‘Without my mother in it, and the things she made, it seemed more than ever a house to get out of completely.’--Alan Hollinghurst, OUR EVENINGS 

January 25, 2000, 3:55AM, almost three hours since I heard the news. 

Nothing Matters.  That’s how I feel. 

At around 1AM this morning the telephone rang.  It was my sister-in-law, Sherri Armijo.   

She said, “Michael”, as she was sobbing, she couldn't get her words out clearly.  It was clear that it was not good news.  I later learned that Sherri got a call from mom’s neighbors, The Bellfaie Family.  At around 12:15AM I think they heard sirens.  It seems my mom was having trouble breathing and she called 911.  When the paramedics arrived (or fire department), it seemed she had experienced cardiac arrest. My mother passed away—probably on January 24, 2000. 

I called my mom, Virginia Armijo, at around 8pm that night.  I was exhausted from my day I had told her.  I’d gone to the Verona office and then had jury duty in Malibu that afternoon. Mom was watching her Novela (a Spanish soap opera).  She sounded better after recovering from the flu that we both contracted.   

Mom said, “I feel better.” 

I felt good about these signs of her feeling better.  “It’s raining here,” she said. 

“There are slight drizzles here but, of course, now at 4:05AM here in L.A. it’s raining a lot.   

Mom added, “I haven’t been going out except to take Ashley to school or pick her up.” 

Mom laughed and was in good spirits.  

“Ashley just left to go to her house.” 

Ashley and family only live a block away.  I still can’t believe it.  After Sherri gave me the news, I somehow managed to call my brother, Tony, in Reno, Nevada.  Tony was shocked. 

Photo: My brother, Tony F Armijo

Tony said, “I spoke to her today.” 

“I know.  She told me that on the phone that she got a fifteen dollar check payable to Lauren and she called you to ask where to send it.” 

“Yeah, I gave her my new address.” 

Fortunately, I had all of Tony’s telephone numbers and address information after recently seeing him for Christmas.  I’m glad he gave me his cell number as I was able to reach him right away. 

I also called my cousin, Mary Ann Gehling, who emails me often from Colorado Springs.  She was comforting and gave me six words that I will never forget hearing: “It was her time to go.”  Mary Ann also said, “She loved you so much, Michael.” 

I told my mom, “I Love You,” after my phone call with her and she said, “Me too.”  These were the last words we exchanged. 

I wonder if she received my ‘Mommie Dearest’ card that I sent a day or so ago.  I sent her a photo of her with the sweet rice she made for me.  She never saw the photo—or did she?  I’ll find out today, if she had gotten it. 

Alan has been comforting as well.  Alan is flying with me to Alameda on a 5:30AM flight on Southwest Airlines.   

I am so sad. 

I’ve been crying.  

It’s good that it was instantaneous.  I loved my mother very much.  I remember she told me once she never wanted to go through a long, drawn out time of pain and suffering.  

Alan said it’s normal to think about what I am thinking.  What am I thinking?  Well, I keep going back in my mind: “WHAT IF I DID THIS...” or “WHY DIDN’T I DO THAT...” 

My mother can be stubborn sometimes.  She had an ECO (Echocardiogram) test only a week ago and she said, “They were going to call me back the other day.” 

“So, call them!” 

“Oh, I’ll wait and call them in the morning.” 

Then, morning came and she said, “I have a doctor appointment on February 1st.  I’ll deal with it then.” 

What’s the phrase Gloria used often?  “You can lead a horse to water; you can’t make them drink.” 

Hey, stop it, Michael!  No one is to blame!  It’s not my fault.  It’s not my mother’s fault. She did what she could. She knew it was bad when she called 911.  She ‘made an attempt’...but you know something, I think...no, I know.... she saw the Light, and she wanted to be with my dad. That’s perhaps the answer.  It was her time to go.  

I am so used to calling my mother every day or every other day.  We were so close.  What will I do when I feel like calling her again?  I remember she made a comment about not being able to call Cecelia anymore.  My dad’s niece, Cecelia, died last year in February 1999. 

I wish I could turn back the clocks and change the future. That’s not realistic though, is it?  I should listen to my own words when I was discussing the recent death of “Boots”, a cousin link of MaryAnn’s.  I always say the loved ones we lose do stay with us.  They live on through us.  Our memories, our photographs, our conversations, our music. Somewhere in Time I will reunite with mom.  Hey, now that is comforting. 

