I cannot tell you how much time I spent agonizing over the title of this post. This post that I promised to publish last week Monday but failed to do, and it was not for lack of trying. This post that I do not want to write and cannot believe that I’m writing. In my head, if I write it, I will make it true. Yet, it’s been one month since I last spoke to my mom, and I have never gone this long without speaking to my mom. I have never even gone for up to a week without talking to her. So, it must be true. She must really be gone. How do I tell people that I lost my mom?
On Friday, April 22nd, 2022, I woke up before my alarm, turned the ringer on my phone back on, and remained in bed. Then I got a frantic phone call from my cousin who was calling to tell me that my mom was ill, that she was having severe chest pain and difficulty breathing and she was being taken to the hospital. I jumped out of bed immediately and my heart was beating so fast.
I hate long-distance relationships of any kind, and this is one of the reasons. Being thousands of miles away from my mom has been a personal torture of mine. If I call her and she does not pick up or call back within a short while, I panic. Being told over the phone that my mom was not feeling well, and being able to do nothing but ask questions made me feel helpless and useless. My day was ruined from the moment I received that call.
Still, I remained hopeful. Sometimes, I’m overly pragmatic and practical. So, that day, I was practical again in my reasoning. My mind did all the calculations: Mom is only 65. She’s healthy. She has survived so much more than whatever this is. This woman is an ijele nwanyi (strong woman in all aspects). My mommy, she will beat whatever this is, and soon, we will laugh about the time she scared me, and I would warn her to not try that nonsense again. That was how I reasoned it. She will be fine. In fact, she’s fine already. How can she not be fine? She’s Nwakaego.
I was on pins and needles, calling my cousin every few minutes to ask how she was doing – and damning Nigeria for being so far away – and he gave me all the updates to keep me relatively calm. They had reached the hospital. The doctors had taken her in. She was receiving treatment. She was doing okay. I asked to talk to her and was told that she couldn’t talk yet. Nsogbu adiro (no problem), I will wait. During one of the calls with my cousin, we finished talking but he did not hang up. I heard the conversation between him and another relative. That one was asking if I was crying, and my cousin said yes. That one told my cousin to stop telling me too much. My cousin said he didn’t tell me too much. Then the phone cut off. I figured the relative didn’t want to scare me with something that was already half-resolved.
I called another cousin, Onyi. He’s like my mom’s son. In fact, some people don’t know that he’s not her son. So I asked about my mom. He was on his way to the hospital. “Everything is fine, Verastic,” he assured me. “Are you sure?” I asked him. He reassured me that all was well. I was not convinced, so I called the other cousin (Nachi), the one who took her to the hospital. I demanded to speak to my mom. He said he would call me once he got back to the hospital, that he just left to get some food. I asked him how she was doing, and he said she was receiving treatment. I asked him if he was sure, and he laughed, said of course. I was not convinced, but long distance is a bitch. There was nothing I could do.
But then, I called my Uncle in New York, mom’s younger brother, and he asked if Aunty Chinelo was at my house. My heart fell out of my body then. “Why would Aunty Chinelo be at my house?” I asked. It was the middle of a workday, so why would she be at my house – unless something was wrong? I don’t think I was breathing at this point. My uncle said, “She said she’s coming with Funmie.” Now I was really not breathing. “Coming with Funmie for what? Where is my mom?” He told me to calm down, that everything was fine. I did not believe him.
I was screaming on the phone while my uncle tried [and failed] to convince me that all was well. Just then, Onyi called back. I quickly picked up the phone. All he said was, “Verastic.”
And that was the moment my world crashed.
There was a lot of screaming and a lot of crying, but none of it was enough. I just wanted my mom to call me. I just wanted to hear her voice. I just wanted her. At some point, Funmie and Aunt Chinelo came, and there was more weeping. I was inconsolable.
It’s been a month, and I am still inconsolable. Nothing that anyone has said or done has made me feel better about this loss. I have so many questions for God, and I have asked Him all of them, but He has not answered one single question. Was this His plan all along? Is this like the case of Job where the devil sought permission to torment Job and God consented? What about the long life He promised to satisfy those who love Him with? And did I not beg Him? Did I not beg Him several times, almost every day even, to keep this woman? Was this happening because of something I did? Or something I did not do? Was this a punishment?
