Most people would never find anything funny about their Mother’s death.
Most people are normal. But if you’d known my Mom and her Irish sense of humor, you’d swear she planned this.
Mom slipped into a diabetic coma while I was fifteen hours away, camping in the mountains with my young daughters. Worried sick, we raced home through the night. As we pulled into our driveway, the truck’s transmission gave out. My husband Mike took the truck to our local repair shop, the Transmission Hospital, while I sat at Mom’s bed in the intensive care unit. My brother, also Mike, and his wife drove home, and my sister and her husband, another Mike, flew in too. Having so many Mikes in the family, things can sometimes get confusing.
We siblings sat with Mom around the clock, taking shifts if needed. Mom passed away a week later with my brother at her side. He left the hospital at three in the morning and collapsed in bed. Hours later my husband and I drove to the funeral parlor to begin making arrangements, leaving my brother and sister to rest.
The home phone rang, and my brother, still groggy, answered.
“Mike?” the voice asked.
“Yeah,” my brother replied.
“This is Dan at the (unintelligible) Hospital. You can come pick her up now. She’s ready to roll!”
My brother gasped.
“You mean, I have to come get her?” he sputtered.
“Um…yeah. We don’t deliver,” Dan said.
My brother’s heart pounded. “But I thought the funeral home took care of that!”
Seconds of uncomfortable silence ensued.
“Um...this is Dan. From the Transmission Hospital. Your truck is fixed.”
This was Mom’s last gift to us—something to laugh at through the tears.
My brother still recalls his horror at that moment, and I’m quite sure Dan was traumatized for life. I was tempted to engrave “She’s Ready to Roll!” on her tombstone, but the normal people at the funeral home frowned on the idea.
Sixteen years later, we’re still laughing. Thanks, Mom. I miss you.