I stepped into the yard, small mason jar in one hand, clippers in the other. I held the jar next to the flowers, figuring out where I should cut, and which I should cut. A friend was making dinner, and I wanted the perfect combination of “thank you,” “here is a tiny manifestation of beauty for you,” and “isn’t nature glorious?”
Automattic is home to two excellent publications, Longreads and Atavist. Longreads recently celebrated its 15th anniversary, and Atavist recently celebrated its 150th issue. Both huge milestones in publishing!
The teams celebrated in New York City with public readings and private parties. When they shared the recap, I noticed one of the giveaways from the evening was a Moleskin notebook with the phrase, “Every good story starts with a blank page.” on the cover. This resonated so much. I love a good story. I love a good notebook. The blank page excites me with the idea of so many possibilities. I commented on their recap, and a few days later, I received an unexpected package. Upon opening it, I found a few of these books! I squealed with delight. So many stories waiting to be written!
June was a month of fireflies, bears, birthdays, books, friends, and long days outside on the lake and in the garden. As the month ends, my heart is bursting with gratitude.
I’m not sure when the tradition started. Definitely more than 20 years ago. I would come home from California. My sister and her family would come home from Georgia. And we would take a selfie of the three (or more) of us. Sometimes it was Mom, Ashley (my sister) and me. Before Grandma M passed, she would be in pictures as well. Sometimes Ashley’s daughter jumped into the frame.
This was before iPhones and before digital cameras. I would hold the camera out, aim towards our faces, take a few shots, and then hope the photos would be more or less in focus and in frame. We continued this tradition each time we were together, which was often just once a year, or once every couple of years. Most of the photos were of Mom, Ashley, and me.
Sunday I attended my nephew’s college graduation. After the ceremony, I pointed the camera at Ashley and me, tears welling in my eyes. It was the first selfie without Mom in the frame.
I prefer the aisle seat. And I relished the view from the window seat as I flew from Atlanta to Asheville at the day’s end. One day I’d like to bounce on a cloud. To be enveloped by its fluffiness. To be surrounded by soft. To surrender to silence. Maybe that’s not how clouds actually work. But I can dream.
The days themselves aren’t as hard as I thought they would be. It’s the eves that do me in. Maybe it’s the anticipation. Of thinking about the day, of all the past days, of all the memories.
We didn’t often spend Easter together, so I thought perhaps this holiday wouldn’t impact me as much as others, such as Christmas and birthdays. But Easter is synonymous with Dad’s passing. He passed on Palm Sunday, and because it was a busy week for the holy folks, we didn’t hold his celebration of life until Easter Monday. The dates are different each year, yet the season reminds me these were our last days together.
And Mom loved Easter. I gave her a basket each year with treats and lots of chocolate, her favorite. I didn’t keep many of her clothes after she passed. There was a sweater I gave her one Easter, lavender with bunnies on it. She loved to wear that sweater. I kept that one. It’s too small for me; maybe I’ll repurpose it into a scarf. Or maybe I’ll simply pull it out of my drawer and remember how much Mom loved it and smile.
I was invited to a friend’s family get together on Easter eve. It was bustling, NCAA basketball was on the tv, and dozens of guests came throughout the evening. I made little treat boxes for the hosts. It was such a fun, joyful evening, the sadness of anticipation wasn’t dominant. When I got home, I reflected on our favorite Easters and fell asleep very grateful.
It’s my first Saturday home. Alone. I’m crushed by the expanse of free time I now have. What I once dreamed of is now haunting me.
This is what I am doing:
Tears. So many tears.
I told myself in those last weeks that I had already lost Mom. She was unconscious, she couldn’t eat, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t respond. Oh, how wrong I was. The pain of not sitting by her bed, of not holding her hand, of not brushing her hair, is so much more than I anticipated.
It’s been thirteen days since I held her. She was unconscious at the time, breathing what would be her last breaths. And it’s been seventeen days since she held me. Every so often in those last weeks, she would stretch her arms out and attempt to lift herself. Sitting beside her on her hospital bed, I would reach behind her, wrap my arms behind her back, and lift her up. She would pull me in across her chest and hold me, patting my back. I would cry silent tears. Each time, I wondered, was this the last time she would hold me? And then it was.
Maybe I thought that if I didn’t write about it, it wasn’t actually true. That I would be able to drive to East Flat Rock, and she would still be there.
