I was woken up out of a dead sleep at 4:16 a.m. Saturday. My mom had died. I knew the call was coming. I knew it was coming almost a year ago. I knew the time was closer when she was in the hospital for a week last month. And I knew that when I visited her last week, at her bed side, in my parents' living room, under the care of hospice, that she had even less time on this earth than ever. So, I was ready. But I couldn't stop crying Saturday. Crying while I packed. Crying in the car ride down. Crying anytime the conversation came even remotely near my mom. And I'm not a crier. My mother was quiet, classy, a pixie spit-fire, gentle, shy, sweet, God-fearin' and healthy as a horse. ALS took all of that away in the past year. It's been a difficult 12 months, not just for my dad and the immediate family, but for every person who came to my parents' house to visit or to treat mom or simply to deliver the mail. They knew she was special. My mom did not deserve ...
Up all hours talking baseball, cardboard & collecting