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
