In this space I've shared recent losses. Many of my peers, my friends, are also facing impending loss. It is that time for us. And now, to add another: my brother's mother-in-law. Her daughters, including my sister-in-law, are struggling to deal with their mother's passing. They, and my cousins, the son and daughter of Uncle Clayton, are left to re-shift their lives, to feel their way through a world without a beloved parent. It is for them that I have finally decided to share my story.
I have thought a long time about publishing this for anyone to see. My desire to connect with family and friends is strong, and I think that it is finally time to tell you. I've told some of you individually before, when and where I felt that it was the right thing to do. But now, I'm taking a big breath, to share with all of you, in this space, a very personal experience. For those of you who have also experienced great loss, perhaps you will gain some comfort, and with this telling, I wish for all of you a wonderful, healthy, happy life, and, as I now possess, an assurance that there is indeed something wonderful well beyond what we mere mortals can imagine.
I lost my mother in August 2006. Even saying this stops me in my tracks; my throat immediately tightens, and my eyes begin to burn. She was 82 years old and had heart disease as well as a history of mini-strokes and diabetes. Her heart stopped at about 2 am and her non-resuscitate order meant that the nurses simply detached her monitor and called me. Despite the aid of a pacemaker, her heart had stopped. Yet, because she had been hospitalized for treatment of congestive heart failure, and was not apparently near death, we were shocked at her passing. An intestinal infection had set in while she was in the hospital, what the doctor had said was fairly common in the elderly, especially, and not easy to quickly eradicate. The day before while I was with her in her hospital room she complained once again of her "belly hurting." I wish I could turn back the clock, demand more to be done to ease her pain and to treat the infection more aggressively. I had no idea.
After getting the phone call, I needed to get to the hospital and to her bedside. This couldn't be happening! Quickly dressing, I rushed out to the driveway while Greg was grabbing the car keys and locking the door. I looked up into the night sky, crying, and pleading, "Please don't leave!" I turned in circles, staring toward the stars, begging over and over, "Please don't leave!"
She had been a rock in our family, a constant, and a reminder of what was what. I loved her so much and I had depended through the years on her unwavering love as well as her no-nonsense approach to problem-solving. To face a future without looking into her soft gray eyes, witnessing her strength, and listening to her advice was devastating. I felt so powerless.
It was to be less than a year later when I discovered that Mother had more to tell me.
My serving as executrix, and with my siblings, dealing with the dissolution and sale of her home were depleting. Yet, the spring following her death, while the family was still in the middle of sorting through her and my father's lifetime of belongings, my husband wanted to host a reunion for his side of the family at our home; looking back, I believe Greg needed a renewed connection with his own family, realizing how quickly and profoundly loss can impact us all. But this reunion was problematic in that there was great likelihood of drama surrounding certain members of the family and alcohol. Frankly, I just didn't have the emotional stamina for this. Yet, he flatly refused to discuss it, even becoming angry, when I asked that we decide how we might stand united in facing potential trouble; he wanted, instead, to hold to an optimistic image of a happy gathering, and by discussing anything less, he told me that I was denying him something important. I felt so alone.
How much I needed Mother to direct and ground me. One of her expressions, "Do the have-to things first," hung in the air around me, and I knew its meaning, but I couldn't accept its power or reassurance that, without her, I could meet this event with strength and grace. I went to my bedroom, shut the door, and started praying, first silently, then out loud, and this then reduced to repeated begging. "I need you, Mother; I need you here now." Over and over, with tears, and then agonized sobs: "I need you! I need you! I need you here now!" Pacing, I pointed to the foot of my bed, and felt that if I said it strongly enough, that I could will her to return, to appear, sit there, and talk to me.
It was at that very moment, in the middle of my tears and frantic pleas, that my cell phone started ringing. I saw on the screen that it was my son, Michael. Because both of my sons lead busy successful lives, are very independent, and rarely call just to check in, (it had been a couple of weeks since I'd heard from either one), I really needed to take this call. I tried to regain some composure as I hit the talk button to say hello.
And Michael's first words were "Mom, I need you."
Gulping back sobs and silently laughing at the same time, a warmth and tingling washing over me, my tension immediately subsiding, I whispered away from the phone, "I get it, Mother! It's my turn!" Then I turned my full attention to my son. He needed me.
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