Last week Sunday (May 15th) was my first Sunday back since the loss. I did not want to go to church, but Ada Verastic had begged and begged to go to church. It was not her desire to be in the house of the Lord that compelled her, but her excitement to wear her new blue dress. During one of the songs, it was sung that God turns what the enemy meant for bad into good, and I wondered, what good could possibly come out of my mom transitioning? She was only 65, and we had so many plans. So, so many plans. I am gutted.
Not a single day has passed that I have not wept. Sometimes, I cry silently. Sometimes, I wail out loud. Sometimes, I sit and stare aimlessly. My grief knows no bounds. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night crying. I don’t know what causes this. I don’t know if I am crying in my dream and waking myself up with the crying or if my heart is aching so much while I sleep that my body needs to wake up and release that pain. Most times, I go to bed crying. I have taken more painkillers in the last month than I’d typically take in a year. At this point, I am no longer relying on sleeping pills to sleep or stay asleep, thankfully.
Death is ugly.
My mom owed me nothing. She gave me everything. I could not have asked for a better mom. I just needed more time to take care of her. I was blessed to have taken care of her, and I know she was proud of me because she told everyone that cared to listen about her daughter, her only child who was like twenty children. It was the promise I made to my mom. I told her that I, her only child, would be to her like twenty children, and I am happy that I was able to do that, but I am not consoled because I had so much more to do.
I feel completely upended and violently uprooted.
Some days now, I think of her and smile, and other days, I weep. Most times, I weep. I have spoken to many people who have lost their moms, and every single one of them has told me that this is not a pain that will ever go away, that I will only learn to live with it. I cry for many reasons when I think about my mom. She was really my best friend. We could talk for hours about nothing. Sometimes, we’d be done talking and we’d just be on the phone doing our own thing. She would be watching a Nigerian movie or listening to Nnamdi Kanu or Biafra Radio or Nation or whatever it’s called. I would be tapping away at my computer. She would say something funny about how fast I type. Kpaka kpaka kpaka, she would say, and we’d laugh.
We spoke several times a week, but Sunday was our special talking day. We’d talk about church and she and Ada Verastic would talk. Every time Ada Verastic gets her hair done, she would ask me to send it to her grandma. My mom would change her WhatsApp profile picture to Ada Verastic’s new hair. Ada Verastic would love it. When I retwist my hair, I would send her a picture, too. She never uses my hair on WhatsApp though 🙄. She would tell me she was jealous of my locs, and I would tell her to get hers done. She would promise to do it, but we would have this conversation all over again whenever I get my hair retwisted again. I retwisted my locs on Saturday, and there was no mommy to send the pictures to. Ada Verastic will be getting her hair done this evening. There will be no grandma to send the pictures to either.
I’m thinking about the way she would listen to gospel music early in the morning and disturb everyone’s sleep. I’m thinking about what Onyi told me, about how the market people in Awka used to call her ‘Nwanyi India’ (Indian woman) because she was so light in complexion and always had a scarf on her head to shield her from the scorching sun. I’m thinking about how I’d always give her a list of foods to send me, like crayfish, egusi, ogbono, etc, and I’m thinking about the love and care that would go into procuring these items for me, how she would meticulously clean everything. My mom was anal about a lot of things. And just like her, I am anal about a lot of things. It pleases me that there are parts of her in me, even if they’re not particularly complimentary. I’m thinking about how hands-off I would be with Ada Verastic every time we went to Nigeria because my mommy was in charge now. Nigeria will never be the same for me. And now I’m asking myself, who will ever love me like my mommy? I already know the answer: NO ONE.
I have read bible verses. I have listened to all types of music. I have listened to people encourage me. I have watched people love on me and show up for me. Nothing has dented this pain and gaping hole my mom has left. I have checked WhatsApp every single day, and it continues to say that she was last online on April 22nd, 2022 at 7:03 AM. I keep wishing it would change. I want so badly to hear her call me Nne again. I want to hear her sing for me again. I don’t understand a world without my mommy in it. I don’t understand how I am supposed to forge ahead. I don’t know what happens to all the plans we made. Who do I do these things with now? Her chat is pinned to the top of my WhatsApp. I cannot decide if seeing this chat every day is helping or hurting me. It hurts to see it, knowing she will never respond to my messages again, but I am scared that if I unpin it, it will disappear. So, for now, I’ll take the daily heartbreaks from seeing her chat.
