From Darkness to Light

47. Light Switch: Write about coming out of the dark and seeing the light.

My mother died three years ago today.

It happened so quickly that it knocked me breathless.

There were signs, of course, but a combination of surprise and denial kept me from truly believing it would happen until the very morning of the day.

Still Kicking Myself

When my dad called that morning, we should have jumped in the car and driven to her.

I was so pregnant, though, that we all thought it wasn’t a good idea.

But then, when he called again that afternoon and said she was really failing, we made up our minds to go.

I still kick myself for waiting. She died while we were on our way there.

Pitch Black

It was after one in the morning by the time we arrived. Though it was summer, I just remember the blackness of the night.

Mom’s hospital room was dimmed, and everything was still and quiet. Dad was on the phone making the necessary arrangements, speaking in hushed tones.

Looking at her lying so peacefully, it seemed like the only light in the room was the lingering light from her face. Her face had always radiated light, love and joy. The longer I looked, the dimmer she seemed to grow.

By the time we got back to my parents’ place, it seemed to me like I would never see her light again.

Two Days Later

It was blindingly bright as my brother opened the passenger side door for me and gingerly helped me out of the car.

We had three stops to make that Monday morning: first, the funeral home. Next, the clinic where she died. Finally, the church, to prepare the service.

It was mid-July and hot as blazes. I was enormous. Sweat poured liberally from my forehead as I slowly lumbered from the car to each destination. (Only the clinic was air conditioned, and I remember being very reluctant to leave.)

With each trip back and forth to the car, my father and brothers looked at me anxiously. They’re all fathers. They all knew the signs.

It wasn’t until we pulled into the garage at home that the first contraction hit.


I held tightly to my brother’s hand as I stood and breathed through the first contraction.

His face said it all: anxiety, panic, worry, hope.

In the apartment, my husband and son were preparing lunch for us all. I heaved myself to my mother’s chair and eased myself in, closing my eyes. It felt like her arms were wrapping around me, and I could feel the comfort of her presence.

I looked up to find five pairs of anxious male eyes were fixed on me.

“Nobody panic,” I said. “But I’ve had three contractions, and each one is coming two minutes faster than the last.”

It was noon.

A Bit of a Hurry

Everyone but me had a quick lunch. My husband downed a cup of much-needed coffee.

Dad spread a towel over the back seat of the car and we drove to the hospital.

I had to give my entire medical history between contractions (this was complicated by the fact that they were coming fast and furious by now). The midwife was so kind and patient. She made a note of the circumstances in my file.

It went so quickly, all I remember is the kindness and efficiency of the midwives, and the steady comforting presence of my Chico.

Before I knew it, it was time to push.

Contractions had started at noon, and before 5pm our little Bear was cradled on my chest.

The Light Returns

I can’t possibly describe the combination of grief and joy I felt in that moment.

Just as the light had seemed to fade from my mother’s face two nights before, now it seemed to appear in my child’s face.

As I held him to me, a radiance grew in him. The same light that his grandmother shone with so beautifully while she lived.

It was as if her life was igniting again in him.