Motherhood

My Mother’s Sixth Sense May Have Saved My Life

Her unexpected call came at the most needed time

Growing up, I never felt my mom and I were particularly close. I was the oldest of five kids, and her time was spent sharing what she could among all of us. But she was a storyteller, when we did have her all to ourselves, the stories would pour out of her.

Not great teen years

My teen years were rough and without proper discipline. I could look back now and say it was because my parents fought all the time, didn’t set a good example of what healthy relationships should be, and openly disliked each other.

My mother very often said that if it had been up to her, she would have had no children at all.

Her favorite mantra was, “When you turn 18, you’re out of here.” I didn’t wait. I ran away when I was 17, only to be brought back home by a family friend to the ridicule of my parents.

I left again at 18, thinking it was what they wanted. I moved into my friend’s house, whose parents were more than glad to take me in for rent money. It was awful.

They lived on a farm with running water but no flushing toilets. Her mom swung chickens by their heads until their bodies detached, and I caught trench mouth from drinking from what I thought was a clean cup.

Back home

I went back home to what was still a horrible situation. I had no discipline, got no respect, just ridicule, and had to continue listening to my mom and dad fight every night before I fell asleep.

If they had nothing to fight about, they would create something. Either she would start clicking her gum or he would start cracking his ankles — then game on.

I moved out again at 19, marrying the first guy who asked me, even though I only knew him for 6 weeks — jumping from the frying pan into the fire, and the rest is history — and another story.

On my own

After a quick divorce, alone for 12 years and raising my son on my own, another short marriage, and divorce, I had another son to take care of.

Where my story is leading is — my mother and I became much better acquainted after I left home.

I’m not going to say we were good friends or that she helped me babysit — she did not, but she loved to tell her stories to anyone who would listen, and I had time on my hands.

She loved to remember her earlier years when she was attractive and the soldiers on Ellis Island would whistle at her when she got off the ferry to go to her day job.

She loved to talk about one of the Dorsey brothers asking her to sing in his band, but she refused.

She talked about the war and how she had to draw a line up the back of her legs with eyeliner so it would look as if she were wearing stockings.

We finally had the relationship I had always longed for with her, and I looked forward to our once-a-week Sunday night call after the kids were sleeping.

Illness befell me

By the time my youngest was eight years old, the oldest was gone and married, I was working full time, and we lived in a cute, small house that we had slightly renovated. Money was tight and I was very frugal, especially when it came to my personal health care.

One day, I started developing a headache and felt out of sorts. The next day I dragged myself in to work, started feeling worse, then came home as I had developed a high fever, chills, and body aches.

Luckily, it was the weekend which gave me two days to recuperate. Surely it would pass by Monday.

I managed to warm up leftovers for my son, then laid down on the couch as I was too sick to do much else. Once I lay down, I couldn’t get up to eat or go to the bathroom, and my body felt very heavy and unresponsive.

While I lay there, drifting in and out of a deep sleep, my son sat in front of the TV staying out of mischief, so I relaxed and closed my eyes.

I started remembering forgotten events from my past, good and bad, and didn’t seem to be able to pull myself out of it. At one point I stopped being aware of anything going on around me.

Then, as if from a distance, I heard the phone ring!

My son ran to answer it. It was my mother. She never calls me on a Friday night at 7:00.

I do believe with all my heart — she may have saved my life that night.

When my son yelled, “Mom, wake up. It’s grandma, and she needs to speak with you now!” I shook myself awake, but I still couldn’t get up. My body had no strength, and I was too weak to pull myself into a standing position.

I rolled off the side of the couch and onto the floor, crawled over to the phone, and heard the words my mother uttered. “It was so weird — I suddenly started thinking about you. What are you doing?”

I unthinkingly said, “I think I was dying!”

As it turned out, I was.

I had the flu, and my blood pressure was so low that I was going down for the count. She called the ambulance for me, and they whisked me off to the hospital as she and my dad came over and took my son home with them.

That year, thousands of people had died from that strain of flu. It was before flu shots once a year became the norm.

How did she know or sense that I needed her to call me? We never shared that kind of closeness when I was a kid, she didn’t even want kids!

Because my blood pressure normally tends to be low, when I’m ill it drops to dangerous levels. I’ve since never missed my annual flu shot, and now, of course, a Covid booster.

My mother — I can only chalk it up to the intuition of a parent when a child is in danger. There’s no other explanation.

Thanks so much for reading. If you enjoyed my story, here are a few more you may like. To be added to my mailing list, click here. Feel free to reply to any of my stories. Happy reading!