She isn’t.
The funeral home is asking for her obituary. Words fail me. How to sum up a person’s life in mere words? How to capture love in characters and punctuation?
Shortly after her passing, I left Asheville. There were too many memories, too raw. Am I running to? Or running from? Possibly both?
Those last days, I sat by her bed. She never woke. I massaged her arms and legs, assisting her failing heart to circulate blood throughout her body. I sang to her. I played her favorite music. I talked to her. I recounted my favorite memories with her. I did not bring up the less favorite memories. What would be the point? I told her how much I loved her. I told her how much everyone loved her. I thanked her for the gifts she had given me. I prayed. I cursed.
This was not how it was supposed to be. When Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Dad took care of her in their home. I moved back east to support Dad. In my head, the plan was that Mom would pass, and Dad and I would be buddies. Dad then contracted a rare blood cancer, and died months later. Dad was my person. We got each other. We supported each other. We celebrated each other. On his deathbed, Dad asked me to take care of Mom. I was angry. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Dad had showed he loved me; Mom had not. I couldn’t refuse Dad anything. Ever. I said of course I’d take care of Mom.
And I did. I moved her to Asheville. I bought a home for the two of us. When she needed more care, I found a facility that could provide that.
And I came to love her in a way I never had. I have to believe Dad knew what he was asking, and he knew the gift he was giving. By the time Mom passed, I adored her. I adored how she loved on everyone. I adored how she called everyone honey, sweetie. I adored how she smiled, up until she couldn’t. I adored how she wasn’t jaded, and was open to everything.
And now she’s not. Not in this world. Perhaps in the future I will be able to feel her love from beyond. But right now it’s simply a void. A painful, hollow, seemingly never-ending void.
I’ve stayed with Mom round the clock since Monday. A lot of that time has been spent watching her sleep, holding her hand, stroking her hair, or snuggling up to her in the twin hospital bed. Ashley was here for a few days and we sat on either side of her, each holding a hand. For the past 53 hours, she hasn’t awoken. She doesn’t respond to touch. Her limbs are weak and her breathing labored. I play soft music, I sing quietly, I tell her we love her (naming everyone in our family), I tell her it’s okay to let go, I tell her I’m leaving for a bit (and go into the hallway in case she wants to pass alone), I sit silently and watch her breathe, I tell her that Dad’s waiting for her, and I tell her we’ll be just fine.
We’ll eventually be just fine.
I wonder, does she hear these words? Does she sense we’re with her? Is she already in another dimension? Is she in pain? Is she scared? More than anything, I hope she’s at peace.
Mom has become more and more agitated over the past few days. The meds they have for her – morphine, lorazepam, haloperidal – don’t seem to help settle her anymore. Beginning around 5:30 am when the quetiapine that she takes to help with sleep wears off, she attempts to climb out of her hospital bed, not realizing that her brain’s signals don’t quite make it to her legs anymore, and she will simply crumble if she tries to stand. She scoots closer and closer to the edge, til I wake up and see what she’s trying to do. I bounce over, lift her legs, and swivel her hips back onto the bed, then crawl in beside her. I snuggle up and pin her legs in mine, keeping them from drifting towards the edge of the bed. Temporarily. Eventually she wriggles free. She’s determined to be upright, so I roll the geri chair over to her bedside. I help her sit on the edge of the bed, legs swinging off the side. I explain what I’m about to do. “Give me a big hug, Mama. I’m going to lift you up, then we’ll sit in the chair, okay?” I lift her up and she groans. I sit her in the chair and place blankets over her legs before gently reclining her. We roll into the living room and sit in the rays of sun coming through the window. Within a few minutes, her legs are slowly moving to the side of the footrest. She wants up. I gently center her legs on the footrest. She grabs at the air, her arthritic fingers tapping. “Come in!” She yells. “Who’s here, Mama?” She stares at me blankly then closes her eyes again, more in her world than in mine. This cycle goes on, over and over. She becomes more and more agitated each time I move her feet back to the center of the footrest.
She suddenly bolts upright, opens her eyes, and yells, “ICE CREAM!” I can’t stifle the laugh that is rising, and am grateful for the momentary diversion. “Would you like some ice cream, Mama?” She has already leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. “Mm hm…” she mumbles. I bring her an ice cream sandwich, feeding it to her minuscule bite by bite, thankful she is at peace, at least for a bit.
LoriLoo 