Doug Clark: It’s first Mother’s Day without Gompers, but I have lots of company

Mother’s Day, 2015.

I was dreading this day ever since around 4 a.m. on April 7.

That’s when my sweet mom died of congestive heart failure at age 92. But then something truly wonderful happened a few weeks later that changed things for me.

Within hours of writing about my relationship with Gompers, the nickname I playfully gave her, scores and scores of caring emails and messages started pouring in from readers.

It was overwhelming and really helped ease the pain.

Friday I went through all of them again and picked out a few of the poignant excerpts to share with you this Mother’s Day.

“I lost my mom 7 ½ years ago,” wrote Mardi Paulson. “She would also have been 92, born just about 10 days after your mom – 10/2/22.”

“I, too, took care of my mom for her last 8 years – not always an easy task – but a blessing nonetheless.

“I was always grateful that though her body failed her, her mind and especially her memory were strong to the end.

“Hardly a day goes by that I don’t say to myself, ‘I can’t wait to tell mom …’

“I recently mentioned it to my sister. To which she replied, ‘You still tell her, don’t you?’ … and I do.”

—

Jeri Hershberger dubbed what I was experiencing an “orphan feeling.”

I know what she means. You lose that last parent, and it’s like being adrift in a vacuum.

“It’s very real and we feel displaced,” she added. “… I dialed our home phone for two weeks after my mom died, and the longer time goes on, the more the memories will make you smile.”

—

Being my mom’s informal caregiver meant that I did all her shopping and developed a system for everything, including keeping her stocked with bananas. Too green. Too ripe. Too in between.

Joanne Earle, whose mother died in March, wrote to tell me that she never could get the banana situation quite right.

“My sister and I would take turns being responsible for picking out just the right banana!”

Similarly, I learned from many emails that I wasn’t the only one struggling with having to say goodbye to the old family phone number.

“Fairfax 5-0424,” wrote Debbie Bever. “I will never forget!”

Dale Baker, who lost his mother five years ago, felt the same way.

“I still think of her daily,” he said. “If something comes up that I want to tell her, I still reach for my phone and then realize I can’t call her.”

More than a few readers gave me great insight on dealing with loss.

“Years ago, when I was very young, I asked my Mom, ‘Do you miss your mom?’ ” wrote Marlene Curry.

“She said, ‘I miss talking to her.’

“Now, years later, what I miss the most, and I believe you will agree, is talking to my Mom. I had her until she was 96.”

—

Helen Jeske’s “own dear mother died over 18 years ago,” she wrote, “and I find myself using her expressions more often than I ever thought I would.

“She was a feisty little woman who didn’t spare her opinion. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but loved one another fiercely.

“I know that I became the person I am by her example. She taught me so many survival skills, like how and when it’s OK to swear, never smoke cigarettes and to ‘tell it like it is.’ ”

—

My old friend Pete Powell wrote to tell me “we had the same exact relationship with our mothers.”

His mom died five years ago at age 93.

She was “healthy and bright right up to a critical brain cancer diagnosis, then a three-week stay at St. Joseph’s before going peacefully.

“We had time for good visits and, like you, making her laugh was always my goal. I called her every day and it was months before I got over thinking, ‘I’ll have to tell Mom this or that when I call.’

“I’d even start to pick the phone up.”

—

April was the cruelest month for Carolyn Kiesz, too.

Her mother “was 88,” she wrote. “It was sudden – a massive brain bleed.”

Kiesz said her mother was in ill health with spinal stenosis, but she did the best to get around, saying “I can shower myself, dress myself, and walk on my own two feet, which is better than the rest of my family at my age.”

Then she would add with a laugh, “Of course, I have to take a nap afterwards.”

—

Nancy Burke’s mother died last November.

Nancy’s “little thing” was a certain timepiece that she thought she hated.

“I swore up and down that the first thing I’d get rid of when she passed was a damn annoying chirping bird clock,” Burke wrote.

“Yep. Can’t part with it now (and I’m) using it to annoy everyone who comes to my house. Thanks, Mom!”

—

It’s been nearly two years since Diane Brennan’s mom passed away, and she is still hit every now and then with what she called The Wave.

Namely “the wave of emotions that hit us when the little things trigger memories of our dear mom.”

And when it hits, she added, “my brother and sisters all send group texts and … ride the waves together.”

—

Dick Canfield made me laugh when he shared the daily remedy his mother came up with to treat her aches and pains.

“All you do is take a half jar of raisins, fill the rest with Vodka and eat a few raisins each day,” he wrote.

“After spending her life as a non-drinker, she probably didn’t know the difference.”

—

Finally, I can’t think of a better way to thank everyone than by sharing the poem reader Steve Heaps sent me. He wrote it in 2005 in remembrance of his mom, Barbara.

He calls it “Mother’s Day.”

Here I am walking down the greeting card aisle,

lined two-deep

with last minute Mother’s Day shoppers.

It hits me again, just like last year,

and the year before –

out of the blue.

You’d think I’d expect it by now.

Without warning, my body reacts first;

familiar sensation choking the throat,

tears forming,

even before my brain remembers that

I don’t have a mom any more.

So, I walk to another section,

cry a bit,

glad that I did have her for 59 years;

then return.

buy a card for my own kids’ Mom,

thankful that she is still with me – a reason yet to celebrate Mother’s Day.