Although a day late, Happy Mother’s Day

By MIKE MATHISON, sports editor
Twenty-three years ago today I wished my mom a Happy Mother’s Day.

I was the sports editor of the Santa Maria Times, a position I had held since February.

I wasn’t going to take the position because my mom was in a fight with cancer. But, she said she would be all right and I needed to go be on my own.

I wasn’t so sure she was feeling that good, but she was very convincing.

I talked to my sister on that Mother’s Day and she told me I needed to come home. I told her that wasn’t going to happen because I had just talked to mom and she said she was feeling fine.

So, my sister called in reinforcements.

That night I received a phone call from my aunt saying I needed to come home to San Diego.

As much as she put up a front for me during that Mother’s Day call, cancer got the best of my mom during the months I was gone and my aunt said it would only be days.

When I made it to the hospital, my aunt said it was the best my mom had looked in a while — she wanted to be at her best when her only son came to see her, cancer or not.

For the next few days of hustle and bustle throughout that hospital room, mom kept drifting in and out of consciousness.

She was holding on.

She talked about seeing the light and seeing a bunch of people in her life — all of whom were already dead, including her ex-husband, my dad, who died of cancer two years earlier.

My aunt whispered to me that in order for my mom to stop holding on, I had to give her permission to die.

That’s always a fun thing to do for a 24-year-old.

By that time my mom was in a coma, but my aunt said she would understand what I was telling her.

At a little past 4 a.m. on May 18, 1983, the Saturday after Mother’s Day, with just my sister and I in her hospital room, each of us holding a hand, my mom passed away.

My mom was great.

She helped keep a loving home with an alcoholic husband.

She helped with homework, went to all my games and track meets and was heard to say on more than a few occasions, “Wait ‘til your father gets home.”

She made sure I went to Europe for two weeks as my high school graduation present to run in four track meets and see another part of the world.

She made a deal with me after I came home from Europe.

If I wanted to work full time and not go to college, I would have to pay rent. But, if I went to school, I could live at home for free.

That was an easy decision.

I spent three years living at home and going to junior college, running track during two of those years and playing basketball for one.

She no longer came to all of my sporting events, but she and my dad were now divorced and, being a young adult, I understood she needed to make money to pay the bills.

When I finally packed up a few things and went off to Cal Poly-San Luis Obispo to pursue a degree in journalism, she helped me pack.

And, when I can home during Christmas break and said I was homesick and wanted to come home, she would have no part of it.

She kicked my tail back north for that six-hour drive and told me in no uncertain terms was I going to quit school.

She said I chose the school, I chose the degree and I was going to fulfill those choices.

What I found out later was I was the first person in my family on either side to graduate from college.

I also found out that my mom had an academic scholarship to the University of Redlands that she turned down to marry my dad and begin her life as a mom to me and my sister, Kathleen.

There’s no higher calling than to be a mother.

Your tender spirit, loving ways and intuition is something us men don’t have or understand.

My mother was there to give me loving hugs and lay it on the line when I was being an idiot.

My mother was there to hear no excuses and expect the best out of me.

My mother was there to call my bluff, show me the correct path and make sure I called her if I was going to miss curfew.

My mother was there to make sure I was respectful.

My mother never talked to coaches about playing time, or lack thereof.

My mother never talked to coaches about their philosophies.

My mother never talked to coaches about how hard they were working us.

And, if I came home and complained about any of those things, she wanted no part of the conversation.

She told me it was my choice to play and my choice to work hard or not and the more I worked the more I would play.

My mother never talked to teachers about my grades.

They were my grades, not hers.

I miss my mom.

I miss that she missed out on four grandchildren — three great boys and a precious girl.

Although a day late, Happy Mother’s Day.



(Mathison, a Weirton resident, is the sports editor of the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times and can be reached at mmathison@heraldstaronline.com)