My Greality: 2012

Today as I sit in the hospice room with my mother, listening to the quiet hum of her oxygen machine, I realize she is once again taking me on a journey to the unknown. Her hands rest gently along her side, her fingers starting to curl inward. Inward seems to be the place she is residing in her mind as well. We are listening to her favorite gospel music and the halls are silent. It’s a lovely hushed instant, just the two of us. I have come here every morning since I got the call from my sister that she had only a few days on this earth. I come with trepidation and apprehension because the unknown is a forbidding place to dwell. As the minutes tick by, I realize feeling uninformed sometimes becomes a blessing because I let God’s will prevail. All of this is out of my control, there is nothing to fix, I cannot change the course and I am certainly not in charge. Who would have thought I would be so close to heaven while existing in humanity. Her journey tests my will, my faith and my courage. She in a split second guides me to a place of great magnificence and grace with her mumbled words of wisdom. We, in our limited communication as her thoughts come jumbled to her, talk about her visions and her short excursions to other worldly places. She tells me of her mother who is present and explaining to her that God will come for her soon and when he does, her mother will be there to go with her. Her brow furrows as she asks me if I think she should go. Tears trickle down my cheeks, knowing there is a difference between what I want to say and what she needs to hear. I whisper “Yes, you should go”. I explain I will stay here as she departs but will join her soon. She assures me that she will save me a place and be there for me when it is time. Peace flushes across her face again and she is calm. She gently closes her eyes and smiles. An instant or an eternity, I don’t know which, she turns her head towards mine and her eyes once again open, focused and gleaming she whispers, “Oh, it’s bigger than beautiful.” She closes her eyes again as a chill runs through me. I have glimpsed just a corner of heaven rarely seen by others. What a wonderful gift I have received in the last place on earth I would have ever imagined. My family pours in around me, arriving to start our vigil for the day. I cannot describe in words what I have experienced and although I try, I realize that it was souvenir for me to bestow and savior. I open my heart to the possibility that my mother’s last days will become the most memorable and maybe the finest days we shared. Unexpected for sure and if I let it, a breathtaking miracle. I hunger for additional words, encouraging her with my own questions, but she slips back to silent unconsciousness that is deafening. My sisters chatter about hospital terms, oxygen levels, breathing patterns and urine output and I realize my miracle is coming to a close.

I spent the whole day reminiscing about my mom with all my family. My niece and nephew are present. Brother-in-laws, daughter and her boyfriend share in the storytelling. My dad lingers in the background already exhausted from the care giving he has endured for the past seven years. His eyes are fatigued and there is a slight slump in his shoulders. The love of his life lies a few feet away in the last days of her life and I wonder what he must be thinking. Being a man of silence, I may never know but I see his love when he gently strokes her hair and calls her baby. He will miss her but longs for her release from this world of pain and suffering. It’s a predicament, this hoping and pining for a different ending and the knowledge that God’s love will deliver her from her sorrow and anguish. I pray for peace for him in these last days and squeeze his hand so he knows I know.

As I leave the nursing home, I wonder if her journey will continue tonight without me while I sleep. To that place she will call home, surrounded by God’s love and mercifulness. I leave my dad, on the mattress beside her bed, staying so she will not leave this world alone. I come to their home, surrounded by all that is my mother. All her trinkets sit in the dark silence. I am unbelievably heartbroken, knowing I will never charge into this place and see her standing in front of the stove cooking my favorite dish, fried chicken. She will never set the table with all her prized dishes, explaining to me that butter dish used to be her grandmothers esteemed possession. I hope I can remember all the stories behind her cherished belongings to pass along to her grandchildren and great grandchildren. I anticipate I will forget and rummage thru her things hoping I can hear her voice whisper in my ear. “Your grandmother made that with her own two hands, see how the painted lines aren’t quite as they should be? That was one of her first pieces.” I will listen closely tonight, longing to hear her tenderness for the inanimate objects she treasured. Her Little Red Riding Hood cookie jar, the southwest sand paintings, dishes with the grape vines running along the edge, her nick knacks of assorted styles and eras sitting together on the same shelf and her varied “art” projects lovingly created by all her offspring strewn around the place she called home, will become precious to me and carefully packed away long after she is gone. Although this was not my childhood home, I will miss this place without her. The way the sheets on the bed smelled so fresh because she refused to dry them but hung them on the line outside for the sunshine to kiss. I will yearn for the smell of her homemade cinnamon rolls and the tangy taste of her famous lasagna. I realize even with her trusty recipe box tucked under my arm, I will never measure up to her cooking forte. It was her gift along with a beautiful soprano voice. She could sing like an angel to me and I never tired of hearing her. The past few years of silent singsong, have been unbearable. It was a self inflicted quiet as she didn’t think she measured up to her youth. I heard a few lines mumbled thru her morphine today and I was taken back to my childhood when she sang proudly at the front of our church. In my mind, it sounded just as unmistakable as that clear Sunday morning 40 years ago. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the wooden pew beneath the homemade dress she had carefully sewn that exact ally matched my two sisters. I was so proud of her. I wonder if she ever understood how much. I chastise myself now, fearing she will never hear those words from me. I wonder if she knew and hope my huge smile on those days told her what my words have not.

I wander down the hall and linger on the rail my dad installed so she could get around and lie on the bed that had become her prison. She was not mobile much in the end and her immobility had landed her in the nursing home. I snuggle beneath the sheets and talk to God about how much she meant to me and how she will never be farther than a breath away.

I love you, Mom.

Konda