Remembering Mom: Carol Healy

Until 1970, we lived 10 feet from what was once the most heavily trafficked two-lane road in the USA. The temptation of doughnuts, candy, and a Dairy Queen were across that street. What could possibly go wrong? Oddly, nothing did. She taught us to look both ways and to come home after dark when she’d shout “Stevie, Larry, Tommy, time to come home” from the kitchen window.

 

All these years later, I can still hear it.

 

Among my favorite memories from those impressionable years was tagging along with Mom as she drove to Duluth to buy groceries at Goldfines, Piggly Wiggly, or Shopper’s City and clothing at Glass Block and Maurices. For some reason, more often than not, it was just me and her. I loved road trips then. I love road trips now.

 

Mom and dad divorced when I was 10. Things got bumpy—to put it mildy. I tend to run away—or drive away, when troubling situations arise. I spent a lot of time outdoors during those years. But with a lot of support from our grandparents, we made it through and even had a lot of fun—more good days than bad.

 

Early this morning, shortly after I missed a phone call, I received a text message at 1:03 am, Mountain Time, 2:03 am Central.

 

It was time to run away again.

 

By 1:54 am, I felt composed enough to get behind the wheel. Ninety minutes later, I’d arrive back home. I was talking to my mom during most of the drive. She was right there with me, riding along in the passenger seat. Our dog Bella, riding in back, must have wondered who I was talking to. I kept saying “Mom” instead of “Bella.”

 

I drove by many of the meaningful places from when I first moved away from Minnesota 30 years ago following a job relocation. A couple of apartments. A few bars. Some bike trails. The park where Vickie and I were married.

 

I drove slowly past the townhouse I bought many years ago. My first home. She helped decorate. I better tell the truth—she did all the decorating. I still wasn’t making my bed or picking up my dirty clothes from the bedroom floor so buying the right furniture, paint, carpet, and wallpaper was best left to her. That was one of her favorite things to do.

 

I drove by the office building where my 32-year career began.

 

I drove past the hockey rink where I started coaching in Colorado. Coaching became as big a part of my life during my first stint in Denver as my career was. I’ve now walked away from both.

 

I also drove by the Starbucks where I’ve spent so much time during the past two-plus years since our return to Colorado. I go there almost every weekday morning–to “the office,” to write though I often wonder why I bother. Part of the reason I bother is because nobody encouraged me more to keep writing than my Mom.

 

I pushed my first book across the finish line a bit too soon. I could have refined it–could have let it rest for a while before sharing it with everyone. I rushed because I wanted to be able to say those three important words to her before she died.

 

No, not “I Love You.”

She wanted to hear “The Book’s Done.”

 

I’ll take my time with the next story.

 

And yes, she heard all six of those words. But not without a bit of gamesmanship. We had to play our game. Each night when I left her side, I’d ask “What’ll it be tonight–a fist bump or handshake?” She’d play along, pursing her lips and shaking her head at me. I’d only partially relent. I’d go in for the handshake but also give her a kiss on her forehead. Then those three words. The important ones. The right ones. The three every mom wants to hear.

 

“Brought some cookies.”

 

I drove through the neighborhood where one of my stepdaughters lives with her husband and their son named Carter. Even though she never met him in person, few things brought my mom more happiness in recent years than stories, pictures, and videos of that little guy.

 

I just wanted her to see all of these places one more time or for the first time. I wanted to reassure her that thanks to her, I’ve lived a good life, a fun life, and that she doesn’t need to worry. I will be OK.

 

As I drove from east to west on the Cherry Creek Dam road which rises high above most of the Denver metro, I could see the the Mount Lindo Cross. It’s located on the eastern face of Mount Lindo, a summit near Morrison in Jefferson County. It’s a series of lights measuring 393 feet high and 254 feet across, it’s apparently the largest lighted cross in the USA and was built in 1964, the year my wife was born in Duluth. I was nearly 20 miles away but could easily see it amid the darkness.

 

While looking at that cross, I was thinking about my Mom’s strong faith in God and thought out loud, “I hope all that stuff they’ve been telling you is true. I hope there’s some sort of afterlife where perhaps we’ll be reunited with our loved ones, or something like that.” I was preaching to the choir. She always believed it to be true. I didn’t need to convince her.

 

Oh sure, we had our differences. The most significant one is that she actually loves the weather on the north shore of Lake Superior. I believe a person should never have to turn the heater on in the car on the 4th of July. We agreed to disagree.

 

Late last night, my stepfather, Dennis, was getting ready to leave the building where Mom has been staying during the past few months. A person can’t overstate the positive significance he had on her life, and on mine. The first time we met him back in 1975, he brought a pallet full of steaks over to the house. He understood how to win over three teenaged boys. He immediately earned my approval. Year by year by year he’d do nothing but further solidify my respect for him.

 

Oh, back to that part about when he was getting ready to leave. They had this old-fashioned habit. I’ve heard about other people who still do it too. Before walking out the door, he stepped to the side of her bed, leaned over, and told her how much he loves her and what a wonderful wife she’s been, then give her a kiss.

 

In recent days, Mom hadn’t been lucid. She hadn’t opened her eyes. Her caretakers believed she had a stroke. She’d stopped eating and struggled to open her mouth, even for a sip of water. As they say, she was slipping away. But when my stepfather finished expressing his love for her with those final few words, “what a wonderful wife you’ve been,” she gathered what little energy she still had to open her eyes wide and smile at him.

 

She just needed to hear those words from him one more time. She had confirmation of a good life lived–that she was loved–that she made a difference here on Earth. Within seconds, she was sleeping peacefully. She was ready for the next chapter. It was time.

 

Mom died in Duluth at 1:10 am, shortly after smiling that one final time.

 

She lived a good, long life and gave me the ability to do the same. Tonight, for the first time in more than 64 years, I won’t be able to talk to her.

 

But I’ll ignore that reality for a bit longer and still keep trying. And I’ll start with this:

 

“I love you, Mom.”