My mother, Dora B. Remson, died at about 9 a.m. on Monday, Jan. 3, 2000.  We all knew it was coming, and in some ways, I think we all welcomed it.  She was so uncomfortable at the end, and we could do nothing to help her.  Still, her passing leaves a big hole in our lives.

For me, it was especially sad that this happened during the holiday period.  One of my fondest memories from childhood was going window shopping in Minneapolis with Mom just after Thanksgiving, when holiday displays filled the department store windows with their magic.  One display in particular has always stayed with me, an electrically animated Santa and his elves in their workshop.  The scene is etched into my memory: The crunch of snow under my feet. The crisp tang to the cold air.  The lights decorating the street. And especially, the sound of Sleigh Ride playing in the background as Santa and his elves worked.  Ever since, hearing that song has brought up feelings of joy.  I wonder whether now, that joy will be tinged with a bit of sadness.

I remember, too, going to movies with Mom when I was a child.  The Wizard of Oz stands out in particular.  In one early black-and-white scene, the mean Miss Gulch floats past the window of Dorothy’s house after it’s been picked up by a tornado. Suddenly, Miss Gulch is transformed into a witch on a broom—and at that, I screamed in terror.  The scene frightened me so badly that Mom had to take me out of the theater.  It was years before I realized that most of the movie was in color!

Mom was an incredible woman.  As a divorced single mother who was caring not only for me but also for her mother, Mom was a working woman in an era when that wasn’t very common, or very accepted.  At age 31, she married Sidney Remson, a wonderful man who became the only real father I’ve ever known, and the two of us joined my new Dad to live in California.  (Mom and Dad were married for more than 46 years.)  Mom continued working part time over the years, often working from home as a
bookkeeper, so that she would always be there for me and for my brother Gary when we came home from school.

I didn’t appreciate Mom back then.  She used to embarrass me with her gregariousness and enthusiasm and her all-out zest for life.  That was especially true when she would start singing along with the music at a concert or talking to strangers in line at the grocery checkout.  And I know I used to drive Mom crazy by prattling on about latest things I’d learned in school, especially once I started attending college.  Oddly enough, though, as I grew older, I found myself admiring the kinds of things Mom seemed to
do so naturally and wishing I could emulate more of her social attributes.  Eventually, I also came to understand that Mom was upset when I talked about academic things because she never felt that she was "smart" enough.  (I suspect that she had an undiagnosed learning disability in a time when nobody had ever heard of such a thing, because the fact is that Mom was very sharp.  She just didn’t do well in a traditional academic setting.)

Mom and I fought a lot as I was growing up, as do most mothers and daughters, I suppose.  But our fights always wound up bringing us closer somehow, and at some point, we became the best of friends.  If I hadn’t been blessed by having her as my mother, I would have been happy to choose her as a friend.  I am so very grateful that we had resolved all the old negative stuff between us long before she died, and we were able to enjoy each other for many years. 

Mother’s Day will hold bittersweet memories for me from now on.  My birthday is close to Mother’s Day, and for many years, Mom and I took a day around that time and went shopping together to buy each other gifts (not that the gifts themselves really mattered).  Then we would go to lunch.  In the last year or two before her surgery, she could no longer handle the shopping.  Her arteries were so badly blocked that she would get short of breath just walking a very short distance.  But we still went to lunch together and enjoyed each other’s company. 

Mom’s triple bypass surgery in 1997 was supposed to give her a new lease on life, but her age (75 at the time) and other health problems—including diabetes and high blood pressure—seemed to undermine that goal. So although the surgeon told us at the time that the operation had gone well, the recovery didn’t.  Mom was left severely disabled and in need of 24-hour care.  She spent 100 days at a rehab center, but she seemed to go downhill rather than regaining any function.  Worst of all was that following the
surgery, she lost a lot of her cognitive function. By the time she was discharged to my brother Gary’s care at home, it seemed as though we’d lost the person who was Mom, even though her body still functioned (albeit imperfectly).

But this was the woman who had handled the stresses and demands of being a single mother, of being the chief provider for her own mother, of being a new bride transported 2000 miles across the country, away from all the friends and family she had ever known.  That fighting spirit kept her going, and thanks largely to Gary’s loving and thorough care (as well as Mom’s tenacity), she gradually regained a lot of what she had lost cognitively.  She recognized us, carried on conversations with us, reminisced with us.  She never made it all the way back, but we enjoyed her active presence in our lives for more than another year—a gift I think all of us will always treasure.

Then Mom had another heart attack, and that started a new downward slide.  After she returned home from the hospital, she improved a little, but gradually, she became weaker and less able to tolerate even being up in a wheelchair for more than a very short time.  This was particularly frustrating to her since she hated being cooped up in one place all the time.

By the time she went into the hospital on Dec. 24, 1999, Mom had stopped talking almost completely, and from the day she was admitted until the day she died, I never heard her say another word.  But she communicated with her eyes, and she would hold my hand and squeeze it.  In fact, on the day before she died, she squeezed my hand, my husband Neil’s hand, Dad’s hand and Gary’s hand.  She seemed to be saying goodbye and telling us she loved us.  Our son, Brian, didn’t get a chance to see her that day, but I’m sure the message was meant for him as well.  Brian and Mom had
become close in the years before the bypass surgery, occasionally going to movies together or just talking heart to heart.

Even Mom’s death didn’t stop her from communicating her love.

Shortly after Gary called to give us the news, Neil glanced into our back yard and noticed the yellow rose bush my mother had given me for my 40th birthday.  Roses were a special symbol for Mom and me.  The rose seemed to illustrate our relationship, especially in my early years: The flower was beautiful and sweet-smelling, but roses have thorns.  To enjoy the flower, you must deal with the thorns.  And we had.  I loved yellow roses.  I think Mom preferred red ones, but she really liked them all.

The yellow rose bush hadn’t been doing too well in the last couple of years, and our neighbor had even told us he thought the yellow rose graft that was added to the root stock was dead.  Only the root stock still survived, he said.  The part that made the bush produce yellow roses was gone.  Our gardener had pruned both the yellow and red rose bushes in our back yard, cutting the plants back drastically.  Except for one stalk on the yellow rose bush.

Yet there it was on Jan. 3, 2000—a winter’s day in Southern California, part of a yellow rose bush that had been pronounced dead by one person and severely pruned by another—a single yellow rose bud, just beginning to open.  On closer inspection, I noticed that the yellow rose petals included a slight blush of red. 

I’m sure there’s a simple,  logical, scientific explanation for this phenomenon.  The Southern California winters aren’t very cold.  The rose could have been a perennial variety.  Our neighbor could have been mistaken about the hybrid graft’s being dead.  I don’t really care.  I know in my heart that this was Mom reaching out one more time, offering comfort and reassurance as she always had whenever I needed her, and reminding us all that as long as she remains in our hearts, she never truly will die.

And she is right.  Mom, you will be with us always!  We love you!

—Laura Remson Mitchell, Jan. 6, 2000

This page is Copyright 2000 by Laura Remson Mitchell