Ada Verastic is aware that her Grandma is no more, but she is processing it the way a six-year-old would. Sometimes, I wish I could be six years old, and I wish that my worry in life was what cupcake flavor to pick the next time my mommy takes me to the cupcake shop. I wish that, like Ada Verastic, my fondest memory of her was that she let me eat cookies for breakfast in Nigeria, and I quite enjoyed it. I try not to cry as much in front of Ada Verastic these days. She’s quick to bring me a box of tissue once she notices I’m crying. The other day, I was in the shower, crying. I thought I was being quiet, but apparently, I wasn’t because the next thing I knew, my baby rushed into the bathroom with a box of tissue. I faked a smile while I told her that I couldn’t use tissue while I was under the showerhead.
People have told me how happy they are to see how strong I am, considering this loss. I don’t feel strong at all. But if there’s something I have learned to do so well, it’s how to break down on my own, behind the curtains, away from concerned hearts and curious minds – not because I am trying to be fake but because I don’t want people worrying too much about me. So, if you ask me how I’m doing, I will always give you the same answers. I’m okay. I’m hanging in there. I’m taking it one moment at a time. Honestly, the last part is true.
I am indeed taking it one moment at a time. Not one day at a time because a day is too long. In twenty-four hours, I go through the valley and up the mountain and through the seas. A part of me wants to cut God off, tell Him I’m no longer His friend, but a deeper part of me knows that this isn’t true. I love Him, but I am very angry at Him. If He would just say to me that He’s aware of what’s going on, that He let it happen on purpose, that I would be okay, and that He’s still in control, I’d feel better. Yes, I know these words are in the bible, but I want to hear Him say them to me. He does not have to let me see Him, but can He whisper the words in my ears? Can He whisper these words loudly? Can He tell them to me in a dream, clearly? Can He speak to me in a personal, convincing, and private way? The bible isn’t private. It’s for everyone, and anyone can interpret it as they see fit. Killers, rapists, and slave owners, they all convincingly support their evil with the bible.
I have read that God speaks to us, but sometimes, we are not still enough to hear him. I have tried meditating, drowning out the noise, and listening for His voice, but even in my meditation, all I think about is my mom. How was she feeling in her last moments? Was she afraid? Did she cry? Did she think of me? How is she doing now, lying in that cold morgue, all by herself? I know it’s just her body and her soul isn’t there, but the problem is that her soul can’t call me on the phone, and her soul can’t hug me and laugh with me. Maybe she’s around me, but I cannot physically see her or touch her.
I remember when I went through divorce and thought that was the most painful thing in life. Well, second most painful. I’ll tell you about the first most painful another day. I even said on the first episode of my podcast that divorce felt like the death of dreams. Now I laugh at my naivete. No, divorce doesn’t feel like death of any kind. Death of any kind is what feels like death of any kind. I’d rather do a thousand divorces — and pay for them in cash – than lose my mommy. Please forgive me for comparing divorce to death. Na small pikin dey worry me.
I have dreaded writing this post because — so much tears! Even as I write it now, my top is drenched, but there’s a tiny fraction of catharsis from writing. A day after my mommy transitioned, I wrote my raw emotions in my journal. Speaking of transitioning, that seems to be the only word I can comfortably use when describing what has happened to my mom. Saying the D-word has proven abortive. Saying she has joined her ancesters is almost comical, like I’m in a Nollywood movie. But saying she has transitioned, seems appropriate, albeit still very agonizing.
Every time I go see my grandma, I pretend to be okay, and I pretend that my heart isn’t broken into many pieces. I feel like she’s watching me and going off of my energy. If I show any sign of worry or sadness, my grandma will follow suit. So, I pretend to be okay, so that she can hopefully be comforted, even if a little bit, by my okay-ness.
My family and friends have been unbelievable. And that’s putting it mildly. I cannot start mentioning them individually because where do I begin? They have gone above and beyond. Friends have been trooping in and out of my home, from Maryland and from out of Maryland, just to come and stay with me. Ada Verastic has never experienced having so many people in our home, and she’s quite excited about it. Like I said, it’s nice to be six years old.
