Well.
We are alone at last, and it feels very strange. Everything seemed to happen so fast.
On July 30, when I went in to spend the day with my mother, she was on oxygen and looking very blue. I had already arranged for the hospice admissions nurse to come by but she looked so terrible that I texted my sister and my two cousins to share my fears. One cousin, S, lives here, and she was with me in less than an hour. She stayed all day with me, right through getting Mother on hospice. S had worked for the Veterans Administration's hospitals her entire professional life plus her step-mother suffered dementia and both she and S's dad had died in the care of hospice, so she was extremely helpful.
That Tuesday afternoon, while meeting with the hospice nurse and Mother's doctor, I called my sister, K. S was still there, and we had a conference about what would happen next. K asked when she should come out; Mother's doctor said, "You'd have a better visit if you come sooner than later." And K was here the next morning. Her wife, P, flew in on Friday morning, August 2.
So K had several days with Mother, and P had two. I went in with them, and Webster came on Saturday, August 3. We spent most of the day with Mother and she was delighted. She ate a little bit, she wanted to sit in her wheelchair for a little while, and she kept saying, This is a great day. This is a great day.
We left around 2:30 to have a late lunch with S and her husband, then K and P went back to spend another hour with Mother.
That morning, August 4, we got a call from hospice that Mother had died at 2:35am. I was shocked. How could I be shocked? But I was. Mother kept pulling out of these bad spells and I guess I was convinced she would pull out again. She always did before.
But not this time. We all got up and drove to her assisted living facility, where we spent a few minutes with her. My sister and husband were a little hesitant at first but afterwards we were all glad we had gone.
When we got to my car, the battery was dead. At four in the morning. I called AAA and they said they would be there in four hours. P suggested we call the facility's security and sure enough they gave us a jump so we could get home. AAA came later that morning and put in a new battery. But really, four hours? At 4am?
Things got busy after that: the mortuary, cemetary, the obituary, as much paperwork as buying a house . . . Mother had always been very clear that she didn't want a funeral or graveside service of any kind, but we did talk her into a party, so that's what we did. On Friday, August 9, we threw a party for her. Because my sister lived here for thirteen years and held so many parties that always included Mother, her friends remembered her and all came. It was a full house. Our cousin S and her husband were here early and stayed late to help clean up. So much food, so much drink, and I had filled the house with red roses and red carnations -- red because it was the color she could best see.
K and P were supposed to return to Hawaii yesterday afternoon, so we spent a relaxed morning and then drove them to the airport. Webster and I came home via a mall where we stopped to walk and have a bite to eat. While we were there, K texted me: their flight had been delayed four hours. I asked her if we should come get her but she said no. After we got home, she texted to say it had been delayed another three hours. They talked to the airline's customer service people and learned it would probably be canceled, so we drove back to the airport and brought them back home. We had a quiet evening eating leftovers, and K and I made a special cocktail (a cherry alexander). This morning I dropped them at the airport again; right now they are about an hour out from the island.
So for the first time in almost two weeks the house is empty. But more than that, Mother isn't here. It feels so odd, knowing that I don't have anywhere to be on Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday. How is that possible? I have all these beautiful flowers but Mother won't see them.
Not sure how to end this. She's gone, she will be missed, I'll go on for a while and then I'll be gone, too.
Mother was 95 years old, 96 in November. She had an amazing life. I have so much respect and love for her. I will never stop missing her.
I found this poem on Tumblr and then someone posted it on Great Poets on LJ. I really really like it; maybe you will, too. It seems to fit right now.
Small Kindnesses
by Danusha Laméris
I've been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say "bless you"
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. "Don't die," we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don't want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here,
have my seat," "Go ahead -- you first," "I like your hat."
On July 30, when I went in to spend the day with my mother, she was on oxygen and looking very blue. I had already arranged for the hospice admissions nurse to come by but she looked so terrible that I texted my sister and my two cousins to share my fears. One cousin, S, lives here, and she was with me in less than an hour. She stayed all day with me, right through getting Mother on hospice. S had worked for the Veterans Administration's hospitals her entire professional life plus her step-mother suffered dementia and both she and S's dad had died in the care of hospice, so she was extremely helpful.
That Tuesday afternoon, while meeting with the hospice nurse and Mother's doctor, I called my sister, K. S was still there, and we had a conference about what would happen next. K asked when she should come out; Mother's doctor said, "You'd have a better visit if you come sooner than later." And K was here the next morning. Her wife, P, flew in on Friday morning, August 2.
So K had several days with Mother, and P had two. I went in with them, and Webster came on Saturday, August 3. We spent most of the day with Mother and she was delighted. She ate a little bit, she wanted to sit in her wheelchair for a little while, and she kept saying, This is a great day. This is a great day.
We left around 2:30 to have a late lunch with S and her husband, then K and P went back to spend another hour with Mother.
That morning, August 4, we got a call from hospice that Mother had died at 2:35am. I was shocked. How could I be shocked? But I was. Mother kept pulling out of these bad spells and I guess I was convinced she would pull out again. She always did before.
But not this time. We all got up and drove to her assisted living facility, where we spent a few minutes with her. My sister and husband were a little hesitant at first but afterwards we were all glad we had gone.
When we got to my car, the battery was dead. At four in the morning. I called AAA and they said they would be there in four hours. P suggested we call the facility's security and sure enough they gave us a jump so we could get home. AAA came later that morning and put in a new battery. But really, four hours? At 4am?
Things got busy after that: the mortuary, cemetary, the obituary, as much paperwork as buying a house . . . Mother had always been very clear that she didn't want a funeral or graveside service of any kind, but we did talk her into a party, so that's what we did. On Friday, August 9, we threw a party for her. Because my sister lived here for thirteen years and held so many parties that always included Mother, her friends remembered her and all came. It was a full house. Our cousin S and her husband were here early and stayed late to help clean up. So much food, so much drink, and I had filled the house with red roses and red carnations -- red because it was the color she could best see.
K and P were supposed to return to Hawaii yesterday afternoon, so we spent a relaxed morning and then drove them to the airport. Webster and I came home via a mall where we stopped to walk and have a bite to eat. While we were there, K texted me: their flight had been delayed four hours. I asked her if we should come get her but she said no. After we got home, she texted to say it had been delayed another three hours. They talked to the airline's customer service people and learned it would probably be canceled, so we drove back to the airport and brought them back home. We had a quiet evening eating leftovers, and K and I made a special cocktail (a cherry alexander). This morning I dropped them at the airport again; right now they are about an hour out from the island.
So for the first time in almost two weeks the house is empty. But more than that, Mother isn't here. It feels so odd, knowing that I don't have anywhere to be on Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday. How is that possible? I have all these beautiful flowers but Mother won't see them.
Not sure how to end this. She's gone, she will be missed, I'll go on for a while and then I'll be gone, too.
Mother was 95 years old, 96 in November. She had an amazing life. I have so much respect and love for her. I will never stop missing her.
I found this poem on Tumblr and then someone posted it on Great Poets on LJ. I really really like it; maybe you will, too. It seems to fit right now.
Small Kindnesses
by Danusha Laméris
I've been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say "bless you"
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. "Don't die," we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don't want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here,
have my seat," "Go ahead -- you first," "I like your hat."