Mother's Last Supper

One afternoon, Mom called. “Sherri, I’m really craving the Cheesy Chicken Enchilada Casserole you make.”           

           “Of course, I’ll make it for you. Just tell me when,” I said. We set a day and time for mom and dad to come over for the meal.

           At the time, Mom was 72 years old and I was 48 years old. She had had a stroke at age 64 when I was living in Iowa. I remember thinking that while her left arm and leg were impaired, at least it hadn’t affected her speech. She was very outgoing and was working at the local five and dime store in Cherryvale, located in southeast Kansas where I had grown up. My childhood friend, Cheryl, told me once that my mom had the best gossip in town.

I had moved back to Kansas in 1998. It was one of the rare times that I was living in my hometown and glad I was closer to my aging parents.

We knew she was dying soon. Stupid small-town doctors finally diagnosed it as Stage 4 leukemia and lymphoma instead of heart disease. Fluid was building up in her chest from the cancer. Oddly enough, she died not from the cancer but from the fluid crowding her heart. Cause of death: heart attack.

On the way to buy the ingredients for the casserole, I turned on 10^th St. and pulled into the grocery store parking lot. I knew where I was going but wondered if mom was thinking about where she was going. You know. What happens—after.

Trying to remember the recipe, I filled my basket:

·        Cream of Chicken Soup.

·        One can of shredded Chicken.

·        Small can of diced green chilis.

·        A package of shredded sharp cheddar cheese.

·        One small onion diced finely. Yuck. But it’s for Mom, so I’ll just have to suck it up.

·        One package of corn tortillas, uncooked, torn into one inch or so pieces.

But what happens after that? I hoped Dad had tied up all the loose ends. I hope I hadn’t forgotten anything from the store. Once again, I had lost track of my thoughts and had gone into reminiscence mode.

Back home again, I began to tidy up the living room.

Wait. What did I forget? Oh, yeah. Assemble the casserole.

·        Mix together the Cream of Chicken Soup, the can of chicken, the can of green chilis, about one-half cup of the diced onions and one-half cup of milk.

·        Oh, forgot to set the oven. 375 degrees, bake for 45 minutes. I think, but who cares? My mother is dying.

·        Layer one third of the goop into the bottom of a baking dish.

·        Layer one third of the torn-up tortillas onto goop.

·        Layer one third of the cheese on top.

·        Repeat so it makes 3 layers: Goop, enchiladas, cheese.

·        Oh, again forgot to set the oven. 375 degrees, bake for 45 minutes. I think, but who cares? My mother was dying.

Did mom think about the afterlife? Heaven, nothingness, infinity, peace? Now that I’m the same age as my mother when she died, I think about it often. I went to church and youth services, every week as a child and adolescent although my parents didn’t attend. I think that was the only time Mom and Dad had a kid’s free morning to themselves. Maybe that’s why I have four siblings. Get that thought out of your head! Gross.

The casserole turned out pretty good and my mother was still dying.

And here’s what happened a few days afterwards:

·        The phone rang at four-thirty in the morning -- which is never good news.

·        Dad called from the hospital with the news I already suspected—that mom had died.

·        Dad gave me the unenviable task of calling all the siblings.

·        Dad picked me up from my house and we started cleaning his house. Oh, God, it was his house now. Not Mom and Dad’s.

·        Must have something to keep the feelings and thoughts at bay.

·        Dad and I cleaned like maniacs at hyper-speed. Our family wasn’t known to have a tidy house to start with.

·        Put dirty dishes in kitchen and then the dishwasher.

·        Dusted side tables.

·        Wiped down counters.

·        Vacuumed.

·        Cleaned bathroom for guest use.

·        Prepared fridge for storage of many gifts of food. Grieving is arduous work. Must sustain energy.

·        Made Dad take me to my house so I could wail, literally wail, without witnesses to my messy outburst of anguish.

Visitors brought gifts of food thinking we wouldn’t have time to cook. For some reason everyone thought cold cuts were a great idea. Not side dishes. Not veggies (canned or fresh), casseroles, Jello or desserts. Oh, how I miss Mom’s lime Jello with crushed pineapple, pecans and cottage cheese. Sounds gross, I know.

We fed an army for more than a week with all manner of sandwiches: ham, turkey, bologna, and weird stuff like some kind of meat with sliced olives in it.

           Anyway. We survived the funeral. I thought I saw mom’s spirit standing next to the preacher at the podium. Dad was bereft, weeping copiously, at the number of friends, old and new, who came to say goodbye to Mom.

Afterward, the droning swarm descended onto the house, thrilled at all the new gossip they could spread. Stupid, stupid small town.

I don’t feel I was particularly close to my mother for some reason. I had difficulty letting others into my heart very easily. That seems to still persist even nowadays.

I do miss all the memories of her and how she loved her grandkids. My son, Christopher, and my niece, Jessika, as toddlers started to call her Mama-O. Mom loved that. I’m not sure where my son came up with that name. I would hear them arguing, “she’s my Mama-O” and the retort “no, she’s my Mama-O” over and over again.

           See you in Heaven, Mama-O. Or in another life. Or whatever lies beyond.