A small story - to give some clarity

The passing of a loved one is a sensation that you can only understand if you’ve been through it. I’ve had many people give advice, condolences, and support while I have been grieving my mother. I’m grateful for those people. For me losing my mom also meant that I lost my person I could always run to, my overly-loud conscience, my personal comedian, a beacon of honesty, my trusted secret keeper, a gospel icon, and a best friend. Many people tell you that you will always have a part of her with you, but I was never prepared for the part of me that went with her. The shock of my mom passing on left me disoriented, breathless, and hurt. I’ve known from a young age that my mother was prepared for a shorter life but I don't think that anyone else could have prepared for it. I know that there will be times throughout my life that I will need to pause and secure my footing because there will always be a part of me that is anchored to her. We are connected, her and I.

Today I had someone tell me that they were sorry that I lost my mom. My first thought was, “I’m sorry that you never met her”.  Knowing my mom was a blessing. My blog today was just going to be a list poem, which I'll share later, that I’ve been working on, but as I was typing it out there was more that needed to be said. More back story to what I’m missing out on and what I had to learn to do without.

My mother had moods that changed faster than Utah weather. She had the eyes of a hawk for flaws and shortcomings. She was as unruly and free as a shoeless summer. She was outspoken, always, whether it was with a tongue sharp as a sword or with courage speaking up for the underdog. My mom never swore, “Except one word that couldn’t not be replaced by any other word” when a woman was acting more like a witch than a lady. My mom was extreme in everything; from her loud shirts and muu-muus to her experiences in life and relationships.

My mom was a force to be reckoned with. The removal of that force from this world should have left a black hole in her place, not just a metaphorical one that I feel in my lungs whenever I’m lonely for her company but a real empty space where gravity prevents anything to remain, including light. How could you remove such a bright soul and expect nothing but darkness to be in its place?

The world should grieve her. Maybe it does, in its own way. It is lacking the barking laughter that only she could sound like when someone slipped and fell; no sound will echo that again. There was a tangible silence, only she could enforce on a room when she “needed to be alone for a minute”. The outdoors will be missing her pink hair - half red, half white, that she collected out of her hairbrush before she threw it outside “for the birds to use”. Trees are heavier now without her buying hundreds of notebooks and stationary pads to hand out to people in the neighborhood because “someone always needs school supplies”. Even the calendar celebrates April Fools the day after she left this world; it knew that if there was any time that she wasn't counting after curfew, being wasted by unrequited love, avoiding sleep, planning a meal, or her proving that punctuality was not a lost art in the Mormon culture must had been a joke. Handsome, and not so handsome, men everywhere will be missing her never-ending hunt for her single daughter. These men will go without a slipped phone number or dinner invite as she is leaving a restaurant, shopping a clearance isle, or even receiving oxygen from a paramedic who later she disappointedly found out was married. “Hollering distance” has been reigned in miles because other mother’s do not carry the same lung capacity, to call her children home that mine did. Every baby in a stranger’s arm was met with my mother’s cooing and individual 15 minutes of fame. A burning hot day will never hear the words “Haught-dawgy” the way my mother could say it with her unique Ohioan-Utahan accent. The sales for footies (small socks), sassafras tea, and jello have all likely plummeted. And waiters across the Salt Lake Valley are definitely handing out too many lemon slices per table.

The world has changed since her leaving it. My world has changed.

The Nichols girls are all equally emotional, moody and passionate as my mother in our own way or another. We have all split the compliments that my mother has received throughout her life. Her traits were divided amongst us. They would have to be. I don’t think anyone could have a personality that took on the world as spherically as my mother’s did. Even though I only have some of her charisma, craziness and passions, I’m lucky to have that part of her with me. A close friend told me that I exaggerate everything. I looked shocked and then I roared with laughter. I used to say that to my mom as well. It is true in both cases.

My mother never read us books before bedtime as children, but my entire life was full of stories. She embellished her past so much that they may as well have been tall tales. Her memories became our fairytales and fables. They became legends as they were told, and retold by many. She would tell them to anyone who would listen, or even stand still long enough. She was a story teller. A word weaver.  She had a passionate look on the world.  I compare my mother to Edward Bloom from the movie Big Fish to anyone who didn’t get the chance to meet her. She was equally full of life and tale.

The day my mom passed, my family sat in the family room that was next to the ER in the hospital. I remember a lot about that room, the things that were said, the way my family looked, and my thoughts during that awful night. I remember running into my brother-in-law Greg in the parking lot; he would tell me nothing but to go inside. I remember the squeaky couch cushion that I sat on next to my dad after he looked at me with tears telling me that “she’s gone”. I remember where everyone sat and how London and Monte arrived last and then seeing their faces fall as they were told the news. I remember the priesthood blessings that were given in a room that I’m sure has seen innumerable amounts of tears. I remember Monte looking at the floor and talking to everyone as he asked, “Well, will you be able to remember her stories?” We all knew that we would. They were imprinted in us, down to our cores. They will be shared with those that never got to meet her, those that will never understand the greatness of Valerie Nichols.