My mom’s transition has caused me to reconnect with people I have not had contact with in such a long time, even people I grew up with in Nigeria. While the reconnection has been heartwarming, I wish we were reconnecting because of a happy event. I wish these people coming to my home were coming to give me celebratory hugs and kisses. I wish they were coming to join me in singing Alleluia over a great thing that He has done. I wish they did not wear long faces and tell me to jisike and be strong.
And you, Sweet Potatoes, you have been nothing short of amazing. I first sent an email to my subscribers, and the responses have not stopped coming in. I apologize that I have not responded to the emails. I simply cannot. I don’t have it in me to do so. I have read them all, however, and I have shed a few a lot of tears while reading them. And what about the Sweet Potatoes on social media? Hian. I even tried to like your comments on my personal Facebook – over 500 of them – and on my professional Facebook page, but I could not keep up. I managed to like the comments on Instagram, but that was as far as I could go. Thank you for the comments, texts, calls, DMs, and emails. I cannot thank you enough.
I could write on and on about my mom forever. She was little in size but mighty in her impact. She was so beautiful and so kind and so funny. She never left me wondering if she loved me or how much I meant to her. She was consistent in her affection and dedication. I was free to talk to her about anything, even my salary. She was not the mom that I had to hide financial information from. She knew when I got paid and how much I got paid. She was a mom indeed. She was excited about everything I did and even more excited about Ada Verastic. She was just everything, and I hate that I am writing about her in the past tense.
Now I’m thinking about how to memorialize my mom. I’m told that she has already been memorialized through me and through Ada Verastic. And while I know that that’s true, I still want more. Frankly, I know that nothing will be good enough, except just having my mommy back. I keep imagining receiving a phone call saying that it’s all been a mistake, that she has not really transitioned, that she went into a coma and her body went into some weird aggressive/hibernation life-saving mode, and she’s actually now awake and totally okay, and she’s on WhatsApp again, and life as I knew it is back to normal. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time that God has raised someone from the dead. Right? And if it’s true that He is the same today as He was yesterday, then this shouldn’t be too difficult for Him. Right?
I’m having a Service of Songs for my mom on Saturday, June 4th, 2022 at 3:30 PM. If you are in the area or can get to the area – Baltimore, Maryland – I’d love for you to come. I’m taking all the in-person hugs that are available to me. I don’t want to post the address so publicly because this is the internet, but if you’d like to come, email Funmie for the address. She’s easier to reach because I’m currently committed to crying daily, and crying daily takes a lot of time. It’s okay if you’re laughing. I’m actually laughing, too.
Speaking of Funmie, she is championing a fundraising campaign for me to give my mom a “befitting burial.” I hate the idea of giving my mom a befitting burial. I don’t want to give her a burial at all, and if I must, then let it be at least 30 years from now. Anyway, if you feel led to give, the donations are coming in through several means. Please don’t feel pressured to give. One of my mom’s favorite things to say is that closed mouths don’t get fed. If for some reason, you’re still able to keep your head above water during this volatile economy and you have enough to share, and your body is doing you sugarcane, sugarcane at the thought of giving Vera, then here’s the information on how to give my mom a “befitting burial”. Thank you very kindly.
Zelle: vera@verastic.com | CashApp: $Verastic | GoFundMe: HERE | Zenith Bank (Nigeria): 2288135270 (Account name: N. Vera Ezimora)
Please keep me and my family in your thoughts and prayers. This is harder than I have the words to describe.
P.S. I am not suicidal. Someone has shown concern and fear over me being suicidal. I assure you that I am not suicidal. I am simply grieving a loss of unfathomable, unbearable, inestimable magnitude.
Chukwu Imoh Emmanuella Somto says
My dearest Condolence to you and your entire family. May God almighty continuously give you all the Grace to bear this huge LOSS ijn Amen❤️
Chinwe says
May God comfort and strengthen your heart to bear this irreparable loss. Thank God you enjoyed the privilege of being a child to your awesome mum no matter how short because forever won’t have been enough. My deepest condolences and things will definitely get easier.
