A Jamaican Experience: Thank You for being my mother!

By: Baron Stewart

The IBM move was a dream. They packed us up, transported my car to Los Angeles, flew my entire family business class to L.A., and put us up in a five-star hotel in downtown Los Angeles, close to the IBM offices, for a month. That month, I closed on a three-bedroom house on Newlin Avenue in Whittier, California.

We moved in December 1989. Our home on Newlin was shaded by trees, with a big backyard and a small front garden. Berkeley loved the trees, and my mother finally had her room.

That Christmas, I attended a seminar with Werner Erhard in San Francisco that transformed my relationship with my mother—from burden to blessing. My childhood anger had twisted my internal image of her, and I realized that if I didn’t rebuild it soon, it might be too late. She was 82 years old and dealing with multiple illnesses.

So, during the 1990 New Year’s celebration, I made a quiet but profound commitment: my mother would experience my love before she died. And I meant it.

I got her a new doctor, who immediately started her on dialysis. I hired a nurse and found a hospital that offered a day-care program for the elderly—because she often said she felt lonely when Berkeley and I left for work. The last missing piece was finding a transportation service that could take her there at a price I could afford.

My mother, who had become quite a character in her old age, loved going for dialysis. She thrived on the attention she received at the hospital. She had lost a significant amount of weight and was no longer diabetic. She was content and happy with a nurse who cared for her and my loving attention.

On March 18, just two days after her birthday, Berkeley gave birth to our second son, Justin. His arrival brought even more joy into my mother’s life.

That May, on Mother’s Day, I was home with my mother, baby Justin, and the nurse, preparing to take the red-eye flight to New York. Berkeley and Madison had left earlier, and we planned to meet at JFK after a visit to her mother in Arkansas before a weeklong visit with Fred and Harriette on Long Island.

As I scrambled to finish packing, the car to take me to the airport pulled up. Watching the flurry of last-minute activity, my mother mumbled, “Why don’t you organize yourself so that when the car comes, you’re ready to go?”

I was late, hurrying, and irritated. Her comment struck a nerve. I snapped back sarcastically, “Thank you for being my mother!”—but I was thinking, Will you shut up and leave me alone?

To my surprise, she didn’t react with anger or annoyance. Either she didn’t hear the sarcasm in my voice—or she chose to rise above it. Instead, in the softest, most sincere tone, she asked, “Do you mean that?”

I hadn’t meant it. Not the way I’d said it. But something in her question stopped me cold. I became fully present. It was Mother’s Day in 1990. My 83-year-old mother wanted to know if I finally loved her.

I paused, walked over to her, wrapped my arms around her, and whispered, “Yes, Mama. Thank you for being my mother.”

Then I picked up baby Justin, walked to the car, and left for the airport.

Those were the last words I ever said to my mother.

I flew to New York, met Berkeley at the airport, handed her baby Justin, and headed straight to work at IBM Palisades. Beginning that Tuesday, I was scheduled to give presentations at a conference.

But early that morning, I got a call from our neighbor back in Whittier. He told me my mother had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I asked if she had been moving when he saw her.

“No,” he said. “She was still.”

I called the hospital immediately and was transferred to the attending doctor. I explained who I was and asked for an update on my mother.

He said, “Wait a minute.”

I waited.

It felt like five minutes passed—five long, silent, heavy minutes—before he returned to the line and said, with clinical certainty:

“Your mother is dead.”

I didn’t ask what had happened.

I just hung up the phone.

I remember speaking at the conference, emboldened by my mother’s passing. I spoke with more power and presence than ever before—not just as a presenter but as a son who wanted to make his mother proud.

I didn’t rush home. Now that she was gone, there was no urgency—only the solemn task of making funeral arrangements, which I handled by phone.

Berkeley, the kids, and I stayed at Fred and Harriette’s house for the rest of the week. We spent our time talking about life and death, family and meaning. It was a somber, reflective time.

We returned to Whittier for a small funeral—fewer than ten people gathered at Rose Hills Cemetery on a quiet hillside overlooking the valley. It was intimate, peaceful, and just right.

A few days after the funeral, I was walking to the supermarket when I saw a van driving slowly past me—one of those transport vehicles for people with disabilities. It was headed toward my house.

Something stirred inside me.

That bus would pick up my mother for her day program at the hospital. I had forgotten to cancel it. I turned and ran after it, heart pounding, breath catching, but it got to my house before I did.

When I arrived, huffing and puffing, the driver returned to his vehicle. He saw me, paused, and gently said, “I’m sorry, son.”

But at that moment, I realized—there was nothing to be sorry about.

My mother had heard me thank her for being my mother. She was complete. And I was complete.

Life Lessons from a Son’s Goodbye

1. Don’t wait to heal broken relationships.

I often assume there will be more time and chances to say what I mean. But life doesn’t promise tomorrow. If there’s healing to be done, begin it now. A moment of sincerity can mend a lifetime of pain.

Recommendation:
If you're estranged from a loved one, even slightly, ask yourself: What would I regret not saying if today were the last day? Then could you say it?

2. Presence is more powerful than perfection.

When I stopped, hugged my mother and said, “Yes, Mama. Thank you for being my mother.” I didn’t need perfect words. I just required presence. That one moment gave both of us peace.

Recommendation:
Don’t wait for the “right” words. Show up, be real, and speak from your heart. It’s enough.

3. Gratitude transforms relationships.

My sarcastic “thank you” became real—and in that shift, love broke through decades of pain. Gratitude, even if it begins imperfectly, has the power to rewrite your story with someone.

Recommendation:
Practice gratitude. Begin with small, honest acknowledgments of what was given, even if not ideally.

4. Closure isn’t about rituals—it’s about connection.

The driver’s quiet apology and my realization that I was not incomplete—those moments weren’t planned, yet they brought peace. Closure came not from a funeral but from having said what mattered.

Recommendation:
Don’t wait for ceremonies to bring closure. Find it in your everyday interactions—by being honest, present, and loving when it matters most.

5. Pain can sharpen purpose.

After her death, I  spoke with greater conviction and presence, inspired by my mother. Her passing didn’t diminish me—it deepened me. Sometimes, grief gives rise to greatness.

Recommendation:
When faced with loss, ask: How can I honor this person with how I live? Let grief fuel growth, not silence.

6. Love is often most potent when it's simple.

All my mother wanted was to hear that I loved her. And I gave her that gift—that simple truth—“Yes, Mama. Thank you for being my mother.”—was everything.

Recommendation:
Say “I love you” often. Say it. Say it even if it feels awkward. Love doesn’t have to be complicated—it just has to be said.