The day Mom died was a regular workday for me. I was planning to visit her after work. I tried calling her in the afternoon, but she didn’t answer. I found it a little odd, but not enough to be concerned about. After work, I got in my truck and called again; still no answer. Now I knew something was off.

No. That’s not true. I knew she was dead. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

Over the last ten years of her life, my mother experienced several heart attacks. The last one had been massive, and the emergency room doctor had said the next one would kill her.

After several attempts at calling my mother’s apartment, I called the office of the senior apartment building where she lived. I asked the woman who answered the phone to check on her. I felt sorry for that woman because I was putting on her a job I was afraid to do myself. I had a key; I could have entered the apartment and found her. I didn’t want to see her like that; I knew I wasn’t strong enough.

When the caretaker called me back, I apologized profusely for putting her through that experience. She was shaken; I heard it in her voice. She had never seen a dead body before. She asked me who she should call. I knew she meant what funeral home she could contact, so I told her. I was still driving. I pulled over to the side of the road for a couple of minutes to collect myself.

The details of my dream from the night before flooded me as I sat there. In my dream, I walked into Mom’s apartment, calling her name. I saw her when I rounded the corner from the hallway into the kitchen. The wheelchair was on its side. My mother was on the floor, lying halfway under the table, the bruising already forming on her face.

Why had I not remembered before that moment? Chills ran through my body as I sat there in my truck. I’d had experiences with visions and dreams before, but never about someone I loved. I hadn’t cried until that moment.

When my sister, Kat, and I met with the coroner a few hours later, she asked him when he thought our mother might have passed. I knew the answer and said it aloud, “two AM.” He told me that was a good guess, but I hadn’t guessed.

My mother knew she was going to die that night. She played cards with other residents and told them. Her building was across the street from the funeral home where she’d already made arrangements. She told her friends that was where she would be the next day. They didn’t believe her, of course. But when my sisters and I went to her apartment to go through her things, one of them told us. My sisters doubted his word, but I never have.

My relationship with my mother had been strained at times, but it was solid later in her life. I loved her dearly. Like me, Mom was psychic, and at her funeral, she acted through me to help keep Lin and Kat strong. Lin especially was falling apart. Although much younger, I became the big sister that day.

My husband, of course, failed me. People kept saying, “Where’s your husband? He should be here.” I should have answered, “He’s somewhere getting drunk,” but instead, I said, “He’s getting his kids,” as a good wife should. He arrived late, obviously due to drinking, but not drunk enough to throw his ass out. He had two of his children with him, for which I was grateful.

I was able to be strong as I had to be throughout that ordeal. The funeral, the burial, the dinner. The estranged family that crawls out of the woodwork when someone dies. But then, when I got home, I fell apart. I don’t remember much about the following week; it’s lost to me. The only thing I remember clearly is sobbing in my husband, Bill’s arms.

That was September 1998, and I had never missed a holiday with my mother. The upcoming holiday was Thanksgiving. I was still depressed and lonely for her. I couldn’t bear to have Bill’s children or anyone else around and pretend to have a normal holiday experience. I had to get away.

The weather was mild that year. Even though I disliked sleeping in a tent, I insisted on going camping and sleeping in our truck the night before Thanksgiving. Back then, I was on my way to being a vegetarian. I had stopped eating beef and pork and hadn’t had poultry for several months. Bill took turkey legs and his charcoal grill. The campgrounds at the state parks were still open because it was so warm, but there were only a few other campers besides us. He put hickory chips in with the charcoal, and when the smell of the turkey legs wafted over the grounds, the other campers came wandering over, curious to find out who was cooking and how he was creating that wonderful aroma. That was the last time I ate poultry; as usual, they were delicious. Turkey legs and Jack Daniels made a great Thanksgiving dinner.

I have had a tough time with holidays ever since my mother died, and it’s been over twenty years. My daughter had difficulty every Mother’s Day trying to engage me in some kind of activity for a long time. She gave me choices that I had no heart to make. Finally, through tears, I explained to her that she would have to decide how to spend Mother’s Day because I could not. She said she understood, but it hurt her because I was her mother. Thankfully, I have (mostly) worked through that.

As I write this, I think about all the holidays without my mother and remember that first one going camping with Bill. But I also remember all the holidays I spent with my mother. Even though I always brought her to my house or went to see her, she never seemed truly happy. I believe it was because she always missed her mother. I’m not truly happy on holidays either. I have never been. What is it that makes me this way?

Many people have problems around the holidays. I find myself pretending more often than not, pretending to be happy, pretending that I’m having a good time. I believe I pretend for my daughter’s sake. I wonder if my daughter does that. I don’t think my mother ever did.

Mona Mehas (she/her) writes about growing up poor, accumulating grief, and the climate from the perspective of a retired, disabled teacher in Indiana. Her work has appeared in over forty journals, anthologies, and online museums. Mona's pamphlet, 'Questions I Didn't Know I'd Asked,' is available from LJMcD Communications. She is a Trekkie and enjoys watching Star Trek shows and movies in chronological order. Follow Mona on Twitter @Patienc77732097 and linktr.ee/monaiv.