In the Time of Jacarandas

My mom died ten years ago today. 

 With the approach of this anniversary, I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom, her death and the years that have passed since. 

 My mom was diagnosed with cancer on April 20, 2009. We were told she had two years to live. She didn’t quite make two months. My sister once referred to those weeks as “the time of Jacarandas.” Jacarandas are a stunning purple tree that bloom in San Diego from the end of April through mid-June. My mom was particularly fond of them, always exclaiming with joy when she saw one. So it seemed fitting that as she neared the end of her life, the trees put on one last glorious show. 

 During those weeks my mom’s health deteriorated rapidly, especially her mental clarity. She was convinced she would die soon. We kept telling her she was wrong. She was panicking, we told her. “The doctors say you have years.” A couple weeks after her diagnosis she had a friend from church come over so she could dictate a letter to each of her children. The friend did it mainly to humor her. A few days later my mom’s mind had slipped so much that she could barely form coherent sentences, let alone, compose heartfelt messages. Her failing liver made her outright crazy. One night she screamed at my father, throwing a tantrum until he alphabetized the spice drawer. 

 Everything seemed to be happening at once. The same week my mom received her diagnosis our landlord let us know that his son was getting divorced and needed to move back in the house we were renting. So on top of the constant visits to the hospital, we started house hunting with a looming dead line. What I remember most about that season was the constant pressure on my heart and lungs, like some giant invisible hand was slowly squeezing the life out of me. I didn’t know how I would survive.

 My mom drifted in and out of lucidity, but through it all— her incoherent rants and sweet reminiscences of the violets outside the kitchen of my childhood—she kept repeating the same phrase, “We have so much happiness ahead of us. So much more happiness.”

 How could that be? I didn’t think I could ever be happy again.

A lot has happened in the decade since my mom died. Five grandchildren have graduated from college. Two grandsons are in law school. The oldest granddaughter just received her PhD. Three of the grandchildren have been married to wonderful people my mom never had the chance to meet. Grandchildren have served missions for our church in Italy, Russia, Madagascar, Canada and Bolivia.

 And in my own little family there have been so many milestones, struggles, and accomplishments. When my mom died my oldest was in middle school, my youngest was almost three. Next week my oldest will be 22 and the youngest 13. We’ve had two high school graduations, two daughters move out of state for college. Lizzy went on a mission to Bolivia. We bought a house, fixed it up, tore it down for a massive remodel, lived in a rental house, a hotel, and then a tent in our backyard. (Yes, you read that right. That’s another blog post.) Finally, we moved back in and fixed up the yard.

I broke my back, wrote a screen play and a couple novels. John started rowing. Will started viola. My husband punctured his lung in a biking accident. That same week he was called to be Bishop. I finally found a publisher for my book. And just last month, Zoey received a mission call to Boston. A lot can happen in a ten years.

 Every day I walk under the Jacaranda tree in my front yard, the one my friends gave me as a gift after my mom’s death. The tree grows outside the house we found while she was in the hospital. The house we put an offer on with the hope that she would be able to move in so we could take care of her. But she didn’t make it. Once, she did drive by the property when she was still well enough to get in a car. Afterward she said, “Buy it! You’ll turn it into Eden and it will smell so lovely.” Every time I catch a whiff of orange blossoms in my back yard I think of those words. How did she know?

 The Jacaranda tree struggled at first, as trees sometimes do when transplanted. It didn’t bloom for at least three years. And then there were only a few straggly flowers. Each year few more branches bloomed. This year the tree finally came into its own, exploding with purple blossoms. Every day as I walk under it I feel this well-spring of joy. My mom is dead, but she was right. Life goes on. “We have so much happiness ahead of us!”