I wrote this post six days before Mother died in December. Going through my files just now, I see it never was published. This writer's not going to waste a decent piece of writing. The intent of writing is to communicate. To communicate, among other reasons, for the expressing and cleansing of one's soul and to resonate with another. Mother is gone now. But the message of the feelings frozen in this unpublished post still bear sharing. I also just learned that a close friend just lost his mother yesterday morning. So, John, this blog is dedicated to you.
Photo: Or Hiltch
We've known for a year or so that Mother would not be around more than five more years, if that long. The decline since she was hospitalized this summer has been rapid. She's been in assisted living since the fall and my father joined her a month ago, his own health faltering.
I got the call from one sister yesterday morning that Mother had been taken into the hospital for her heart. Her congestive heart failure had progressed. They now know something has happened with her heart, they just don't know what. The second call relayed that she'd been placed in ICU. This morning's call communicated that she may be placed in hospice and to start thinking about making travel plans possibly for day after tomorrow. This afternoon brought better news. She had stabilized but the report was still not good and "anything could happen."
So, I ask: how am I to live when my mother is dying? Thanks to the analysis on Bill Clinton's infamous dalliances in the White House, I know that I, too, am capable of compartmentalizing. Amazingly so. I got the first call after a story interview yesterday. I drove home and did the more mindless tasks. Checking into the social media site I moderate. Answering emails. That night, I tried to nurture myself with adequate sleep, a warm bath. Today, I got a draft on the story. And then I tried to nap, feeling a deficit from awakening twice with concern last night. But, I couldn't sleep. I took care of emails, phone calls. And I made a list. A list of people I would need to call if I had to leave.
Mostly, I am staying busy. I went through the routines with my daughter yesterday afternoon, feeling the long sag of my jaw muscles. No projects then to rope in a wandering mind. It is not that I am dwelling, it's just the constant hum of knowledge that my world may be changing.
And then there are those moments when the emotion bursts through. Tonight, I made cornbread in an iron skillet the way Mother taught me. She had given me that small, pitch black heavy pan. I cannot remember the last time I'd made cornbread that way. Tears sprang. I made a muffled sound and reached for the tissues. And then, I realized that life was going to be like this for a while. Remembrances of the past pushing through to the surface of the present. Salty tears of love for an incredible woman lost. But. Not. Yet....
I didn't get so far with another blog post I found in my list. This was written after her death. Only this: "More Memories of Mother. Fresh Christmas greenery from the yard: giant magnolia leaves, boughs of white pine, nandina berries." Thank you, Mother, for loving all things of beauty and surrounding our family with them. Your gift is eternal.
