You begin to think more seriously about your own death when your parents begin to die. Until then you don’t really take it seriously. It is not an easy task to leave this Earth. We fight to live with every breath – every heart beat.
There are warning signs. After two or three strokes, you begin to accept that the end is near, but you still have to go through the paralysis, the incontinence, the constipation, the phantom pain, and the ability to communicate with those who have already gone.
You cling to your family for hope and support, but we all go in the end. No one gets off of this planet alive. We are born and we die, leaving our mark or not. Death doesn’t care. Life doesn’t care. We are dirt. That is all.
Mother’s death has a way of bring the siblings closer. Brother who is apt to do a lot of praying says that this is one benefit of her prolonged illness.
“Mom had another stroke,” Sister says choking up, “I’m out trying to find a MacDonald’s to get her a chocolate milkshake – her last request.” She breaks down crying again. There has been a lot of crying all around.
Mom was a spitfire of red hair and some nice gams when she was younger. She could dance the bop and sing. She knew all the lyrics to all the old songs. She could hold her own in the liquor department too. She partied and swung with the best of them back in the day. The wild blood the siblings share comes from her side.
Now she lays paralyzed staring pointlessly into the ceiling lights of the hospital. She can still talk in a deep whispery voice, but not for very long. She likes to eat, mostly fruit and sweets. The kids give her what she wants. What difference does it make? It’s not like she’s going to get well. When she stops eating, that will be it. There will be no feeding tubes or hope for rehabilitation.
The adversarial teen years had transformed into a true adult friendship with lots of humor and no judgement for the woman and her progeny. Things had been forgiven a long time ago. Sometimes they talked on the phone everyday and had frequent visits. The phone calls and contact are missed.
Mama, oh Mama, I will miss you so much….
Mama oh Mama, I will talk to your spirit after you’ve gone.
I know that you loved me and you did the best you could.
Mother, Mama, Mommie, Mom…
I will call no one “Mother” in my life again.
I love you, Mommie.
I will see you on the wheel…
Farewell, Mama.
(First published 6/27/13)
