Lisa Geichman Prosek

On June 29, 2008, at 3:29 p.m., while I strolled through Barnes & Noble, a Red Hot Chili Peppers CD caught my eye. I picked it up and examined it as “Phyllis Geichman” popped up on my phone’s screen.

I sighed. Mom wanted to talk.

I was busy trying to find a gift for a young friend who’d broken her ankle so badly it needed surgery, and I was running out of time. I knew that, once Mom got on a roll, she talked for ages.

I almost didn’t pick up the phone.

Mom always tried to sound upbeat, but on this day she sounded particularly cheerful. “I finally remembered to call before you went to bed,” she proudly proclaimed. Mom was notorious for calling me so late in the evening that I couldn’t even form sentences. I lived on the early part of the day; she lived on the other end of it.

“Uh huh…uh huh…” I said as I meandered about the store looking at potential purchases.

Over the course of fifteen minutes, Mom gave me a refrain of all her worries about the family and the world at large. I was used to Mom’s worrying aloud. Almost immune.

Our relationship had been like this for years. Somehow we ended up talking at each other instead of to each other.

“Mom!” I blurted. “I don’t think you should worry about it. Listen, can I call you back tonight? I’m kind of busy right now.”

“Aw, that’s okay, honey. I guess I’ve said just about all I have to say.”

Relief rushed over me. I simply wanted to get off the phone and get my shopping done.

“Okay, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon. Take care.”

“I love ya, Lis.”

“I love you, too, Mom. Bye.”

I turned off my cell and continued shopping without a second thought.

Four days later Mom suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm, was intubated, and never spoke again. She died three weeks later.

If I had one wish–just one–I’d wish for the chance to relive that moment three years ago today when I gave my mother so little, and I was about to lose so much.