Hey, just me. Nothing important.
That’s how my mom would start every voicemail.
For a while when I was younger, there were a lot of those voicemails. Just a mom checking in on her only son, and her only son being too busy to answer a phone call about nothing important.
In college, it was nothing important, but she’d want to make sure I had enough money for groceries. In my 20s, it was nothing important, but she’d want to tell me how proud she was to see my latest story that was published.
By my 30s, though, I almost never let a phone call from Mom go unanswered.
It happened just four times in the last four years of her life.
I happen to know the exact number because those four messages are precious to me.
They are the only ways I can still hear her voice.
I. Voicemails
I promised myself I wouldn’t write a Substack for Mother’s Day.
I’ve been pouring a lot of myself into these posts so far. So as one of the saddest of all holidays (for me) approached, I thought to myself: Who has the energy for another one?
But then one of my coworkers at Mirror Indy facilitated a beautiful story that had me bawling in my home office.
She created a voicemail box and invited people to call and leave messages for their moms. Then she published the audio of those voicemails on Mirror Indy.
It was around the third voicemail when the tears started forming:
This feels kinda weird because I call you all the time to rant or just chat. So I guess I want to say I always feel lucky to hear your voice on the other end of the line when I call.
Then I lost it at the fourth:
I can’t believe you’ve been gone almost 10 years. It’s funny because the thing I miss most is calling you on the phone.
II. Phone calls
My mom’s been gone for two years and four months. What I miss most, too, is talking to her on the phone.
Yes, we talked about a lot of the big stuff involving relationships, work, faith, politics. Like when I felt my lowest in 2020 while reporting on the front lines of civil unrest in Indianapolis. I remember hearing in her voice a new level of fear for my safety, something I had never heard before.
And she would later understand that what she heard in my voice wasn’t a concern about my personal safety, but that I wondered whether I possessed the strength to continue witnessing so much hurt in such a short amount of time.
Those calls always provided me with the strength.
But, to be honest, it’s rare nowadays that I come to a big moment in my life and wish I could call her for advice. Maybe I’ve come to terms with knowing that’ll never happen again.
At least a couple times each month, though, I’ll almost reflexively think about dialing mom’s number while I’m driving home from work.
I want to ask her thoughts on last night’s St. Louis Cardinals game. I want to swap notes on how our jobs are going for both of us. I want an update on the squirrels and alley cats she fed every day, and another reminder of the silly names she gave to each of them.
But then it dawns on me. Mom is gone.
A fleeting wave of pain returns to my chest, only for a moment, as I think about maybe calling another loved one since I can’t call Mom.
And then, instead, I put on music and head home.
III. The end
It was three years ago this month when Mom got sick. The first bit of news was also some of the worst: Stage 4 lung cancer. Widespread. Impossible to cure.
I’ll never forget what the doctor told us: “Prepare for the long haul.”
We got only another six months together after that conversation. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and shake him by the shoulders. Six months? You call that a long haul?
Mom and her two dogs immediately moved in with me and my wife.
So much of that time was a blur. I went on a lot of McDonald’s runs, and my wife blended a lot of milkshakes — anything we could do to bring her a smile and maybe sneak a few more calories between the devastating chemotherapy treatments.
Things took a turn for the worse around the holidays. Mom had been acting more tired, more forgetful, but we all figured we were dealing with some side effects of the chemo. By then, she was chronicling her food and medicine intake in a small notebook so she wouldn’t forget — a tip she learned years ago while providing end-of-life care for my grandparents.
On Christmas Eve, I was downstairs watching a movie with my wife and in-laws when Mom texted me from her room.
When I came upstairs, she told me she was trying to go to sleep but she was feeling scared. “I’m just a little freaked out,” she said.
She asked if I’d stay with her. I sat beside her until she fell asleep, holding her hand.
The next day, right after we opened Christmas presents, Mom went into a seizure.
We learned at IU Health Methodist Hospital that the cancer had spread to her brain.
She had become mostly uncommunicative. And after two weeks of trying different treatments, it became clear that Mom’s final days were approaching. A doctor tried to prepare me: Mom had maybe a week left to live.
Two days later, when we knew we were nearing the end, a nurse helped my wife and I sneak in one of mom’s dogs, who rested across her legs.
I sat bedside, Mom’s hands in mine, as she took her final breath.
V. Nothing important
The following weeks were grief-laden searches for videos of her so I could hear her voice again.
It soon became clear that I didn’t have much.
Neither one of us took many photos or videos with our phones. And most of the photos from her youth, and any home videos from my childhood, were lost in a house fire when I was in sixth grade.
So now, when someone calls to ask my advice on caregiving for their parents, I always encourage them to record as much as they can.
But even without videos, I’ve found ways to remember Mom.
I jot down a lot of her phrases and sayings when they come to mind — to remind me of how much she made me laugh.
I place fresh flowers near her photo and cremated remains in my home — to remind me of her love for the bright and beautiful.
And I scrolled back far enough in my phone to find exactly four voicemails.
Nothing important, she says in each one.
If only I knew back then how important they really were.
If only she knew how much I would treasure each word.
VI. This edition’s beat
"Murder in the City" by The Avett Brothers
If I get murdered in the city
Go read the letter in my desk
Don't bother with all my belongings
But pay attention to the listMake sure my sister knows I loved her
Make sure my mother knows the same
Always remember there was nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name
I did pretty good today until I read this 😩 I miss her so very much too. She loved you so very much and was so proud of the man you have become.
Sending you lots of hugs and strength, Ryan. Thank you for sharing :)