(no subject)
It was a year ago today that we brought my mother home to die. She was barely conscious for the ride home. I rode in the ambulance with her. When we got there, the attendants put her into the bed we had set up in the dining room. I put a dog biscuit into her hand so that she could pet her dog one last time. Then, she became quite animated. Four of her five kids were there, and we called our brother in Louisiana so that he could talk with her. We all told her we loved her, and that we wanted her to know that we would take care of each other. We told her that it was OK to go. She looked to the left and said, "He's here." A few moments later, she got a very surprised look on her face and said, "She's here." Those are the last words she said.
The next morning, I came into the room, and I said, "Well good morning." I hadn't expected her to live through the night. She looked at me and smiled. That is the last interaction I had with her. I guess if one doesn't count washing her turning her, holding her hand, praying over her, chanting over her, combing her hair, or baking pies virtually non-stop so that the house smelled alive for her.
At the time, I focused more on my siblings than anything else. We cooked together, ate together, worried about our mother. We were together standing vigil with her. I would have had it no other way.
Now, a year later, I acutely feel the sadness that I pushed out of the way so that I could deal with the task at hand. The aching inside that reminds me how much I miss my parents is somewhat unbearable right now. Normal, yes, but distractingly difficult.
I feel somewhat isolated in this grief because those around me either do not know about it, do not care, cannot understand, or find it as tedious as I probably would if it were someone else.
I know that the next seven days will be uncomfortable, difficult, and generally unpleasant. As I sit reflecting on where I stood last year at this time, I realize that so much has changed--with me, with my family, with our family home--it is good that these things have happened. It reminds us that we are still alive, and as my mother always said, "Life is for the living." I would really like to see her just one more time to make sure that I wasn't a disappointment to her.
The next morning, I came into the room, and I said, "Well good morning." I hadn't expected her to live through the night. She looked at me and smiled. That is the last interaction I had with her. I guess if one doesn't count washing her turning her, holding her hand, praying over her, chanting over her, combing her hair, or baking pies virtually non-stop so that the house smelled alive for her.
At the time, I focused more on my siblings than anything else. We cooked together, ate together, worried about our mother. We were together standing vigil with her. I would have had it no other way.
Now, a year later, I acutely feel the sadness that I pushed out of the way so that I could deal with the task at hand. The aching inside that reminds me how much I miss my parents is somewhat unbearable right now. Normal, yes, but distractingly difficult.
I feel somewhat isolated in this grief because those around me either do not know about it, do not care, cannot understand, or find it as tedious as I probably would if it were someone else.
I know that the next seven days will be uncomfortable, difficult, and generally unpleasant. As I sit reflecting on where I stood last year at this time, I realize that so much has changed--with me, with my family, with our family home--it is good that these things have happened. It reminds us that we are still alive, and as my mother always said, "Life is for the living." I would really like to see her just one more time to make sure that I wasn't a disappointment to her.