Let me first say I acknowledge that the title of this "wandering memory" came back to me because it was one of my Mother's favorite television programs way back when. Since I was "remembering my Mama," I decided to borrow it.
December 13, 1907 - December 13, 1982. These are two dates I will always remember. You see, the first was the day Julia Marie Denton was born. The second was the day my Mother, Julia Marie Denton Hulseapple, died and went back to be with God.
Twenty-five years may seem like a long time, but for me, the twenty-five years since my Mother took her last breath simply melt away as each December 13th comes along. On that day, and every year since she died, I have made that a special day of remembrance of her. Until this very moment, I have never shared that thought with anyone. It was a time for me to remember, to ponder, the reasons I loved my Mother, and more importantly, to thank God for the time I had to share with Mom in this earthly life.
My Mother was special. She was a quiet person, but when she spoke, she spoke with simple, pure truth and honesty. She had less than an elementary education, but she had a wealth of knowledge which many envied. Born and reared in the South, she learned to make do with little. She spelled phonetically when she wrote, yet the content of her thoughts were far more complex than anyone would have imagined. Unbeknown to most of her family, she kept a journal, a notebook with little tidbits and stories about her children. It was not until after she died that we discovered the journal carefully concealed in the back of one of the dresser drawers under items of her clothing. As I recall, the last entry was dated some six months before she died. That was probably due to Dad's illness and surgery that preceded her own hospitalization in October of 1982. As she told each one of us individually later, just a week before she died, she simply had to make sure that Dad was up and well before she could go to the doctor with her problem, even though she knew it was serious. By the time she finally gave in and saw the doctor, the cancer had advanced further than she had suspected.
Though surgery was considered sucessful, and Mom recuperated quite well initially, when she learned that the colostomy which had to be performed was irreversable, she seemed to take a turn for the worse. First she developed a double twist in her intestines, which required a second surgical procedure to remove a foot of her small intestine because of gangrene. After that procedure was well on its way to healing, Mom's system just refused to stay healthly. She had a massive "emboli shower," which the doctor explained as a great number of very small blood clots all "shooting" from various areas of the surgical site into her heart and brain. Yet, inspite of a condition that usually stopped a heart from beating, Mom did not even lose consciousness. But on the other hand, everything the doctor attempted to do, including following several procedures suggested by the various expert medical consultants, her condition did not, would not improve. Her blood pressured dropped so low they could only detect it as 60/0. Her output for a week was less than normal for an eight hour period. But she remained concious, and lucid. Not one of the medical staff could understand it. Dad, my sisters, and all of Mom's sister who were able to travel up from North Carolina to be with her, all really thought she was going to pull through. I guess I was the only one who sensed that Mom no longer wanted to live, especially not with the conditions that were required.
The day the doctor told us he had been informed of one more procedure he could try that was supposed to start raising Mom's blood pressure, which in turn was supposed to improve and increase her other failing organs and bodily functions, was the last time any of us got to hear Mom speak. Before the procedure was started, she demanded to see each one of her family members privately, including her grandchildren if they weren't afraid to be alone with her with all those tubes and needles sticking out of her. I don't know what she said to the others, but during our private time together, she gave me simple instructions to "Take care of your Father for me," and to not worry, because "I am not afraid to die; I am ready to go live with God."
When we all had spent our private time with Mom, the medical staff prepped her and initiated the procedure. Within an hour of starting the treatment, Mom went into a coma, and had to be placed on a respirator to assist her breathing. A week later all of her family were gathered around her bed. I was standing next to her bed holding her hand; I and my sister Ruth had just finished singing one of Mom's favorite hymns to her. At that moment I felt her grasp tightly to my hand, and I knew she was telling me "Good-bye." Then her grasp when limp. At that very moment, the respirator ceased to function. I called for the nurse to get the doctor, who responded immediately. She was gone.
Twenty-five years later, I still miss my Mother. It was at her knee that I learned about God and Jesus. It was by her example I leaarned the true meaning of loving and caring, of giving and sharing. It was from her I learned how to be strong, and yet not be afraid to shed a tear when I was hurting.
So as I prepare to celebrate my Mother's day of birth and Re-birth, I will shed a tear of sorrow, and sing a song of praise, and give thanks to God, and write a private poem of joy, as "I remember Mama."