A Letter To My Mother in Heaven

Mother's Day has been a bitter-sweet occasion to me since 1976.  That year in February I lost my dear mother, Effie Jeannetta Mestad Enger, under the most horrific conditions.  Her death was by suicide which was--and still is--incomprehensible to me for a woman as kind, loving, and God-fearing as my mother.  I wrote her a letter in 1978 as an attempt to ease the ache in my heart, and my thoughts are still the same today.  In honor of my beautiful Mother I am reprinting it below. 

A Letter to My Mother in Heaven

 October 3, 1978

Dearest Mother,

I’m sorry!  I know these words cannot bring you back to life, but I had to say them.  I have to do something to try and rid myself of the nagging thoughts that linger  in the recesses of my mind.  If we—your family—had been more responsive to your needs as a person—would you be alive today?

SUICIDE!  That was only a word to me until that February day in 1976.  “Taking one’s own life” was a phenomenon that happened to other people in other places—not to me and my family.

There was nothing so unusual about “that day” in February over two years ago.  It was raining, as I remember, and the phone was ringing when I walked into our real estate office in Quilcene, Washington.  But the words I heard on the other end of that line were unforgettable and shall always haunt me.  “It’s Mom,” cried the agonized voice of my sister Hope.  “She shot herself and she’s in the hospital.  Things look bad and you’d better come right away.”

At first her words would not penetrate my mind—I thought I must be just waking from some terrible nightmare.  But when I looked around I was staring into the cold light of day, and my sister was still sobbing at the other end of the line.

I felt as though I had been transformed into a remote-control robot as I hung up the receiver and walked out of the office to find my husband, who was having his morning coffee break with the usual crowd.  He looked up and gave me a cheerful greeting as I entered, but when he saw my face the color also drained from his and he came toward me and ushered me outside where I told him the dreadful news.

My mind and thoughts raced uncontrollably during the seemingly endless flight to Colorado.  My mother, I told myself, was the sweetest, most gentle human being I had ever known.  She had given her entire life to caring for the needs of her family—always the peacemaker—a shining example of the Golden Rule in action.  This simply could not be!

I would not let myself think “death.”  “It won’t be so bad when I get there," I told myself.  “It’s probably just a flesh wound and she will be home in a few days.  It was all a mistake—she was just picking up Dad's gun to put it away and it went off,” I thought, as I tried to ignore the conversational attempts of my seatmate.  But when I walked into that hospital lobby and saw the family members gathered there—my father bowed low with grief and looking generations older than  his 76 years—I could disbelieve no longer.

I was led down the corridor into your hospital room where there were four occupied beds, but the person they led me to was not you, Mother.  It couldn’t be!  My mother, who would never allow herself to be seen in public without her lipstick, couldn’t possibly be lying there like that!

I stared in horror at the grotesquely swollen head, the two black patches that were once the most beautiful blue eyes in the world; the turban-style bandage with blood seeping through at the edges that covered the silver hair I loved.  Tubes were running from anywhere to everywhere.  I touched you and your skin was icy.  I spoke to you but there was not the faintest glimmer of understanding.

The only movement was the rise and fall of your chest in perfect rhythm with the cold, ugly respirator beside your bed.  Oh, how I came to love and hate that machine in the long hours ahead.  Each time I approached your room I attuned myself for its rasping sound—afraid it may have stopped.  And each time, before I left your room, I wanted to smash it into a million pieces to stop that infernal, incessant, mechanical beat.  That wasn’t you, Mother!

When it was finally over (could that eternity only have lasted 48 hours?) I was exhausted, and heartbroken, and relieved.  Your brain was dead, we were told, and the fact that the heart stopped also was a blessing.  I can admit now, Mother, that my first reaction to your death was one of anger and indignation.  How could you have done such a terrible thing to Dad and to me and the rest of your family?  How could you have put us all through this ordeal?  What had we done to deserve this?  You knew how much we all loved you and needed you!

You did know that, didn’t you Mother?  Surely, you must have known.  Of course I didn’t say “I love you and need you” all the time, just like that—but I always sent you nice cards and gifts on your birthday, and Mother’s Day and Christmas.  I phoned you at least once a month, and wrote a letter whenever I could work it into my busy schedule.  And we came to see you at least once a year. It's a long ways from Washington to Colorado.  Now that I put it all down on paper it wasn’t much, was it Mother?  I am so sorry!

I guess none of us will ever know or understand what mental torment you must have been going through that compelled you to pick up that gun (you always hated guns, I remember) and pull that trigger.  Of course, you had told us for years about a gnawing pain inside of you that wouldn’t let you sleep at night.  But none of your doctors could ever pinpoint the source of such a pain—they kept giving you pills and telling you it was in your head.  I know you wanted sympathy, but we were told that too much sympathy wasn’t good, so we sort of laughed it off and tried to tease you out of the notion.  It wasn’t funny to you, was it Mother?  I really am sorry!

 I know that you were lonely and depressed at times, but what could I do?  I had obligations to husband, and children, and job which always seemed to keep me far away from you, and of course I had problems of my own to worry about.

Remember that old song that you used to sing to your daughters and make us cry?  “HELLO, CENTRAL, GIVE ME HEAVEN, FOR MY MOTHER’S THERE.”  How I wish that I could pick up the phone this minute and call you—to tell you how much I love you and how much better everything would be if you would only come back to us.  The next best thing was for me to write this letter, although I can never mail it.  Our postal service does not extend to heaven, where I am sure you have been given the most beautiful crown among the angels. 

But somehow I feel that you will be able to read these words and to understand what I am trying to say—even though ineptly.  I love you Mother, and I am truly sorry.  I hope someday to be able to tell you in person.

                                                          Lovingly,

                                                           Your daughter, Dianne

Circa 1903: John Hanson Mestad and his four daughters.

Effie, the baby, on his lap, Alma, Cora and Mayme

POSTSCRIPT:  My mother Effie Mestad lost her mother when she was two years old, and her father John Hanson Mestad used to sing this song to his four daughters.  My mother, in turn, would sing it to me and my sister Hope, and it would bring tears every time!  I guess the young people today wouldn't even know about "Central!"

HELLO CENTRAL GIVE ME HEAVEN

 

Hello central give me heaven
For I know my mother's there
And you'll find her with the angels
Over on the golden stair

She'll be glad it's me a speaking
Wont you call her for me please
For I surely want to tell her
That we're sad without her here

   Hello central give me heaven
   For I know my mother's there
   You will find her with the angels
   Over on the golden stair

Poppa dear is sad and lonely
Sobbed the tearful little child
Since momma's gone to heaven
Poppa dear you do not smile

I will speak to her and tell her
That we want her to come home
You just listen while I call her
Call her through the telephone

I will answer just to please her
Yes dear heart I'll soon come home
Kiss me momma it's your darling
Kiss me through the telephone.