Olami says
I’m bawling. The comment I had in mind is gone. I’m so so sorry.
Tola says
May her soul continue to rest in peace. I can’t imagine what you’re going through but the Lord is your strength and yes we don’t understand why these things happen. I pray you will continue to be the 20 children for your mum and continue to honour her always. She will be always be proud of you. It is well .. xx
Alvine says
So sorry for your loss Vera. Your love for your mom comes through so VERY CLEARLY through these words and as I was reading I found myself thinking wow I hope my daughter speaks of me this way one day. It inspired me step up my mommy game. You clearly shared a beautiful bond with your mom and that’s such a blessing. I AM GRATEFUL she experienced a daughter like you and you experienced a mother like her. I hope people around you took note and are inspired as well. I realize that no words can possibly alleviate your pain at this time, so I will focus on praying for your mom’s soul and praying that God will see you through this tough time. *Virtual Hugs*
Taiwo says
Vera, words alone could not begin to convey my thoughts as i read this. I only wish that you continue to grieve for her in the way you feel best. I cannot pretend to understand but I’m giving you virtual hugs and shoulders to cry on. Mummy was very beautiful too 🤗
Paul Obiora Onyedikachukwu says
On my way to show and not tell you that I love you❤️.
He interfered.
He is wicked.
He is cruel.
He is Evil.
I wish I can overpower him.I wish he’ll get off my way to meet you.
I wish I can change the whole situation and not keep wishing 😓.
In all,God knows the best.
I can proudly call you Mum Everyday.
Rest on Mum🕯️
You may be absent physically but will remain forever in my heart and thought.
May perpetual light never stop shinning on you my Oga ❤️.
I will keep loving you forever ❤️.
Sandra says
I’m so so sorry Vera. I pray you feel the comfort and peace of the Holy Spirit through this extremely difficult time.
Ifeoma O. says
Such a beautiful write up. Remember that you are your mothers daughter and all the love and kindness you described, you exude that to your Us your beloved family and friends. You’ll never be alone because we will always love on you and Ada Verastic.
Cheena says
So sorry Vera. I wish there was a way to remove the pain. Thank God for your mother’s love and I pray you get more reasons to smile while living with this sad reality.
Lois says
I am so very sorry for your loss Vera. Wishing you comfort and peace at this difficult time.
OluBukola A. says
Nothing in this life prepares you for losing a parent. I was despondent for weeks on end when I lost my dad and 14 years later, I still cry. My heart is with you and I’m praying you are strengthened by all the love around you.
God will speak to your heart and give you peace.
God is holding you in His Arms. Your Mum now occupies prime position to whisper in God’s ear about her Vera 💖 It is well with you.
You are loved!
Uju says
It is well
Essy says
Vera, I don’t know how to begin to put in words my condolences because I cannot even imagine the pain you’re going through. My mum is my world so my heart breaks for you I am in tears I started to read this morning at work but had to stop halfway because I was a mess and couldn’t continue. I pray the good Lord sees you through this period and comforts you in ways only He can. I know your mum is watching over you and Ada Verastic so I hope that brings you some comfort. I’m sending you lots of hugs and love.
Rachael Gogo says
Sending you hugs and loads of love,may the Lord strengthen you through it all.❤❤❤❤
Mary Mary says
May her soul rest in peace
May God comfort you
May He who can do so much more than we can ever think or imagine shower you with abundant blessings with every passing day of your life
Mowo says
My deepest condolences Vera. No can really comprehend the pain you feel at the passing of a parent. May Almighty God comfort you and your family🫂
Dalu says
I am sobbing, I’m so so sorry for your loss Vera, may God comfort you and your family and surround you with his love. May her soul rest in perfect peace. My prayers are with you.
Ife.O says
Vera, there are no words. Because saying “sorry” doesn’t seem enough for the kind of pain you must be feeling. I can’t say how sorry I am that you are enduring this. I just pray for peace for you and our family. I pray that God comforts you and that he hears you and that he gives you answers.
Oh Vera, I am so sorry.
Theresa says
Be comforted dearest Vera.
God’s presence remains with you.
Ife says
I really don’t have the words Vera.
I am so sad about your loss..May her beautiful soul rest in peace and the Almighty give you the strength to go through this season…