The Dreamer's Pen

Today marks four years since my mom passed away. Four years and yet it feels like it happened yesterday. Her death was sudden, shocking, and completely flipped the world my dad and I knew. She had been having health issues during Covid, and because of the pandemic, she couldn’t get the care she desperately needed. She died from a massive brain hemorrhage caused by a stroke and nothing could have prepared us for the sheer emptiness that followed.

My mom was such a beautiful woman. She was strong, courageous, and endlessly resourceful. She was a product of post-World War II Germany, a woman who saved everything she could, who could scratch cook miracles out of the simplest ingredients, and who somehow made our modest home feel rich.

She had a thriftiness born of necessity but tempered with generosity, a heart that could not turn away anyone in need. She gave to children, to the homeless, to the elderly, and even devoted her time and love to a rabbit sanctuary honoring her lifelong affection for rabbits that started on the farm where she grew up.

Her loss shattered me. I was already struggling with PTSD from previous trauma, and suddenly, the world I knew was gone. Sleep became almost impossible. I didn’t know how to function without her. Thankfully, I had my supportive husband, my dad, and my in-laws.

And over time, I found therapy and the right medication to help me manage the PTSD. But nothing could erase the image of my mom lying in the hospital bed, half of her brain not functioning, moving in ways that felt robotic and inhuman. That memory still haunts me.

I remember the moment she took her last breath like it was yesterday. The color drained from her skin, the room felt unreal, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I ran down the hospital stairs, sobbing uncontrollably, gasping for air, until I collapsed outside. And then, the sky erupted in the most vibrant sunset I’ve ever seen. A hummingbird flew by, and in that instant, I felt her presence. I felt her with me.

Sometimes, I even hear her say“Hi kid,” she says, as if she’s sipping her coffee while watching TV, reminding me she’s still here in spirit.

These days, I try to live fully and to experience life the way she might have wished to, had fear or circumstance not held her back. She never saw me earn my master’s degree, never witnessed my promotions, never saw the house I now call home. But I like to think she’s been there in spirit, watching over me, sending little signs of reassurance.

Four years later, my dad and I have a stronger bond than ever. Our relationship has deepened through shared grief. My husband has also been a rock, someone who loved my mom deeply and continues to honor her memory.

This weekend, in her honor, I plan to cook. I’ll try making German pretzels, something she used to do when I was a kid and I’ll make German goulash. It’s fitting since the weather is supposed to be rainy, and it feels like the perfect time for comfort food, for remembering, and for celebrating her life.

I love my mom with all my heart. She shaped me, taught me resilience, and instilled in me a generosity of spirit that I hope I carry forward every day. I am proud to be her daughter. I hope she knows that I love her, that I keep her in my heart every day, and that sometimes, in quiet moments, I can still hear her voice saying, “Hi kid!”