Nothing matters in my day-to-day activities, etc. It just does not matter.  Alan matters.  My brothers matter.  My nieces and nephew matter.   

I am now here at the LAX airport, still writing random thoughts.  The soft music in the background is soothing for me now.  I probably never would have noticed the music if I were flying on holiday.  Who hears the music at an airport?  Today I hear it clearly.  As I was walking to the gate, I felt a feeling.  I wondered if my mom was watching me.  I sensed that she was over me—perhaps she was, and I do find comfort in believing that she’s watching me now. 

Sherri was crying when I called her again for more details of what had happened.  She loved mom.  My mom was loving, and she made it very clear as to who she cared about. 

I’m thinking of all my mom’s dolls and how she took pride in collecting them.   

She had said, “My Uncle Frank bought me a doll when I was a little girl.”

I guess she wanted to make up for all those dolls she wished she could have had as a little girl and not just that one from her Uncle Frank.

Mom was my best friend.  I miss her now.  I miss her so much.  I always missed her when I was in Southern Cal as she was in Northern Cal. 

My mom did what she could.  The doctors didn’t catch it in time I suppose.  Alas, I must keep telling myself it was her time to go.  Although when I spoke to her on the phone, she sounded happy.  She laughed.  She was telling me an Ashley story.  How she loved her first granddaughter, Ashley.  She always wanted a girl after having three sons.  In 1984, when Ashley was born, it was my mom’s true gift of the world. 

Mom would have been ‘65’ on September 6, 2000.  Sounds like the year for retirement age (65), but she was smart.  She returned years ago and she specifically did what she wanted to do.  She liked staying home, taking time to watch her favored shows, reading, spending time with her grandkids and buying them things they wanted.  Mom was able to travel.  I’m so glad I took her on that recent October 1999 trip to Madrid, Spain and Italy.  Mom loved the trip we took to New York a few years ago.  I was looking forward to having her come to visit me in NY again.  

I want to run outside and SCREAM! 

Mommy, I love you.  Why did you leave me?  It’s ok, you’re with dad now.  You missed him a lot...I know.  I go through these moments of realization and then I just want to cry. 

Maybe I should investigate a group therapy session on dealing with the loss of a loved one. 

Mom told me the other day of a special dinner outing for Sherri’s Birthday.  Mom took them all out to dinner and then they went to Jack London Square to see the movie, STUART LITTLE.   

Mom said, “It was so good.  I cried!  You have to see it.” 

I laughed.  As I write this thought, I still have not seen it, but I will—and I know I will cry, too. 

I’m on the airplane now with Alan, looking outside the window.  It’s raining.  It’s the kind of rain you’d see at a funeral in a movie.  I feel like I am in a movie.  It reminds me of a song called "MOVIE IN MY MIND”.  It’s a song from the hit Broadway musical MISS SAIGON.  I must hear it again.  That reminds me of my trip to New York with mom.  I took her to see MISS SAIGON on Broadway, and we sat in the first row.  I was smart to plan and buy the tickets far in advance.  Mom loved the show. 

I have a feeling I’m going to recall more memories with mom.  They’re mostly good memories. Here I am, a forty-year-old man, mourning his mother who just passed away only hours ago at age sixty-four.   

You never know when it’s your turn.  Look, John F Kennedy Jr was thirty-eight; Princess Diana was thirty-eight.  Another flashback—my mom was in London when Princess Di passed away.  I remember her telling me about all the flowers that people left in front of Buckingham Palace.  One of mom’s prized possessions was—no, it is—her Princess Di doll.  Maybe mom is meeting Princess Di right now.  That’s a comforting thought.   

I just wish I could hold my mom one more time.  Just give her another hug.  A part of me wants to believe this is all a dream.  I’ll wake up soon from this nightmare—but no, I know it’s reality, and it’s what is to come FOR ALL OF US one day.  So, as I always say, be healthy, happy, and spend your time with the people you love.  

Now I wish I had recorded every telephone conversation I had with mom.  She was funny and had her opinions.  Her stories revolved around those she loved. 

She’d call her New Mexico schoolgirl friend, Isabel, urging her to come to visit her.  Mom was fortunate enough to leave that small (limited in scope) small town of Cerrillos, NM for the Bay Area in her late teens.  Mom would tell me when she called Isabel and what they talked about.  

