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July 22, 1982, a date in time; time past 25 years. I was in my fourth month of mortuary school in Chicago. I was a full-time student, a full-time employee of a funeral home, a son, a husband and a father of two. One of my older brothers called me at 5:30 a.m. The words still ring in my head today; "Mom's dead."

My mom was 60 years old, and to my knowledge hadn't been to a doctor in 10 years, and then only because she and my dad had been in an auto accident.

The last time I saw her alive was on my way out of town to go back to school a couple of weeks before she died. I stopped in to say goodbye, as I always did; she stopped me, hugged me really hard and said "I love you Billy Bard"...like she had never said it before. It's not that she had never told me she loved me, but there was something different about that day.

Did she know she was going to die? I honestly think she did. Do I miss her as much after 25 years? I miss her like July 22, 1982 was yesterday.

Many of my mortuary school classmates were surprised when I returned to school about a week later. They thought the sudden death of my mom would affect my decision to return to a profession that handles the dead, but Mom's death only reinforced my decision to return.

It made me want to be that person others rely on to take care of them when their loved one dies. It made me realize there has to be that person people lean on to carry them through their most trying times. I want to be that person for you and your family. Thank you, Mom. I love you, too.

Bill Stendeback