First and foremost, I’d like to thank each and everyone one of you for making it here today. Perhaps because of her modesty, I really don’t think my mother had any idea how adored, treasured, and truly loved she was. Not all that many knew of her illness, so we didn’t know what to expect today, but the turnout, support, and acts of kindness throughout have been beyond touching so please consider yourselves all part of the extended Mayfield/Ferguson family.
As the program heading states, this is a celebration of my mother’s life. When she came home from the hospital and began her in-home hospice, she sat us all down and said we were to celebrate for the remainder of her days and beyond, so thank you for joining us in celebration
My mother was special. I could stand up here and recite a dictionary full of superlatives and a thesaurus full of synonyms to describe just how special my mother was, is, and always will be to me, and I still wouldn’t be able to convey how much she meant to me.
She was everything rolled into one: my best friend, confidante, advisor, moral compass, model of virtue, superhero, and matriarch, but before any of those titles, I knew her as simply as mom. As a forever proud mama’s boy, being her son was the greatest pleasure, privilege, and joy I’ll ever know.
By a quick show of hands, how many of you have are familiar with Oprah? Ok, now how many of you have are familiar with former first lady Michelle Obama. The world only recently became introduced to a certain type of class, elegance, warmth, and spirit of black womanhood through them. To myself, I had a direct line to these qualities and never had to look any further than my mother to appreciate them.
Well, call me crazy, and trust me plenty do, I don’t believe that either of these two women, Oprah or Michelle Obama, as phenomenal as they are, could held my mother’s handbag of their best day. From the hardships she endured in her youth to the weight she carried as an adult, most of it dead (looks icily), my mother was the embodiment of grace under pressure. Of all the things she could have chosen to do with her prodigious gifts, she prioritized being a mother. For that I am eternally grateful.
While her physical loss would seem to leave an unimaginable emptiness, I fill this void with gratitude for having had the amazing mother I did for 36 years, four months, and 12 days, (but who’s counting?).
Before I wrap up, I just wanted to share a quick story about the time we spent together during her last month with us. I’m not sure how many of you are aware, but my mother smoked cigarettes up until the end. For those of you who may have mixed feelings cancer patient steadily smoking, she promised me that much like Bill Clinton, she never inhaled. This proved to be true, as throughout her countless CT scans, MRI’s, and X-Rays they never found so much as a single spot on her lungs. And trust me, while we’re on the subject, I tried, more than once, to convince her to join me in smoking a certain herbal alternative, but she always graciously declined.
In any case, when she came home from the hospital to begin her in-home hospice, I happened to be out at an appointment. I wasn’t expecting her so soon, but I quickly got a text. “Chris, where’s my cigarette (complete with smiley face emoji)??” Knowing she would be looking for them furiously, I quickly replied that there was an ample supply tucked in the pocket of her favorite red jacket. When I got home to find her exhaling away on the back porch, what she called our “therapy sessions,” officially began anew
While my mother showered us with love, she wasn’t the gushy or touchy feely type. She simply showed her love and we felt it. I had been talking to my therapist specifically about wanting to get mushy with my mother, out of fear that things would be left unsaid. Prior to her hospitalization my mother seemed to dodge my attempts to express myself in this way, but when she came home, maybe because she sensed an urgency she hadn’t felt before, she opened up the proverbial vault.
Because of her mobility challenges she would begin her day early in the morning and gingerly make her way to the back porch. In eager anticipation of our sessions, I would be up before the birds, much like a kid on Christmas waiting for the party to start. It pained her to move towards the end, so once she was seated and her coffee had been prepared, it was just her and I out there, chain smoking Newports like we owned stock in the company, spending hours upon hours (our record was six) saying what we meant to each other, sharing stories ranging from personal to hilarious, holding hands, exchanging pecks, and of saying, “I love you.” After enough time, she would urge me to go inside, but I assured her that the only place I wanted to be was with her.
I did the conservative calculation: over the course of those two weeks we averaged at least three to four hours a day together on the back porch. That roughly adds up to 48 hours, or in total, what amounted to the best two days of my life.
There’s an African proverb that says, “A person does not die until they are forgotten.” In that sense my mother will remain with me always in memory, spirit, and, of course, heart. Before she left us, I promised her that my siblings would celebrate her for as long as there was breath in our lungs.
Thank you again for joining us in celebration.
Baby boy loves you, mama.
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