I was out for my daily walk when my new Fitbit watch started vibrating and notifying me that someone had left a voicemail on my phone.
I glanced at my Fitbit and was shocked to see that my mom had called. Where could she be calling from?
My mother, Joy Anderson, died more than four years ago.
Stunned by the alert, I nervously clicked my phone’s voicemail prompt and started scrolling through seven years of old messages. I counted 86 from my mom that I hadn’t listened to.
I leaned against a maple tree in Sugar House Park, clicked on the first unopened voicemail from my mother and pressed the phone to my ear.
“Hi, Cathy, it’s me. These Vitamin Cs you brought are too honking big. When you get time, can you pick me up some smaller ones? Thanks, honey. Love you.”
Hearing my mother’s voice again was a shock, but it made me smile. I listened to the next one:
“Hi, Cathy, it’s Mom. I just wanted to tell that when you get here, if I’m napping, wake me up, please. Let’s watch some more ‘Handmaid’s Tale’ today. I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.”
I wiped away happy tears, recalling the three afternoons a week when I’d visit my mother to share smoothies and cookies, paint her nails, catch her up on the latest headlines and watch Alfred Hitchcock movies.
Then it hit me what must have happened.
There were dozens of voicemails on my phone from 2018 and 2019 that I hadn’t listened to, along with a few from 2020. All of them were from my mother, who was living near me in a Salt Lake City care center at the time, mostly confined to her bed after a health crisis.
During those years, whenever my mother needed anything (mystery novels from the library, a nip of whiskey, homemade lasagna), she would call my cell or my sister’s cell and leave a message. Then she would also call our landlines. Sometimes she was calling four or five times a day.
When my mom reached me on my home phone, I didn’t bother to listen to or delete the messages she’d left on my cell. But now that I’d synced my new Fitbit to my phone, I was being prompted to listen to them.
My mom had accepted losing her mobility with courage and grace, even though she could no longer enjoy nature walks, starry camping trips and her favorite getaways to International UFO Congress gatherings in Arizona.
After listening to those two voicemails in the park, I’d planned to listen to the rest of them at home that night. Then around 7 p.m., I received another notification. I clicked on it.
“Hi, Cathy, it’s Mom - my phone’s on just for you. So call me when you can. Love you, bye.”
I laughed, remembering how my mother would leave her cellphone off for days at a time, then wonder why she hadn’t heard from anyone. It was so uplifting to hear her voice that I began to wonder if it would be a mistake to listen to the rest of her messages in one sitting.
I enjoyed the feeling of looking at my Fitbit as it buzzed with an alert from my mother. If I listened to every message, would the notifications stop?
Eager for an explanation, I contacted Fitbit. Company spokesperson Andrea Holing confirmed my hunch: After I synced my new Fitbit to my phone, it began sending reminders that I had unopened voicemails.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a particular case like this come up before,” Holing said, “but these look like the usual notifications we’d expect from an unread voicemail. All to say, your Fitbit is just reflecting the behavior of your phone when it comes to notifications.”
Looking back, of course this is the explanation. It’s obvious that this happened because I didn’t clear out my voicemails. All I can say is being a caretaker is hard, and losing your mom is even harder.
To savor the messages, I decided that I would open only one voicemail when my wrist buzzed with a “Mom” alert. Each time it’s happened over the past few months, I’ve imagined what I might hear next. Will my mother fill me in on her new roommate? Will she ask me to pick up another six-pack of soda or smuggle in more bourbon?
In December, the notifications happened about three or four times a week, but now they happen maybe once or twice a week. Each time, I click on the next unopened voicemail in the queue and replay it a couple of times to fully experience the joy or frustration in my mother’s voice.
“Hi, Cathy, it’s 8 o‘clock and I can’t find my call light. I’m wondering if you can call the desk and let them know I need some more water in my water bottle,” she said on Nov. 3, 2018.
A week after that, when I was running late to visit her, she left a panicked message:
“Hi, Cathy, I’m getting really worried about you. Please let me know if you’re okay. I hope you haven’t run into any trouble. I’ll wait for your call.”
Most of the voicemails are requests to bring something from home or to simply say thank you.
“Cathy, thanks so much for the banana-raspberry shake today. I love it, and I love you!”
“Hi, Cathy, I know it’s a writing day for you, so no need to call me back. I just wanted to say hi and tell you I love you.”
During the pandemic, my mother’s voice often sounded weary.
“Well, Cathy, I can’t tell what day it is. I’ve turned my phone on, but I still can’t tell. I really wish I could see you. Can you call and let me know what’s up? I’ll leave my phone on.”
My siblings and I saw a drastic decline in her health as she approached her 80th birthday. A picture window separated us that August day as we toasted her with Champagne and pressed our palms to hers behind the glass.
On Oct. 12, 2020, she slipped away, one day after we’d finally convinced the nursing staff to allow us inside for a visit.
I haven’t yet listened to her last unopened voicemail from Sept. 26, 2020, and I’m not sure that I want to. After I listen to the 40 or so messages that remain, perhaps I’ll leave the last one unopened.
I can’t think of a lovelier surprise than to be walking or shopping and suddenly get a gentle reminder that it’s time to listen to a voicemail from my mother.