I know, most of you are saying when you read this, “don’t you have the date wrong?” After all, this is year 2017!

No? Still not what the year should be? Then why did you post 1998?

Because it was September 11, 1998, when my Mom died. Yeah, I know that September 11 (not “9/11”) 2001 is also a date that will live in infamy when cowards attacked the USA and killed 2,977 people during vicious attacks. I mourn their deaths and the permanent impact on our lives today. However, this date has a more personal meaning to me.

Back to September 11, 1998: When my Mom did not answer the phone for my routine daily check-in, at first, I was not worried. I thought maybe she was “indisposed” and I would reach her soon. I called back a half-hour later, and still no answer. Then I got worried. I kept trying … no answer. Worry grew by the minute.

At the time, I was at my spouse’s (then partner’s) apartment in Virginia. It was a Friday, and I was looking forward to having dinner and relaxing with him that evening at his home.

When he saw that worried look on my face, he said, “let’s go… I’ll drive.”

Through very slow, congested traffic, we arrived at my Mom’s home to find her in her den. The house plans for our house that was just about completed were on her lap. She appeared to be asleep. But she wasn’t. She was not breathing. No pulse.

I screamed, cried, and ran to BB’s arms in hysterics. He held me tight, and I could tell that he was crying too. He led me from the den to the living room where he sat me down and continued to hold me until I composed myself enough to decide that I had to call for help. My first call was to the police, then I called a sister who lives closest.

The police arrived quickly, along with security from my Mom’s condo complex. The cops couldn’t have been more compassionate, thoughtful, gentle, and caring. My sister and her husband got there and then the rest of the evening is a fog. I remember all these people coming and going — family mostly — but still quite surreal.

Throughout this long, intensely emotional evening, my spouse (then partner) remained glued to my side. He supported me in so many ways that night, and I’ll never forget it.

Well, that was 19 years ago today. It is hard to lose your last parent, and especially difficult when you’re the one who found her. But ya know… she died on her own terms. She did not want to be in a hospital or nursing home lingering through a prolonged decline.

The Peace Rose shown above is one that I grew in my garden. On the day that Mom died, she had mailed an order for some rose bushes to be sent to me at our new house that I was just finishing building. Spouse and I moved into it three weeks after Mom’s death. The rose bushes arrived one week after we moved in. I have nurtured those bushes, but only one survived — this Peace Rose, which was her favorite (and mine, too.)

When I picked the last rose of summer yesterday and brought it inside, I asked Spouse for a bud vase. He knew why. He brought me the vase, we put in the rose, added water, and put it in the center of our kitchen table. We held hands and watched it for a while, having our silent thoughts. Perhaps spouse said a prayer.

I am grateful, honored, and appreciative of my Mom and her work to mold me to be the man she raised me to be. I am happy that Mom grew to know my spouse and honored him by leaving a note that she wanted him to be a pall bearer at her funeral — the only non-family selected for the honor. That choice made a big statement to my family and was her way of embracing the man who has been my rock, my heart, and my soul for over 24 years.

Life is short: cherish sweet memories.