As I’m sitting here recovering from a robotic triple bypass I had just two weeks ago, I’ve had a lot of time to think. Thankfully, I was a candidate for the robotic procedure — it’s less invasive, and the healing is quicker. I’ve had plenty of support — family, friends, kind words, and prayers. And I appreciate every single one of them more than I can say.
But even with all that, something’s been missing.
My mom.
From the day I was born until just two years ago, she was always there. Through every scraped knee, hard lesson, celebration, or moment of doubt — she showed up. She wasn’t highly educated or covered in degrees, but she didn’t need any of that. Her greatest qualification was being my mom. And in my eyes, that made her perfect.
This time, though, I didn’t get the morning phone calls. No “Son, how are you feeling this morning?” No “Son, I made a good roast — I’m on my way over.” Just silence. A silence that felt louder than anything I’d ever heard.
It’s like I got cheated — like the world pulled something away from me before I was ready. I thought I’d always have those little moments. I took them for granted, if I’m honest. The sound of her voice on the other end of the line, the way she’d say “son” like it still carried the same weight it did when I was five years old with skinned knees. The way she could show up without asking — just knowing I needed her.
I figured there’d be more roasts. More surprise visits. More mornings with her checking in on me like only a mom can. But instead, I woke up from surgery to a quiet hospital room, and for the first time in my life, she wasn’t there.
That warm smile that could ease any worry — gone. That calming glow she carried into every room — missing. And that feeling of being completely safe just because she was close — I didn’t realize how much I leaned on that until it wasn’t there anymore.
And let me tell you — no matter how old you are, no matter how strong you think you’ve become — when that kind of love goes missing, it leaves a hole nothing else can fill.
I know I’m not the only one in this group who’s lost their mom. And this isn’t about looking for sympathy. Sometimes you just feel the need to put certain things into words — because when you lose someone who was such a constant in your life, that absence can get heavy. And saying it out loud, even just once, can ease the weight a little.
But let me tell you something. I know a lot of people don’t get along with their mothers. Some relationships are complicated, strained, or distant. But if there’s even the smallest chance to make peace — to pick up the phone, have a conversation, say what’s been left unsaid — take it. Because once they’re gone, all those chances go with them. And it’s the little things you’ll miss the most — not the big events, but the voice, the meals, the way they said your name like it meant more than anyone else ever could.
Even now, as I heal, I feel her strength in me. She’s not here physically, but what she poured into me still is. That quiet toughness. That steady hand. That deep, simple love. It’s in me now. And when I take a deep breath and push through the tough days, I still hear her: “You’re strong, son. You’ve got this.”
She gave me that. And I’ll carry it for the rest of my life.
Christine Bivens Kiser
July 12, 1940 – February 18, 2023