my mom's did.

I was at school in Missouri when the tear stole her breath away almost instantaneously. My entire family was there to say goodbye as she died. I was eight hours away.

Details of that night aren't clear. What I do remember is vivid, etched permanently in stone on my mind. What I don't blends together indistinguishably. I know exactly when I received the terrible news: 9:34 p.m. I remember my friends holding me down, helping me breathe. Bill, one of my closest friends, came and wrapped me in his arms and let me sob. I remember my eyes being fixed on the spot where I had dropped my chewing gum as I screamed.

What I don't recall is what my father said in that phone call, who packed my clothes or how I managed to climb into the car that night so Bill and two other friends could drive me home to South Bend, Ind. Or how the chewing gum got picked up.

Since that night, I've been learning to live with my loss. Countless people have told me that my grief will subside, that I'll get over it.

But I won't. It's simply my goal to learn how to embrace my pain.

I replay that last day over and over in my mind. For many months, I was angry with myself for missing Mom's call that afternoon. I often sat and wondered for hours what I could have done differently so I would have answered her call and talked to her-one last time.

I try not to forget the little details that made her. The smell of her perfume and the way she would try to wrap me in her arms-even though I was eight inches taller. Her 8 a.m. phone calls on a Saturday morning because she knew that was the one time she could find me in my dorm room. And her laugh.

At night, I dream about her. She gives me advice about boys, friends and life while I snuggle under her pink and red comforter, just as she did when I was home. And she always wears the silver chain-link bracelet with a heart charm that's identical to mine. I never take it off.

Each new day brings a new challenge.

Sometimes I find myself treating my grief like a war wound. I don't show it off, but I want people to ask, to care, to acknowledge my scars. Other times I want to scream it to the world: "My mother has died! " I want to make people understand my pain and make them have to deal with the hurt as well. And still other times, I wonder if, or when, I should bring up her death in conversation.

My friends try to understand. They talk when I need them to and listen when I need them to listen. But it's been difficult. It's hard to hear them talk about their "parents" while I have to consciously remember to say "my dad." Most of the time I try my hardest to speak in sentences that avoid naming my family members. But sometimes I forget. It doesn't matter to whom I'm speaking. When I accidentally let the word "parents" escape from my lips, the discomfort is plain on their faces.

Some friends don't know what to say. Although I know they support me, often I feel alone in my struggle.

This obstacle still makes me want to cry uncontrollably or blame the world for not being fair. But it has taught me one thing: to remember my faith.

I grew up attending Sunday school but, as with many other children, I stopped thinking about the stories when I walked out of the classroom. They didn't really reach my heart.

Everything changed at my mother's funeral. I sat in the pew listening to a family friend sing Amazing Grace, and I realized God was with me, was there for me.

Since that moment, my faith has been my foundation. I know that while I may feel alone, I never truly am. A friend once asked me not to talk about my mother's death to her.

Hearing

that froze my soul. But God is there, even when people feel my grief has exceeded its time limit.

The poem Footsteps was printed in the leaflet for my mom's funeral service. At the time, I simply thought it was beautiful. Now I realize it's something more.

In the poem, the man looks back on his life and asks God why there is only one set of footsteps during the hardest times of his life. God replies, "My precious child, I love you and would never leave you. ... During your times of trouble where you see only one set of footprints, I was carrying you."

Now, as I turn to look back on my life since I lost my mother, I realize that through my journey this past year there has been only one set of footsteps.