In memory of my mom, Terry Killermann:

Some people called my mom Señorita, which became Teresita, which became Sita. She was also a Betty amongst Betty’s. She called me Nico, and I hate it that I’ll never hear her call me that again.

She loved to play poker but barely understood the game. What’s better, two pair or three of a kind? You didn’t want to ask my mom, because she could never remember. Still, she was lucky in cards, and took joy in it. If you had two pair she’d have three of a kind, but she’d have to ask you if she won, and the lesson here is that a little luck and some joy can take you a long ways.

She was well known for having a green thumb and was an avid gardener. Our home was always full of houseplants and our yard was always lush and impeccably manicured. Her last home had a yard like something out of a fairy tale. A little shady forest on a tiny spring fed lake. Daffodils and crocus in the spring, ferns and hostas in the summer, and an abundance of fall foliage in the fall.

She loved music and absolutely loved to dance. “Just move your hips” she’d tell us two-left feet people, but I never could quite get the hang of it. When she was 60 she danced so much at my cousin Adam’s wedding she could barely walk for days afterwards, but she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

She loved animals. All her life she kept a picture of Uncle Bill’s first dog Hea. When a different dog bit me when I was little, she consoled me, and helped me understand that I shouldn’t be scared of dogs, but rather understand that the dog only bit me because the dog itself was afraid. That was a lesson that has served me well. Most of my life we had a beautiful grey cat named Smokey. After Smoke passed on Mom got a rag-doll cat she named Gibbs. She loved Gibbs with all her heart, and he was a good companion to her to the end.

She was a lifelong reader, and she passed that onto me. I think it is one of the greatest gifts an adult can give a young person. Reading can bring critical thinking and empathy in equal measure, and the ability to navigate people and places wherever you go. I would be an entirely different person without all the books.

She loved to laugh, and she was funny, so she got the opportunity to laugh often. But her sense of humor, while wicked and sharp, was never cruel. She laughed with people, not at them. One of her favorite things to do was play “naughty” Balderdash with her sister and mom, and just howl with laughter at how ridiculous they could be.

She fucking loved to cuss, and she did it so damned well. Maybe she was a sailor in another life. Not all of her nurses appreciated it, but I always thought it was great. To this day I’m slightly suspicious of people who never swear.

She was intentional about giving praise. She herself was starved for it. Some people are stingy about giving away what they themselves desire. My mom was the opposite. She used her own desire for praise as a clue that most people could use a word of praise. She praised freely, and I will remember that as part of her legacy.

She encouraged me to be the better person throughout my childhood. I’d be very concerned with justice and the facts! But she’d stick gently but firmly her advice. I think it’d still be her advice to me today.

She had grit that to me verged on super human. My grandma will tell you that her daughter could never stand being sick. Being sick pissed my mom off, and but for the stroke, her track record was one of throwing sickness right off. Even after a massive stroke she managed to walk a little, despite unrelenting spasticity and an undiagnosed BROKEN HIP. Can you even imagine? I can’t. But she was always far stronger and far tougher than she appeared.

She always looked younger than she was. That’s not conjecture on my part. It’s obvious in the photos of her, and even when I was in high school my friends would comment on it (and when I started high school my mom was 43). Random people would think that instead of my mother she was my sister (understandable, I do look like her), or my wife (LESS understandable, because I DO look like her. 20-something Nick found that as irritating as 40-something Nick finds it funny).

She never actually knew how beautiful she was, inside and out. But everyone else did.

She wasn’t perfect, because who is? But she was awesome and vibrant and alive in a way few people are alive. She wasn’t a perfect mother, because who is? But she was always proud of me, she never failed to tell me she loved me, and she was a model of grace at the end. I wasn’t a perfect son, because who is? But I brought her flowers most of my life, because I listened when she told me she appreciated getting flowers. I wrote her notes thanking her for being my mom. I fought for her recovery as hard as I could after she had the stroke. I always told her that I loved her back.

The last flowers I ever sent her arrived on February 28. And this was my card:

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Mom,

One of my favorite lines in poetry is -

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;

I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."

Always remember that I love you - Nicholas

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I sent those lines because she was ready to die, and I wanted her to know that I would support her decisions. We wouldn’t try to artificially prolong her life just for our own sakes.

These last few months she’d call me every couple of days. I would drop whatever I was doing so that I could answer those phone calls, because if I missed them, she had a hard time answering when I’d try to return her call. And I knew that one day it’d be the last time, but that I wouldn’t know it was the last time.

She didn’t have the stamina for long conversations. But she’d ask some variation of “all is well?” And I would tell her yes, all is well, and I’d try to share just a little about my day or my plans. “That makes me so happy” she’d say. “I love you so much” she’d say.

On Tuesday, March 5, she called me, and we had a variation of that conversation. I asked her if the flowers still looked good, and she said they looked great. She sounded good, she told me she loved me, and I told her I loved her too.

I didn’t know it would be the last time.

On Wednesday, March 6, she was unresponsive and rushed to the hospital.

On Friday, March 8, she passed away, and my only consolation is she was ready to go and surrounded by people who loved her.

The finality of death is as devastating as it is universal. When I walked into my mom’s hospital room at 1am and saw her lying in a hospital bed, unconscious and hooked up to a ventilator, the thought that popped into my head was “all that’s left is love.” I really miss my mom. I don’t think that’s ever going away, though I suppose I’ll learn how to live with her absence. But even though the grief is terrible and heartbreaking and heavy, underneath it is a feeling of lightness. All I feel, for my mom, and from my mom, is love. All that’s left is love.