The day I have both dreaded and longed for arrived last Thursday. After an hour of terrible pain in her gut, my mother shuffled off the mortal coil somewhere between her care home and the hospital. By the time I got there, she was all laid out (sans dentures) under a white blanket. Luckily I have seen her sunken face when her teeth are out, so I wasn't completely horrified. If you've ever seen your mother without her teeth, you know what I mean. She was strangely still, eyes closed, mouth open a little, like she was about to sing.
In the family "waiting room" where they put the folks who are about to be blindsided with the haymaker of their lives, the nurse put her hand on my arm, probably to make sure I wouldn't launch into orbit, and said, "Your mother has passed." For a moment, I couldn't believe what I heard. She had a festively decorated head wrap and mask, I think there were colorful balloons and stars, I can't really remember. She said after the EMTs gave her fentanyl, Mom was resting comfortably, and she died peacefully. I want me some of that stuff when my turn comes.
So how does this roll out? I wasn't in town when my father kicked off, so this is all new to me. My brother and I visited the funeral home on Friday, masked and dazed, well, I was sort of dazed, not having slept well. We figured it out, paid the money, and went our ways. Mom is probably in a cold box in a basement as she waits her turn to get trucked to Seattle for cremation (the local furnace is busted). Eventually we will get death certificates but the wheels of government are moving at a glacial pace, thanks to Covid, so the nice compassionate caring lady said expect them maybe in three weeks if we are lucky. A month or so from now, our mother will be shipped back to Portland in a box, minus hip replacement hardware.
My sister graciously consented to write an obituary, which is a thing of beauty, although we seem to be doing a Groundhog Day dance trying to wordsmith one line: granddaughter and two great-grandchildren. There, I think I got it, finally. I can tell my brain is not tracking. When I reread this before posting, I will be appalled at how many words I left out. It's like there are holes in my brain. They were there before Mom died, though, so I can't blame grief.
My older brother will rise to his role as executor of the estate. We'll see how that goes. Oh boy, I think I'm getting a migraine.
I always knew this day would come, if I lived long enough, and I wondered how it would feel and how I would respond. I'm still wondering. The mother I knew left me a long time ago. It's been a strange four years taking care of the changeling mother that dementia left in her place. I grew fond of this changeling. In one minute, I would be walking out the door to visit her. What am I going to do with all this empty space?
I mean that metaphorically. I have less space here than ever. I've cleared most of her stuff out of the care home. You would not believe how many clothes she had. Thirty-two tops (long- and short-sleeved) in various colors and some stripes, seventeen sweatshirts (most with some sort of embroidery on the chest: my favorite: Hugs - One size fits all). Nine jackets, most pockmarked with cigarette burns. We've downsized her three times now. The last two times, the excess has ended up in my living room. There is a lot less now compared to the previous time, but the place still looks like a thrift store. I had to bag it all up again after counting because the smell of laundry detergent gave me a coughing fit. I'm okay now, thanks for asking.
Yesterday the family had a video call. After many technological glitches and hurdles, we finally got my older brother connected via speaker phone. Tensions were high at times, but we also saw the humor in the situation. Off and on, we coalesced as a family, something we haven't done in a long time.
Someday, after Covid, my sister and her husband will come out from Boston. We will all drive down to the Oregon coast to find the secret beach where we scattered Dad's ashes in 2005. If it all works out, we'll send Mom off over the Columbia River Bar to the Pacific Ocean. That is if we aren't occupied by China or dead from Covid. I am taking nothing for granted.
Bon voyage, Mom. Enjoy your trip to Seattle. I'll miss you forever.