Mom would talk to me about my brothers and her mom (my grandma) and keep me up to date on family happenings.  When I felt a lull in her everyday activities, I’d have her fly down to Southern California for a week or two.  She liked doing that.  She never actually told me, but I know she did.  

Mom was simple, yet sophisticated.   

I want to see her. 

Virginia Marie Armijo!  I Love You and I always will. 

I’m flying now amidst rain showers and clouds.   I’m closer to heaven.  Am I close to you now, Mom? 

I want to be at your house—to feel your presence.  I know I’ll cry again.  I miss you, Mom.  I still can’t believe I can’t talk to you anymore.  I can't laugh with you anymore. 

Photo:  Mom's house, 356 Magnolia Drive, Alameda, CA

This was a good idea for mt wrote these thoughts and feelings so quickly now, during this time. 

Sometimes my mom would say, “WHEN I GO...” I’d shun that idea and tell her to look up and say you’re sorry.  One time, she did look up and say, “I’m sorry.”  I’d tell her, “You know, mom, I could go before you.  You just never know.” 

When I spoke to mom tonight, I told her ‘I Love You’, so I need not regret that fact.  However, if I could talk to her one last time, I’d really express my LOVE for her and HOW IMPORTANT she is in my life.  I know she knew that—but I just wish I could hug her and tell her again.   

I just realized I’ll see my mom in her casket.  That will be a difficult sight to endure and a true farewell from ‘the living’.  My eyes are tearing up.  I think it’s best for me to see her lying there.  I want to kiss her goodbye.  I love you so much, Mom.  Nothing Matters. 

My best buddy and lover, Alan, said, “You know, your mom would want you to be strong now. She’d want you to keep doing what you’re doing and continue to be the person that you are.” 

Alan is right.  She taught me well. 

When I read this line in my notebook: HOPE FOR TOMORROW THRIVES IN OUR DREAMS—I wonder what mom was dreaming as she slept only to awake, gasping for air.  I believe she was dreaming of happy times.  She was so full of joy when I spoke to her.  She was happy she was doing what the BEST grandma would do.  My hope for tomorrow is that I realize that this was inevitable.  I knew it was going to happen.  I just didn’t know if I’d go first of if she’d go first or “when” we’d go.  Time is precious.  We don’t realize it until time suddenly stands still.  I feel numb knowing that my mother has passed away.  When I run—if my foot feels numb—I know a massage, elevation, lotion, and rest will help me.  Perhaps that is what I need now:  A massage and rest. 

I want to cry again but I can't.  I think I'm accepting the facts.  It's painful.  I was so lucky in love.  I had a mom that loved me so much.

I just remembered my mom wanted a new living room furniture set.  I was going to come for a weekend in February or March and take her to San Francisco to help her find the living room she wanted.  It seems silly now...those little material things we want. 

Mom could have anything she wanted.  Like I said, she was simple but sophisticated.  I envied her abilities to deal with so many things.  She has helped me throughout my life. 

I remember when she came to visit me in L.A. I made her get a facial.  She was hesitant and thought it was silly.  Afterwards, she was happy she did it.  I was fortunate that I could succeed in holding her hand and take her out for new experiences. 

On Christmas night 1999 I took her to San Francisco to see THE TALENTED MR RIPLEY movie.  That was fun because we got to revisit scenes and places in Italy that we had visited only months before.

Okay...the plane is descending into Oakland now.  I’ll be at mom’s house soon.  Again, is this a “Movie in My Mind”? 

I'm looking at the EXIT/SALIDA sign on the airplane.  That is exactly what my mom has done.  She's taken an EXIT.  She's simply gone through THAT DOOR.  No one really knows what's beyond that door, but I know she's at peace and I believe she has found the love of her life again, my father, Joe Nelson Armijo.

Sometimes I feel ANGER that this has happened.  It's not "right".  Again, I need to remind myself:  IT WAS HER TIME TO GO.

Alan contacted the Malibu Courthouse, and I was excused of jury duty due to a death in the family.  One of the two alternate jurors will take my place.

As the week continued, funeral arrangements were made.  I took walks in the neighborhood for needed fresh air.  I attended Ally's basketball game.  I attended Holly's basketball game at Encinal High School.  White at these games I could not concentrate on the games.  I was out of place.

The funeral service was at the Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in Hayward at 9:30AM.  When I left, I looked back at the flowers from the distance.  I couldn't let go.

“I know why we try to keep the dead alive: We try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us.” --Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking