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My Last Week with Mom
by Judith Baldwin
December 21, 1997
 Today my
mother left this world.
 The thought slams through my mind with such impact I can feel
it collapse onto my chest. My whole body strains to get a hold on the realization. Tears
sting my eyes, spill over and careen haphazardly down my cheeks, dripping from my chin
until my heart feels saturated, unable to absorb another feelings.
Desperately, I take mental notes, wanting to somehow mark this
day apart from all others. It is the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. I
notice how the sun has withdrawn into the sky, becoming dull and muted. How big the
horizon seems, broad beyond my reach, but empty, so empty. Nothing feels important; the
entire world is unimportant.
Only one thing matters: she is gone. I feel where she used to
be, and it is vacant now. She is not here.
My plane reservations were made well before fall became
winter. It’s never too early to purchase tickets for holiday travel. The plan was to
visit Mom and Dad the week before Christmas, then I’d be home in time for last minute
preparations. It was a good plan. My beloved parents, aging but no less dear, were not to
be abandoned during their first Christmas out of their home of 45 years.
Since their move to an assisted living environment, we four
siblings wanted Mom and Dad to be assured of our love. Our family bonds were not loosened
by the onset of our own middle age. So we peppered the seasons with duly spaced
visitations, in turn making certain at least one of us was often with them. I would be
replaced by a sister who would come the day after Christmas, and she would be followed by
another sister, and so on until the holidays had passed happily.
It was the best we could do since none of us lived nearer to
them than 300 miles.
December 1, Day One
The crises were already underway when I arrived at their apartment. Mom was in her
wheel chair, eyes at half mast, head sagging, covered with purple black bruises. Close by
Dad hovered attempting to be useful.
"What happened?" I wanted to know.
"I fell again Friday night. I didn’t want to tell
you because you get so upset."
"Oh, Mom!" I sighed, feeling her shame over a body
grown hopelessly disabled. Ever more inoperative, tortured by chronic pain, her body had
become a merciless imprisonment. Not only were her arms and hands clawed and crippled by
arthritis, her legs could no longer support her.
Not more than an hour later, when I was attempting to help her
into bed, the extent of her limitations became all too apparent. After much effort we
secured her place on the bed, but she couldn’t sustain it and began a non-stop slide
to the floor. Struggling to prevent the inevitable, the best I could do was slow the pace
of her fall.
Terrified and panicked, she lay sprawled on the floor. Never
before have I seen my mother in such a state. Crying piteously and pleading for help, her
screams exposed her terrible dread of more pain, more injury and more indignity. Fear was
preeminent in that room that evening, and suffering was its byproduct.
Much later, when both Mom and Dad were safely bedded down,
after the emergency interventions needed to hoist Mom from the floor, after her anguish
over the gross indignities of her disability, and after the terrorizing clutches of her
heart in seizure, I raged. I cursed. I slung diatribes at a god who would permit such
suffering to overwhelm two of his faithful.
Exhausted and spent, I wept myself dry. Finally I prayed,
eventually giving myself and my mother over to the care of Spirit, the Comforter.
December 16, Day Two
The next
morning I was anxious to get back to their apartment. My body knew things my mind refused
to accept, and by the time I arrived I was nervous, feeling what I did not want to know.
Mom was sprawled across the bed, surrounded by medical staff,
and Dad was pacing nearby. The moment I saw her my breath froze on the intake. Something
was very wrong. Her face was swollen into a featureless mask. Her breathing was ragged and
grasping. Her eyes unseeing were as glassy as the bottom of a Coke bottle. Her speech was
muddled but I could feel her pleading, though for what I wasn’t sure.
The storm trooper in me surfaced before I could contain her,
and she demanded decisive immediate action. To her the casual attitude of those who
hovered was intolerable. Get the oxygen, get the ambulance, and get Mom to the hospital.
So it was that Dad and I followed along, and he in his stroke-induced innocence
tentatively began to give voice to the unspeakable: "Is Mom going to die?" I
knew he wanted assurance but in that moment I was scarcely able to offer it. All his
planning had presumed he would be the first to go. There was no receptor site in him for
the alternative. Though those in attendance did not indicate Mom was critical, we were on
our way to the emergency room.
Outwardly I took the stance that this was just another crisis
in Mom’s long medical history. But inwardly I could hear the faint though insistent
bells of alarm hinting at what was to come. They called me to attention urging me to stay
alert.
By now Dad and I were moving as a unit, his frailty and my
bravado in sync. However, when my son joined us at the hospital and gently embraced Dad, I
was free to expose my vulnerability. From then on Chuck’s hand seldom left him.
Blessed relief came and went and came again. Is this want it means to be a family? I
noticed people noticing us. Perhaps they too felt it, that ineffable "something"
that signals here there is love.
At the hospital we were swept along the well ordered stream of
care so practiced and ordinary to those who administer it. It was this ordinariness of
crises, so taken for granted by the personnel, that was somehow both comforting and
irritating. Parts of me felt anesthetized while my nerves remained acutely suspicious and
agitated. Accustomed as I am to altered states, this was in a class by itself. Even as my
mind limped and hobbled through the hours of waiting that weigh so heavily and feel so
ineffectual, there were multiple me’s. I zoomed toward solutions and limped around
obstacles. Simultaneously I was a cripple and an adept. It was totally unreasonable and
absolutely real.
Hour after hour we sat vigil. There were moments when I
wondered at the ghoulishness of our relentless focus on Mom’s every breath. Though
she was riding a wave of improvement we lingered overlong, waiting for the medical powers
that be to proclaim something. Eventually it was decided she would be put in the cardiac
care unit.
Bedazzled by emergency room drama, we were worn to a nervous
patina. We were hungry for encouragement and desperate for release from our stultifying
watch. Plus, Mom needed a rest from our incessant vigilance. So when she and the staff
encouraged us to go home, we did finally agree. Already she was retaking her position as
the family’s major-domo of well being. Over dinner we feebly celebrate Mom’s
rally. True to fifty-eight years of honoring her as the centerspoke in his life’s
wheel, Dad dreams of things yet to be.
Surely the emergency room is the great stage of pathos, and
the womb for many of life’s inscrutable lessons. It is at once spiritually stunning
and egoistically humbling; one moment uplifted, the next plummeted to deepest, darkest
fear. Until there comes a point when helplessness is so exquisitely numbing that one
invariably succumbs to a childlike state of unreasonable trust, in everything, including
but not only, God. Where once ther ewas other, there is here only one, all fellows in
feelings.
This night I pray, truly.
December
17, Day Three
Up and churning, Dad, Chuck and I, our hearts sluggish with trepidation, arrive at the
cardiac care unit and find Mom punctured and enveloped by machinery, her face turned
grotesque by a mask so large it clutches her from forehead to chin. Clinging to her face
with a suction fierce enough to draw welts, its purpose is to force oxygen into lungs
prone to filling with fluid. The pulmonary specialist insists she will need to spend
multiple hours per day thus engulfed until on her own she can successfully rid her system
of the buildup of CO2 which threatens her life.
Clearly the mask is not only uncomfortable but frightening.
Unable to talk because of its grasp and the pressure of the exaggerated oxygen flow, she
is weepy and pleading for relief. For her, every minute trapped within the bite of this
thing is intolerable. For me witnessing Mom’s growing despondency is a long look at
hell.
I have sat with Mom through a number of medical invasions. She
was always a brave soldier, not given to shrinking from procedures necessary to improve
her condition. But this was different. She is reduced to whimpering and begging with eyes
that say "too much, too much."
I don’t know who cries first, but her salty taste of
despair mingles with my bitter taste of fear. "Don’t cry! Don’t cry!"
warns the nurse. Tears are verboten while this menace of a machine is busy force
breathing. "Tears plug the nose and hinder the breathing. No tears. Save them till
later." So for the convenience of the machine, we hold back by refusing to look at
one another.
Later, leaning close to shield her, I hold her hand and
whisper, "Are you afraid?"
Without hesitation she nods, "Yes."
The significance of her ready admission is not wasted on me
and we stay connected a long minute. Never before has Mom admitted to being afraid. Now my
eyes say "too much, too much."
The day plods along, and in typical Mom fashion she emerges
triumphant. "The machine" has done its job and she’s more herself,
everyone’s bon vivant, everyone’s friend, the amenable patient. But her dread of
the next breathing session is thinly veiled. Twenty minutes free of it is too short a
surcease from its two-hour clutch, even for this stalwart fighter.
In the midst of Mom’s brief return to selfhood, the
attending physician, a tallish, youngish, soft spoken man of just the right measure of
humor, honesty and mercy introduces himself. He has questions which only she must answer.
Answer she does, with the aplomb and clarity of one who knows full well what is being
asked.
"Do you have a living will? Do you know what it means? Do
you still wish to follow it if you would slip into an extreme crisis or death threatening
situation? Do you want us to use invasive measures to prolong your life?"
Out of the corner of my eye I see Dad grimace. His lips
tighten in resolve as he crosses his arms tightly against his chest – to hold
together a heart that breaks apart with each question and answer.
Inside I’m a quaking stick figure. This term, living
will, so bandied about in non-critical times, now has the impact of a sledge hammer. Can
this be pertinent? Must we think of this? My heart, my mind, my body want to bolt and run
away from this discussion. Anything but this!
I watch Mom closely. She is calm, a pillar of crystalline
certainty. My down to earth, practical, funny Mom is elegant. My soul sways to the rhythm
of her composure, while my heart shudders over what she is saying. Firmly she states for
the record, "No. I do not want those measures. If that happens, just let that person
sleep away."
My nightly report to my sisters and brother is conflicted. The
believing part of me wants to maintain that Mom will emerge healed. Yet the knowing part
gently whispers it is time to bow to her soul plans.
In spite of exhaustion, sleep is slow in coming. My mind is
filled with Mom, and I become a spiritual voyeur, watching her spirit as it moves in and
out of her body. She tests the road ahead, deciding whether to stay or to go. There must
be angels of mercy who attend we who must release those we love, because they come to me.
December 18, Day Four
Awakening
suddenly, my eyes spring wide open. An inner wariness shouts "Be prepared!"
Mom’s had a rough night. She looks ragged and worn. Increasingly she resents the mask
and resists wearing it. It’s unusual for her to stand against doctor’s orders.
She’s of the old school, doctors being second only to gods. I catch her nurse’s
eye and silently ask "What’s happening?" Raised eyebrows are her answer.
More overt now, I openly ask the nurse, "Should I tell my
sisters and brother to come?" In the past whenever Mom has overheard this question
she answers "noooo." This time she says nothing. There are clangers, claxons and
sirens going off in my head. Something is very wrong indeed.
No one is putting up any obvious resistance to my question.
Warning! Warning! Warning!
My mouth is chalk dry as I let the significance of this
non-resistance sink in. Some bit of grace holds me tenuously in check as I mentally reach
toward gathering the family. As if on cue, in comes the attending physician. Yet again he
wants to review the fine points of living wills. Part of me wants to "xxxxx"
this out of my mind and make it disappear. Once more Mom rises to impeccable self
accountability. In answer to the doctor’s questions, she repeats. "No. I
don’t want that. If that happens just let that person sleep away."
The subtlety of her answer seeps through the gravel in my
mind. Who is this person she will "just let sleep away?"
Now I can no longer silence the inner voice. I’m putting
out the call. Everybody come home – right away. We all must be here. I don’t
want to be alone with my fear.
There are more calls to make. I must alert my Mom’s two
surviving sisters. Theirs is a bond so dear I can scarcely imagine the jolt my call will
give them.
"Should we come?"
"Yes, I think so."
Right away my most devout aunt broaches a subject important to
her. Has Mom had the last rites. She wants to make sure Mom has all the advantages of
spiritual preparedness. My god! I don’t know if she has, I hadn’t thought to
ask. One more stab at my already scarred soul; such questions are not for the weak of
heart.
That afternoon in answer to my query about Last Rites, Sister
Donna comes to visit. "Yes indeed." Mom has received the Catholic sacrament for
the time of death, the last two times she was hospitalized. The cosmic humor of Mom’s
extravagant spiritual readiness moves gently through me, as soft and fragrant as essence
of rose in warm bath water. Sister Donna bears additional gifts. "Could she sing a
song for Mom?"
Oh my. Well sure, why not? Without the least hesitation
Sister’s voice, as pure and sweet as any angelic choir, fills the room…
"and He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own…"
The dam of my emotional reserve breaks, quiet sobs spilling
with the on rush. Sister’s voice soars, filling the space with simple faith. Without
fanfare grace moves through the room, and Mom is transformed. Where before her face was
pinched with pain, it now is smooth and shining. She is quieted in the way only holiness
can effect. She lays there, a slight smile on what is now the beatific face of a madonna.
Not long after, Mom’s sisters and brother-in-law arrive.
These dear people have been mainstays in her overlong journey through chronic illness. In
fact, they have spent much of their lives together, sisters marrying brothers, birthing,
living and dying within reach of one another. Of course, by now Mom is rallying again and
is lively and engaging for them. Still there is no fooling these people. They see the
difference in her and one sister breaks down and pleads with Mom not to go.
Too much, too much!
Just as the family makes ready to leave, gathering outside
Mom’s room, here comes the doctor, again to pose in still greater detail his earlier
questions. Now Mom’s sisters want to have a say in what measures should be taken. One
of them wants several life prolonging measures to be taken.
That night Mom’s nurse lovingly but thoroughly describes
how invasive life saving interventions can be. "If it were my mother I would want her
to die with dignity, asking only that she be kept comfortable." The forthrightness of
this nurse spares us much turmoil and anguish. Now we are able to support wholeheartedly
Mom’s choices for no interventions.
Into the wee hours of the night, we three sisters sit vigil
for Mom. I wonder, how often through the ages have women gathered like this to ease the
passing of "Mother." Was this what Mom and her sisters did when Grandma passed?
For a moment I felt a thread of connection to women around campfires, women in temples,
women in caves, huts, houses and palaces, all sitting vigil for Mother.
Mom always loved being a part of our all-girl gatherings.
She’d stay up until her chin fell to her breast, and only then begrudgingly going to
bed with one ear cocked toward our conversation. Invariably she’d awaken hours later
to find us still talking, and she couldn’t resist getting back up and rejoining us.
Oh what we’d give to have her with us now.
December
19, Day Five
We strain to get to Mom early and when we file into her room what we find shocks us.
During the night Mom refuses the mask and fights to prevent its invasion, striking a nurse
in the struggle. Now her wrists are held by restraints. Over and over she attempts to tell
us through the mask that it makes her feel like she’s suffocating. Weeping, befuddled
and pathetic, she’s strapped down with the bedeviled mask crushing her face. To find
her this way thrashes my frail hopes, and an onerous weight insinuates itself around my
heart. Its foreboding is as brittle as ice on a bare branch.
With a united effort we gain her release from the mask and the
straps. Eyes wide with disbelief, she whispers "They hurt me."
How much more, how much more?
Yet again she defies the unlikely. Free of the mask, her
spirits improve and she relaxes into a light sleep. When she awakens, she’s rallied
just in time for our brother to arrive. Now her brood is whole and gathered around her. We
are of one mind as we lovingly bend to her, hoping that our reunion will rescue her from
the brink of… what?
Deep inside I feel an irreconcilable yearning to hold onto
her, to restrain her from moving inexorably towards something, and away from everything
else. Less and less interested in food, all she wants are liquids to ease the dryness
brought on by the mask. There is much less of her here than only a few days ago. Even with
us she’s less involved, present though not fully engaged. Every minute produces
another contradiction. It’s as though the more she withdraws the clearer she gets. In
spite of her growing desperation over the mask, she’s definitely more quiet, less
concerned, and yes, more peaceful somehow.
Without words, we four "kids" begin to seriously
question the wisdom of the mask. Inside doubts run a useless race with reason. We want her
alive, and we want her comfortable, not tortured. When the doctor makes his afternoon
visit we get to the point with our questions. "What are the advantages of the mask?
How much longer does Mom need to wear it? Can she live without it?"
He has no idea how she will respond without it, but he
dismally predicts a long, if not indefinite, stay in an acute care nursing unit, attached
to the mask a good part of the day and night. Then this new information: essentially the
mask is a respirator without the tube.
What!? No one’s ever made this comparison. Mental note:
this feels like an "oh, by the way" statement. In counseling sessions the
counselor stays alert for statements which follow "oh by the way," as these are
frequently the most important and revealing, and usually presented as an afterthought. The
room pulses with the glare of light bulbs turning on in everyone’s head.
Our voices soft, we translate this information for Mom and
Dad. Dad’s still hugging his heart while Mom takes it all in. Usually quick to have
something to say, she is contemplative, in a place where only the angels can go.
The doctor is back on the hour. Now he gets directly to the
point. If the mask is not worn, death could occur. He is not saying it will occur for he
is not God. But without the mask it could be difficult to breathe and this could
precipitate death. He makes no predictions nor pronouncements; it’s all possibilities
and probabilities. Now he goes through a litany of questions so confrontive they cannot be
misconstrued. "In case of the threat of death, do you want electric shock with heart
paddles? Do you want CPR? Do you want vasodilators? Do you want a tube down your throat to
help you breathe?" And we add: do you want the mask?
Mom listens attentively without interrupting. Nothing stirs in
the room. No eyes blink, faces are frozen, caught between anticipation and dread. It is
utterly still.
Moments pass until Mom looks directly at the doctor and
calmly, slowly tells him "No. I do not want any of those."
"But you could die without them."
"Just let that person sleep away." Is she that
separate from her physical self already?
She knows. She’s not pretending she doesn’t
understand what this means. She’s absolutely aware of every implication. We, however,
stifle any further reckoning with such dread thoughts.
"Please God, don’t make my watch my Mom gasp for
every breath before she dies" becomes a mantra I repeat endlessly in my mind.
Long into the night we sibs sit in the living room of the
house we grew up in. Revisiting the past, probing the future and relishing the present.
All four of us, and just the four of us, together after so long. Something very precious,
delicate as pastel blooms, encourages honesty and revelation. We are aware of
"it," and speak joyfully of the fullness of these hours. Totally open with each
other, we wear no masks, harbor no withholds, and keep no secrets. Like lovers in the
throes of newness, we are intimate and sweet in our innocence. It is a beautiful, holy
night.
This is Mom’s gift to us, the choreography of her soul as
mother, the dance for we who issued from her womb. Thanking her from our deepest heart, we
acknowledge her splendor; and the richness of her spirit is upon us.
December 20, Day Six
It’s
decided now. The mask is to be removed. No codes will be called if there is a sudden or
drastic downturn in her condition. This means there is no need to keep her on heart and
blood pressure monitors so she will no longer be in cardiac care. She is to be moved to a
regular room upstairs, away from the tension of the critical units. Unperturbed, she
places herself in the care of the Divine. Smiling through my tears, I am humbled by her
faith.
Though still not unmasked, by the afternoon she is positively
glowing. In spite of the stifling obstruction of the mask, she speaks right through it to
each of us about our childhood. So typical of her, she is teasing and lighthearted. Then
in a moment of sudden and utter gut-bending knowing, I realize she is saying her
good-byes. Eyes twinkling, she continues, mentioning each grandchild and her great
granddaughter by name. Dad, too, recognizes what is happening and tries to stave off her
farewells. She does not falter, she is thanking him for their years together and the
generosity of his spirit.
When she is complete to her satisfaction, unmistakably she has
relinquished another measure of her place in this world. By the time the respiratory
therapist removes the mask, Mom is no longer bothered by it. She is already free.
Nonetheless, this generous therapist opens her heart to us by
adding her confirmation of Mom’s decision.
Exquisitely candid, she informs us of the overwhelming
aggressiveness of this machine. In training she was required to experience the mask that
she be familiar with what patients must endure. However, in class the setting on the
machine is five times less than what Mom has been enduring. Even so, she describes it as a
most terrible and intolerable experience. Without hesitation, she emphatically states her
unwillingness to submit a loved one to such treatment.
Much as spring breezes revitalize the winter wilt, a pervasive
freshness restores our souls. Especially Mom’s. Mom without the mask is reborn. More
herself than in many, many months, she is lively and even sprightly with her own brand of
down-to-earth humor. What a blessing to have her back – for even the briefest of
visits.
Quite spontaneously she announces she feels no pain. Mom has
not been pain-free, not even for a few minutes, for a very long time. This is astounding!
Proud of her newfound physical prowess, she is lifting her legs high off the bed. Her
hands have unfurled and she is able to wiggle her fingers. How can this be? Who cares? We
all join in her celebration of freedom and witness her miracle.
Consistent in his timing, the doctor is here to check on her
condition. He makes not mention of her release from pain, only repeats without preamble
what he earlier made clear. This time it feels almost like a warning. "Without the
mask, things may not be so easy. You could become very short of breath and have a very
difficult time breathing."
Mom is listening intently and hasn’t taken her eyes from
his face. She doesn’t rush her answer. Instead, she smiles and draws from some deep
inner certainty, and twinkling with unexplainable merriment, says: "Yes, but I might
not."
Bowing to a greater authority, and gently smiling in return,
the doctor has nothing more to say. It is complete.
My heart marks the moment, while my mind attempts to turn away
from it. Mercifully, both become uniformly anesthetized. As if on cue, a short time later,
Mom becomes unsettled as though she can'’ find a restful spot in her body. After a
while, like she has so many times in the past, she sends us away that she can stop
engaging. "You go on home now, it’s getting late."
Reluctantly we agree, but only after being assured by her
nurse that should any change occur, she will immediately rouse us.
This night we do not convene to visit or chatter and rather go
to our rooms in silence. Though no one issues a specific verbal alarm, I feel an intense
need to be alone with my prayers.
The next hours are not easy on my soul. Trying to ignore the
plans she has made with God, I cling to her, needy, gulping and gasping through tears of
farewell. I know the immaturity of my desire to keep her here, but at this moment I am her
child, and little more. When I can no longer sustain my battle with egoism, I surrender
and concede to her soul’s will. Even so, achingly I worry: "Will you still
remember me as your daughter? When you have moved far beyond personality to wholeness,
will you still be my Mom?" In spite of all my spiritual readiness, nothing has
prepared me for the power and the paradox of this kind of letting go.
Spent, exhausted, and numbed into oblivion, I sleep somewhere
beyond dreams. When the phone rings, I am half jolted and half expectant. I have not idea
what time it is but fear leaps into my throat like a clod of dried bread and I fight not
to expect the worst.
December
21, Day Seven
It’s 6:45 a.m. I’m moving now as though in a timelapsed movie, scarcely
connecting with the ground. The nurse says to come. Mom is having some trouble breathing,
though she is still asleep, and has slept soundly all through the night. I can’t make
anything happen fast enough to satisfy my inner urgency to get to her.
The morning is glorious. Just as we near the hospital, the sun
brilliant, enormous and golden beyond imagination, crests the hilltops. Immediately my
mind flashes on Mom and holds there.
Waiting for us in the hall outside Mom’s room, simply and
tenderly, the nurse meets us. "She’s already gone."
How can this be? In the fifteen minutes between the
nurse’s call to us and her last rounds before finishing her shift, Mom "just
sleeps away."
As to the how, and when of its leaving, her soul knew
perfectly well its plan for departure.
Through the glaze and blur of my tears I watch Mom’s body
in its stillness, not yet empty of all life essence. She’s beautiful lying there,
patient with our yearnings to delay her on the journey. After so much pain, it’s
miraculous to see her face without grimace or question. In the grace of her acceptance,
she gives me courage. I reach to her spirit, careful not to call her back, yet eager for a
lingering connection. Then I pray her fully into the Light.
We stay until the end, when the last particles of her light
filter away. At last I simply say "It’s time to go."
There is a moment of utter confusion, when I don’t know
where to go. In the past I’ve always gone toward Mom. Now I must stand aside, and let
her pass, as she gives herself unreservedly over to What comes next. Turning for a last
farewell, I see the radiance of her spiritual youth regained. And I who would release her
am released.
As my brother and I drive away from the hospital, I can’t
help wondering aloud.
"What do you think she’s doing now?"
Without a heartbeat’s hesitation: "She’s
walking!" Tears and laughter are indeed a lusty mix.
Afterthoughts
Practical
in life and elegant in leaving it. Mom’s death was a rugged and holy affair. On the
first day she struggled. On the second day she went beyond struggle. On the third day she
rallied. On the fourth she faltered. On the fifth she overcame. On the sixth she
transformed. And on the seventh day, she rested; and it was good.
For me there were moments so ripe, so pregnant, that passing
through them gave birth to a new, more compassionate, me. It was in those corridors
between time and space, where Mom traveled, that I undertook one of the most profound
initiations of my life. Relieved of the dross of spiritual pomposity I resurrected into
the humility of a crone, at last peaceful as she was.
It is utterly, wonderfully, amazingly flawless that my Mom,
whom in the haze of my spiritual self involvement I had presumed to judge as "not so
very spiritual," would by her death, carry and deliver me to re-birth. By her death
she bore me through the mists of uncertainty to the numinous experience of Life beyond
life. As she lifted herself beyond the grasp of earthly trifles, I too was lifted.
I still feel the tremors and aftershocks from the earthquake
of emotional rending as the world without Mom rearranges itself. I too continue to
rearrange myself. I know nothing will ever again be the same; nor would I attempt to make
it so. My inner conversation with Mom is regular and sweetly simply. Most
everything’s been said.
"Thank you, Mom. I will always love you. Until we meet
again…"
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