It's Time to Come Home

It was an ordinary day, as are most of the days of our lives. And then my phone chimed with a dreaded yet somehow expected message from my sister. It was time to go home. At the age of ninety-two, my mother had suffered bleeding on her brain and the prognosis was not good. Even though the damage was extensive, she did not give up her precarious hold on life easily, but four days later, she slipped gently from one life to the next.

I’ve typed a couple of thousand words for this column, but I’ve erased the majority of them. What is there to say when your mother dies? Although words have defined my life for many years, I am at a loss for words of my own at the moment. So let me borrow from the memories, the kindness, and the connections of the last ten days. Yes, it is a personal loss, the death of my mother. It’s my heartache, it’s our family’s grief. Yet we all walk this lonesome valley sooner or later, and we also walk alongside those who suffer similar losses. And so I return to the keyboard, to the words, and write of these days, this time of transition and loss.

During my mother’s hospital stay, she was ministered to by the tender hands of the nursing staff, and we were as well. On my good days, I’m a take-charge person, and on bad days, I can be downright bossy. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t fix this situation. I could do nothing but wait. The nurses understood, and moved quietly in and out of the room, doing what they could to provide support to us. An especially kind gesture was the provision of a warmed blanket in the air-conditioned room. As I wrapped its folds around my shoulders, my body remembered a similar moment following the birth of our first son on a frigid February afternoon. Life and death, wrapped together in a warm blanket.

How comforted I was by the outpouring of care through the medium of Facebook. Hundreds of friends from around the world extended their comfort, often simply through the word, “Praying.” It seemed rather odd, posting on Facebook about my mother’s medical condition and subsequent death, but I experienced an amazing expression of grace through the days of waiting that was of great consolation to me.

I also found much support and solace in the ancient words of liturgy, hymnody, and scripture. Some of the words appeared on social media, while other words and melodies were whispered or sung to our mother. While we don’t have a Catholic heritage, our words became last rites, an anointing of spirit and release. Marty Haugen’s words spoke deeply: “Shepherd me O God . . . from death unto life.”

There was also a sweetness in story shared, in the telling once again of the escapades of youth and the heritage of generations. Realizing we could no longer check the veracity of our accounts with our mother or her siblings, we have a new responsibility to protect the stories of the past and to create new narratives for the days ahead.

Yet in the midst of a plethora of words, at times there were no words. Sometimes, the silent presence of another in the hospital room brought consolation. In the watches of the night, the silence was broken only by our breaths as they agreed in measured rhythm. And, as I stood at the close of my mother’s memorial service, with the strains of Amazing Grace filling the sanctuary, it was the presence of the lovely Madelyn Simone at my side, reminding me once again of the passing of life from generation to generation.

As a small town columnist, I often write to cheerlead for our community, to share information, and, at times, to be an opinionated lady just because I can. But for today, I’m writing to remember my mother, and to honor those who came alongside with their words and with their presence. There is a blessedness in the ache, and I am grateful.