I am the youngest of three daughters and have lived most of my adult life in Memphis, Tennessee. My parents relocated to Memphis in 1972, and it quickly became home to us all. I never really “left home” as did my sisters, although my parents and I each had our own lives. They were, however, for many years part of our social life as well as family life.

My sisters and I were very lucky to be part of a warm and loving family. It was always more of a treat for them than a “duty” to come to Memphis for a visit. Part of what made our relationships so special was the ability to laugh and enjoy each other’s company.

In 1983, shortly after my husband and I moved back to Memphis after three years in Nashville, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. After surgery and almost one year of chemotherapy, she was given a clean bill of health. She remained cancer-free for about one year when it recurred and had metastasized to the bone. There is nothing so devastating as hearing those dreaded words, but my mother, with her usual strength, was more concerned about me, who was pregnant, and of course my father. This was the beginning of a protracted illness for my mother, with radiation and chemotherapy until at last the doctors told my father there was nothing left to be done. I will never forget the day it was discovered that the cancer had spread to her brain. My mother received the news with quiet dignity and I’ll never forget how beautiful she looked sitting in her wheelchair with her head held high. My concern turned then to my father, who could not even say the words “terminal cancer.” When you’ve been married for 50 years, it’s difficult to imagine life without your partner. My father, however, was the one who truly kept my mother going by his optimism and caring. He became a cook, nursemaid and housemaid (this was a man who called my sister long distance to ask how to turn on the washing machine), and with unfailing devotion cared for my mother until she had to be admitted to the hospital just prior to her death. He also sustained tremendous debt as a result of the illness, but never once let on to my sisters or to me concerning the seriousness of his financial problems. My mother died on February 4, 1989, three days after my son turned two. She was very peaceful at the end which was a blessing. My sister bent down to kiss her and she just quit breathing.

Despite her long illness, nothing prepared us for the sense of loss we all felt. I remember walking back into my parents’ house for the first time after her death and thinking I heard her call my name. She and I had been very close, and it was the realization that I’d never see her again that was particularly devastating. I still miss her sense of humor, her unselfishness, and knowing she was the one person I could go to who always loved me without questions. Our concern quickly turned to our father, who seemed to be at loose ends. I knew in his own way he was quietly grieving, and felt very strongly that he didn’t want to be a burden to us. I was particularly concerned that something would happen to him since my mother had been his main focus for so long.

On June 1, 1989, I received a call at work from my husband and my father’s boss. My father, while on a business trip to Washington, D.C., had suffered a brain hemorrhage in his hotel room and had been taken to George Washington Medical Center. I immediately contacted my sister who lives in Richmond, Virginia, and she headed to Washington. This began a four-week waiting period as my sisters and I took turns staying with him at the hospital until we could get him back to Memphis. He was in a coma almost immediately, but we talked and read to him as if he were totally conscious.

My father died on June 30, 1989. I was not prepared for the sense of tremendous loss I felt. I had not realized how much I had depended on him for support. He had truly been “a pillar of strength” to all of us, and now that was gone.

As I look back to my parents’ deaths and the infamous year of 1989, I remember feeling such a sense of sadness and loss and thinking I’d never recover. I never experienced feelings of anger, because I knew that this is truly what my parents had wanted--to be together. I know for my father, life was not much without my mother, and I also knew that my mother could never have stood seeing my father helpless and in the hospital. In this respect, I could see through my own pain and know that despite the sadness and the horror of their illnesses and deaths, there were blessings to be found. Does one ever “get over” losing someone? I don’t think so, but I do believe that time makes it easier and that you can begin to see the good things again. I often reflect on my parents’ friends and how they loved them, the great times we had as a family, and the tremendous feeling of love we had for each other. These are things that will never “disappear.” I will miss them until my dying day, and I believe as a Christian that I will see them again. I only hope that I can live life as they did and give my children what my parents gave me.