The shock. The reality. The fact that her body is just a shell, which we saw yesterday again during a viewing with family. It was a lot different for me. I was fortunate and got to see her the day she passed away. It was just her body, cold and stiff after several hours in the morgue, but I really, really needed to see her one last time (I thought at the time). I needed to feel her and hold her.

I know it's different for everybody. For me, the years she and I spent arguing and fighting were so wasted, looking back. But once we made peace, we became friends. Not right away, but little by little. The last few years, there was no more of the scolding or nagging. She still had her demands and old-school lectures -- mostly for my young nephew -- but with me, it was more like old friends.

It's those times, when she opened up to me, cried about her dad (who died more than 60 years ago), that I began to realize I might be the closest friend she really has. She's got old friends, but they do more talking and gossiping than anything. When it came to those dark memories of regret, of relationships that ended wrong, or without warning, she never got over those things. And she'd cry on my shoulder out of the blue, shocking me and touching my heart at the same time. This was a tough woman who took crap from no one.

I guess it's true we all soften with age. But I think with Mom, she knew I saw her in her prime as a parent, as a survivor of three broken marriages, as a leader in our household, through thick and thin (mostly thin), just getting by with me as her ears and voice in a world that had yet to really comprehend what life was like for the hearing impaired. I mean, I was 5 when she had me calling a bunch of numbers for apartment rentals. Does the rent include utilities? Do you accept welfare checks? I don't know how many times we did that, but she needed me. It took me decades to realize how much I needed her.

So the end came before I was ready. I'm thankful beyond words about the way we could embrace in the last years. She never pushed me away if I hugged her or kissed her on the cheek, on the forehead, just holding her close, my head on hers. I drew strength from her, knowing that she never really hated me, not as much as I once thought. She just needed to know she could trust me, trust my judgment when I was out so many times, so late at night, worrying her unnecessarily.

The elevator goes downstairs and I hear little kids playing on some random floor, and instantly I'm taken back into time and see her as a younger mom. It hurts to remember how good she was, strict but always there -- never gone all day or night ever like some single mothers do. I drive through the neighborhood, past the sidewalks and corners we once walked. Groceries can be pretty heavy after a few blocks. We relied on each other, period. There was no making excuses. If we don't help Mom, we don't eat. Simple. No car, no other way. We must've walked a thousand miles together and waited for a thousand buses together.

Those years of her life, when she was healthy and strong, feisty and even fun-loving sometimes, that's the Mom who stays with me, in my gut, in the core of my being. The past few years, I could go see her every day and care for her, know I could talk with her (and answer the questions she'd repeat over and over sometimes) and just feel at peace knowing she was content to be near her children and her grandson. That was victory for her, a triumph that stood tall over all the defeats of her life.

When people talk about being able to spend time with their mother or father in their last hours of life, I can feel what they mean now. It's never going to be easy dealing with the end of life in this place, but having that chance to say, "Thank you," "I love you," "You were a great mother," "I'm going to miss you" ... I wish I had that. In my heart, I know she could feel that love from me every time I changed her clothes, fed her, kissed her goodnight after tucking her into bed. I know she felt it. But for me, selfishly, I wish there was one more hour, one more minute just to say goodbye.

I don't know if that longing will ever leave me. Maybe it shouldn't. I don't know. But it comes back to me within seconds after I finish work, any time I'm alone again. Not always, but often. I'm convinced, now anyway, that it's not unusual. No matter how much I know she's well and happy now, it's the absence and distance that my heart can't comprehend.

She's not suffering at all now. I'd be a selfish prick to not recognize that. I hope I see her again one day. Joyful. Glowing. At peace. After a life of trauma, separation, pain, she's higher than high, experiencing pure bliss now.

I just wish I hadn't wasted so much time in the first place.

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