The last two years of my life have been particularly difficult. I lost my mother to diabetes complications and although I have tried to pretend that everything is fine, it is not. I will never get over the fact that I will never see my mother again. Her death was my biggest childhood nightmare and it came true on December 6, 2006 at 4:45 pm I was on my way to the hospital from work to visit her when I received a call on my cell phone informing me that my mother had passed away. Such a cold, clinical way of telling someone that her mother was dead as if she were merely a specimen to be studied.

I remember crying silently on the bus and people were looking at me like I was crazy. I wanted to scream, “My mom is dead, dead, dead!” but of course I didn’t. As usual, I kept my pain and my thoughts to myself. I got off the bus and walked slowly across the street on my way to the hospital. It was a cold and sad afternoon and the snow was everywhere and my mother was dead. I remember calling the father of my children and telling him that my mother had died. I remember calling my oldest daughter and telling her that her grandmother had died, the lady who helped raise her, who taught her to read, love and much more.

I remember walking into the lobby of Michael Reese Hospital and being told to sign in by the friendly security guard. I remember getting into the elevator on the way to the tenth floor and walking out. I remember the blank looks on the faces of the nurses on her floor, wondering if they knew my mom was dead. I remember going into her room and seeing her lying on the bed with her eyes closed and her mouth open, as if she were asleep, as she always slept. But she wasn’t asleep; she was dead, dead, dead. I remember touching her and noticing that she was still warm and knowing that she would soon be cold and stiff. I remember walking out of the room and talking to the doctor and listening passively to her explanation of my mother’s death and asking for a place to calm down and think. I remember calling my boss to inform her that my mother had died and I didn’t know when she would be back. I remember calling various family and friends to talk, crying, and hanging up the phone.

Memories of my childhood flooded my brain. Going to work with her during the summer when she wasn’t in school. Go shopping with her on State Street for school clothes, Easter clothes, books and toys. Finding her at the bus stop on the way home from work on hot summer days. To go with her to the Clock, a neighborhood joint some Saturday afternoons and drink orange juice while she had a cold Millers.

Memories of her being in the hospital with my oldest son and my mother yelling at the doctors, telling them that she was in pain and that they should hurry up and do something. Of being curled up next to her listening to stories of ghosts and hauntings that her mother had told her when she was a little girl who lived in Itta Bena, Mississippi. Remembering how hard she worked as a poor single mom to make sure she never missed a school trip or went hungry. About the time she was in the hospital with the same illness that finally took her two weeks before Christmas back in 1978 and how she made Christmas possible for a little girl who was so afraid her mother would die and not bring her back. never to see again and marveled at her strength Hoping to become a tenth of the woman she was. Rest in peace Mrs. Gertrude Allen Henry. Although I will never forget you, I will always have my memories.