Itching to go back outside, as this just may turn out to be
the most exquisite day of weather I’ll ever see, but I need to pause just a
moment to add my thoughts on the day.
I have no pictures of the past, literally. None. So there’s nothing to post in that medium, but I do recall the loss of the one this day is about.
I have no pictures of the past, literally. None. So there’s nothing to post in that medium, but I do recall the loss of the one this day is about.
Mom was a giver, and more, a sacrificer. She did a lot of it, being married to Dad. Not materially; we pretty well had everything we needed and most everything we wanted. But, all that isn’t really the point here. Rather, the point is her genuine willingness to give, something she did both all of her life, and even in her death.
Mom had two sisters, and they all had their Mom well into
their later years. But as Nana declined,
and our family being the kind that would consider farming her out to a facility
the equivalent of stealing a baby’s bottle, it fell to the three of them to
care for her. They did this in turns,
Nana staying at each of their homes for some number of years. I, of course, the clueless dope, didn’t pay
much attention to all of it, just accepting that she was an old person who
would continue to get older. It’s not
that I didn’t care, or didn’t love her – on the contrary, she was an awesome
piece of work to me. But I was too involved
in my sophomoric adventures to really have any idea of what was involved.
Until it was Mom’s turn . .
She had Nana in her final years. A woman in her early 60s taking care of her Mom. The sponge baths. The bed pan. The turning to avoid bed sores. All of it. I saw stuff that might have traumatized some, but my brain-type is the kind that goes clinical in the face of high-stress-we-don’t-have-time-for-emotional-stuff-right-now situations. I’ve driven up on accidents, doing things like running toward a car with the gas filler neck sheared off by a semi, fuel pouring out, and never giving it a first, much less a second, thought. It isn’t bravery; it’s just the mode I get in. With Nana, I was able to watch all this stuff and just accept it as a part of the march of life.
But I don’t think it was that way with Mom or my aunts. When the day came that Nana left us, I was there in the room with her, acting the guide of the three daughters who were facing a horrible prospect. Although all three acted with brave character, it wasn’t at all for them like it was for me. I was able to experience it objectively, not being troubled by the inevitable moment that came shortly as I looked into Nana’s eyes as she died. The moment is still a clear memory, as is the sorrow expressed by the nurse, the only other one in the room, as I had gently disallowed any of her daughters in the room for this part of the journey. This I did because I had already seen that their reaction was quite different from mine.
I believe to this day that Mom came away from those years and that day with a determination that would show in one final act of sacrifice. Coming a number of years later, my sister experienced what some consider an inexplicable revelation that Mom had just died. She was a few miles away, at work, and literally dropped what she was doing and ran out the door to the car without saying a word to anyone. She found Mom at the front door, her little dog Brandy trying to wake her up.
Until it was Mom’s turn . .
She had Nana in her final years. A woman in her early 60s taking care of her Mom. The sponge baths. The bed pan. The turning to avoid bed sores. All of it. I saw stuff that might have traumatized some, but my brain-type is the kind that goes clinical in the face of high-stress-we-don’t-have-time-for-emotional-stuff-right-now situations. I’ve driven up on accidents, doing things like running toward a car with the gas filler neck sheared off by a semi, fuel pouring out, and never giving it a first, much less a second, thought. It isn’t bravery; it’s just the mode I get in. With Nana, I was able to watch all this stuff and just accept it as a part of the march of life.
But I don’t think it was that way with Mom or my aunts. When the day came that Nana left us, I was there in the room with her, acting the guide of the three daughters who were facing a horrible prospect. Although all three acted with brave character, it wasn’t at all for them like it was for me. I was able to experience it objectively, not being troubled by the inevitable moment that came shortly as I looked into Nana’s eyes as she died. The moment is still a clear memory, as is the sorrow expressed by the nurse, the only other one in the room, as I had gently disallowed any of her daughters in the room for this part of the journey. This I did because I had already seen that their reaction was quite different from mine.
I believe to this day that Mom came away from those years and that day with a determination that would show in one final act of sacrifice. Coming a number of years later, my sister experienced what some consider an inexplicable revelation that Mom had just died. She was a few miles away, at work, and literally dropped what she was doing and ran out the door to the car without saying a word to anyone. She found Mom at the front door, her little dog Brandy trying to wake her up.
I am convinced that Mom knew what she was doing in those
final days and hours. She had
diverticulitis, and ailment that is said to mimic the pain of a heart
attack. Because of this, some said that
she mistook one for the other, and didn’t call for help. I don’t think so. I believe Mom was tired, a long life behind
her that she was ready to release. And I
also believe, not that she killed herself, of course, but that she “died”
herself. I think she knew exactly what
she was doing, the memory of what she had to endure with her Mom clearly in
mind, determining to spare her own children the anguish of what she knew.
There, by the front door, came the time of just one more sacrifice.
There, by the front door, came the time of just one more sacrifice.
Mom, I might argue with your timing. But not with your reasoning. Thank you for an exemplary life in so many of
your ways. I’m sorry for the occasions
when you probably had more to drink than you might have otherwise had because
of a son that never lived inside the pattern set by decency. But you can trust that I remember your giving
ways . .
