March second of every single year, I am sad because that is the day twenty-three years ago that I lost my mother.
It doesn’t get any easier this date because I can remember the events just like they were yesterday.
The hospital called to tell me that my mother was in the emergency room and that I should get there as soon as I could. I was at work alone and had to call and have someone come in, which took over an hour.
But honestly, I was in no rush. It seemed like my mother was always sick and always had been since I could remember. She was forever going to the doctor for this ache or that pain. So when they called, I really just thought that it was another one of her episodes.
Ever since I was a young girl, I had taken care of my mother. I learned at a very early age to cook and clean. I learned to juggle school and the never ending task of helping my mother get from one day to the next. I learned the hard way how to take care of a family, all the while putting my needs on the back burner. It just had to be done.
But when my mother went to the hospital that day, she was not to come home. After the hospital called, I contacted my sister to see if she could get there, but she said she was just too busy to go there. It seemed like she was always too busy for our mother. But she assured me she would call and find out what was going on. Finally after what seemed like an eternity, my replacement showed up and I was able to get to the hospital. I did not hear from my sister or my grandmother, so I figured that everything was okay.
After I got to the emergency room, I was asked to wait a moment while they went to get the nurse that was helping my mother.
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