Eleven

Eleven. When most people hear the word eleven, they think of the number or Eleven from the show “Stranger Things” on Netflix. When I hear the word eleven, I think of the loss of my mother. At the age of eleven death was something that I begrudgingly became well acquainted with.

I still remember my mother’s oncologist making a house call. He was washing his hands in our bathroom sink after examining my mom and he said with sympathy in his eyes “there is nothing more we can do for her”. At that point, I did not understand what he meant, and it was the first time I saw my dad cry.

Shortly after this visit, my mom and I were in her bedroom and she was in the bath. She called out my name because she needed me to help her get out of the shower. I helped her the best I could. Before this moment, my mom had been independent. Her health, as the doctor said, slowly started to decline and she lost her ability to care for herself.

After we had finally made it to the edge of her bed, she started crying. I asked her what was wrong. She replied to me “My work here isn’t done. I can’t leave you guys behind”. I think that is the moment my mother realized her death was inevitable. At some point, she would have to leave my dad, four brothers, two sisters, and myself behind.

I was in 5th grade the year my mother died. My biggest concerns were reading the first Harry Potter book and finishing my shadow box on desert foxes. The school was an escape from the complexities of my home life. Most children my age didn’t have their mother lying on a hospital bed in the middle of their living room, dying. At school, I could enjoy myself.

Part of my enjoyment was due to the teacher I had at the time, Mrs. Elhard. She was so vibrant. It was hard to be in a bad mood when around her. Even the most boring things, such as math, she made engaging and fun. I remember students in other 5th grade classes wanting to be in her class because she was so fun.

As an adult looking back, I realize that it wasn’t how fun she was that made her a good teacher. It was how much she cared for each student. She genuinely cared for each of her students and I know now, that is why people gravitated towards her. Had I not had her as a teacher that year, I think I would have struggled even more than I did.

On the morning of the day of my mother’s death, my sister jolted me awake. The night before I had stayed up late working on my shadow box for my research on Desert Foxes.

“Mandee, wake up. We are running late. Mom and I just woke up and she told me “Don’t forget about Mandee". I got out of bed and got ready in record time. I didn’t want to be tardy because it was shadow box presentation day. I ate breakfast beside my mom and once I was done, I said goodbye to her, and then my sister drove me to school.

I don’t remember much from my school day but I do remember arriving home and my mother was breathing as though she were a fish out of water. In one of the pamphlets, we received from the hospice nurses, it said that “breathing like a fish out of water” was a sign of death. I couldn’t tell you why that piece of information stuck with me, but it did. Despite knowing my mother was visibly dying right in front of us, we still went on with life.

One of my mother's requests was that she wanted to pass away with life going on around her. So, we did. I was sitting on the couch bedside her around 6 o'clock in the evening on February 22nd, 2000 watching TV. I looked over at her, hopeful because she had stopped breathing like a fish out of water. I stared at her waiting for the rise and fall of her chest and it never came. I called out to my dad "Dad, I don't think mom is breathing". He walked over to her and checked her pulse and responded with "she slipped away". She passed as she wanted to, with the bustle of our family going on around her.

Some of my siblings weren’t even home from after school activities yet. When they arrived, they were greeted with the news of my mother’s passing. My sister was in our room talking on the phone with her friend. She came out to the living room, where my mother was, and asked what happened. My dad said through tears "your mother passed away". My sister let out a gut-wrenching wail. It was a sound that touched the very depths of your soul.

Before the funeral home came to collect my mother's body, we all sat around her. We had just lost the foundation of our family. I sat there holding her hand and singing her songs because I didn’t know what else to do. I had an awareness that my mother wasn’t coming back but that didn’t stop me from hoping that she would somehow wake up. Maybe if I sang her favorite church hymn over and over it would bring her back. It didn’t.

It took me a while to fully comprehend what death meant. I didn’t process the magnitude of losing my mother until we went to the funeral home to dress her. That is the day I realized she was gone. The void of loss came creeping in and I had no idea how to navigate in the darkness it brought.

Shortly after the death of my mother, my teacher, Mrs. Elhard, and her sister stopped by my house. I was happy to see her regardless of the unfortunate circumstances. She handed me a basket and said “I think these are a few things you might like” and expressed her condolences. In the basket were a Ty Beanie Baby monkey, a journal with a pen, and a few other small items. I didn’t expect to see her. As a child, seeing your teacher anywhere outside of the school setting is strange. Given the events, her visit wasn’t strange and I welcomed it. I took the basket and said “thank you” we chatted a bit more and then she left.

I retreated to my room and looked through the basket. I hugged the monkey and stroked its soft fur and named it Mr. Monkey. The journal and pen I stared at for a while and then decided I may as well write something in it so it wasn’t blank. I didn’t realize at that time that Mrs. Elhard had given me a light to navigate the darkness.

I slept with Mr. Monkey every night and did so until I was 18. He brought me comfort when sleep evaded me. The journal and pen became a release and helped me discover my love of writing.

Writing allowed me to find pieces of myself that I had lost amid my trauma. It took me to new depths I didn’t know existed within me. Writing became therapeutic and healing. I made it a daily habit to pour my heart and soul out in ink. I could freely express my grief, fear, anger, and deepest desires without restraint.

I don’t know that Mrs. Elhard knew what her small act of kindness instilled in me that day. If most people were handed a monkey, a pen, and a journal they wouldn’t think anything of it. When she handed those to me, I was given a way to express myself that I never knew existed. I learned that even the smallest acts of kindness and compassion can be influential.