The Peg Hotline
- 3 days ago
- 4 min read
Five years after losing my mom, I’m beginning to understand how we remain in conversation.
Author’s note: I wrote this in August, just before we took one of our nieces into the mountains for her 13th birthday adventure. Then life carried me out the door before I shared it. Maybe that’s fitting. This piece is about the ways love keeps moving—even when our timing isn’t perfect.
This morning, I came home from the gym and read my friend Robyn’s essay, Pure Energy Mom. Her mom was born in 1939. So was mine.
Within moments, tears were flowing—and I felt compelled to write.
Dear Peg, a.k.a. Mom,
Oh, how I miss you, Mother. How have five years passed since we spent our last night together on this earth?
I remember the phone call from Jaybird and the words pulmonary embolism bringing me to my knees. Surely you’d bounce back. You always had.
How lucky I am that you held on while I flew back east. You and I got to spend the entire evening together. We stayed up late, just like the old days. Except this time, I did the storytelling—making Pete proud—as I held your hand and squeezed it tight.
You brought me into this world, dear Mother, and I got to be beside you as you left it. Who gets that chance? How lucky we were to be together.
Then the grieving began.
Somehow, Jay and I still found Carlin humor in the business of dying. We filled your casket with ridiculous things only you'd appreciate: Pepsi bottles, Smurfs, a pack of smokes and your favorite sneaks.
But in the days and months that followed, I felt the magnitude of losing the one person who loved me in the singular way only a mother could. Again and again, I reached for my phone to tell you something silly about my day or share a story I knew only you would fully appreciate.
Five years later, I still wish there were a Peg hotline I could call.
I’d tell you I wear tutus these days (and encourage other women to wear them). That I’ve hiked across the Grand Canyon, I’m learning how to play ice hockey and I’m heading back to women’s water-ski camp—with friends in tow. You’d be so fired up!
I’d tell you I still ride my unicycle, love bright colors and find excuses to wear a costume. I’d tell you that I help grown women play again—to jump rope, ride bikes, try unfamiliar things and imagine, What if?
Hmm. I wonder where I learned all of that?
What I understand now is that you taught me something much deeper than how to have fun. You showed me that when we move, play and take up space in the world, we become more confident and joyful in our lives. When we venture into the outdoors and explore new places, we discover we’re capable of so much more than we imagined. Little by little, those experiences change the stories we tell about ourselves.
Maybe that is part of what it means to be fully alive.
Long before I had words for any of this, you were showing me what it looked like:
Be curious. Move your body. Wear the ridiculous outfit. Say yes to adventure. Laugh loudly along the way.
I thought losing you meant our conversation had ended. Now I’m beginning to understand that it simply changed form. You’re here in the hummingbirds that visit the feeder Jon put up. You’re here when Johnny Cash comes on my playlist. You’re here in my courage, my creativity and my enormous appetite for living.
You’re here each time I help someone believe a little more deeply in themself—and not take themself too seriously.
And today, I would call the Peg hotline to tell you that we're taking one of your granddaughters into the mountains and rivers to adventure together for her 13th birthday. You would be beside yourself with excitement, demand every detail and critique our itinerary. You’d probably send us off in matching outfits you'd sewn—something bright and created with enormous love.
Instead, we’ll bring your spirit with us. We’ll play outside, explore new places and laugh—a lot. In these ways, what you modeled for me will keep moving forward through her.
Maybe that’s the real Peg hotline—not a number I can call, but a way of living that keeps us connected.
At 52, my physical body may be aging, but my spirit has never been more alive.
Thank you for sharing your spark for living fully with me.
As your daughter and your granddaughter head into the mountains and rivers to play, I know you’re coming too—hooting and hollering as we live, love and laugh our way through this one precious life you gave us.
Love always,
Shannon
(Your Favorite Daughter)
This is part of the story behind The Desert Dose—and my belief that movement, play and adventure can connect us and help us be more fully alive.
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