Last Day of the Year, Part II: The Passing of My Mother

 This year, my mother died. 

We had her cremated, and we didn't have a service. 

"I would feel horrible if we had a funeral, and someone catches the covid at the funeral. This burying people back to back to back,..." my sister lamented. 

"I understand," I said. "That may be what's best. And I hope no one has a problem with you over it."

And she was right. Funerals have been known to be superspreaders.  I don't, and no one else, I reckon, wants the memory of someone catching covid at our mother's funeral. If someone got ill, or God forbid, died, that would be tatooed on our conscious forever. And let's not even talk about the guilt of it all. 

So there was no funeral. Hopefully there will be a memorial service when this is all over.

Although it has been four months since her passing, it is still mindboggling, since she has always been larger than life. 

I don't know how to feel about it. I still get teary-eyed over it from time to time, like, when I hear an old 70s song (she loved old school music).  She and I didn't have much of a relationship, and I'd only seen her on a regular basis over the past couple of years. I was doing all I could to help my sister Kay, her primary caretaker, take care of her. And this always felt strange since I have felt like an outsider in my own family. 

But I myself have been in the hospital a couple of times over the past 20 years, and it helps to have a familiar face around. And that is what I considered myself... a familiar face. 

A familiar face.

It was a normal thing for me over the 1.5 years before her passing to leave work in the middle of the day to take her to dialysis, or to go visit her at the hospital when I got off from work. We would just sit and watch television, sometimes the news, or some show on the cooking channel. I remember having to talk to her about not giving the staff a hard time. (She was a unique personality, she was.)  This was a problem in the nursing homes and rehab centers. And there was a bit of contention between her and myself when she would criticize us, mostly my sister. I wasn't doing well with that at all. 

But a couple of days before her death, when she'd been on life support, I remember visiting her in hospice care. I remember my sister playing gospel music on her cell phone, and us anointing her head with oil and praying prayers out of my prayer book. We just sat with her for awhile. Me and mother have the same hands, and my sister took a picture. 

I was surprised at the warmth of her hand.

Of course it was warm. The machine was breathing for her. 

I was little taken aback because I had only seen my sister once or twice since the quarantine and covid had begun-  only once or twice in a four month period. It felt good to just see my sister up close. To sit in the lobby alone with her and relax... to touch her and hold her hand. Just to sit and talk to my sister was something that eased my mind. 

And that night was the last time I saw my mother. She passed a couple of days later, the day after my sister's birthday, and the day before my nephew Justin's birthday. I was not present, but my brother and sister were. I offered to come down and just sit in the parking lot. But my brother and sister that there were too many people down at the hospice, and they needed to keep me safe during the covid. 

I was glad that they were there when she took her last breaths. They had their closure and I had mine. 

I met my brother and sister at the crematorium to retrieve the urn of her ashes. I was not sure why I should be there. After all, they were just picking up ashes. But it meant something for us to stand together with her urn while a stranger snapped a picture of us. It is a memory to have. And again, during this time of social distancing and covid confusion, I got a quick chance to touch my brother and sister. It was good to joke and laugh with them. That meant so much to me. 

I think what is particularly painful for me is that most of the relatives that raised me are gone, either through death or distance. Or even relationships are no longer there.  My past is gone. I have friends in their 50s who feel the same way. There is a lamenting of sorts of the people who knew and raised us are gone or not present. 

Our childhoods are mere memories that we can only touch with our minds. It meant much to have people who loved me, who I could just "me" around. I am a difficult personality, and they still loved me. That is mostly gone.

And that is very painful. And I feel a little caught off guard. 

Last year (or perhaps the year before), I read an interesting book for book club. I think it is one of the best books I have read in the last couple of years. 

The name of it is City of Girls by Elizabeth Gilbert.

There was a quote near the end of the book that brought me to tears, as it described how I really felt.

"This is what I've found about life, as I've gotten older: you start to lose people, Angela. It's not that there is a shortage of people- oh heavens no. It is merely that - as the years pass- there comes to be a terrible shortage of your people. The ones you loved. The ones who knew the people that you both loved. The ones who know your whole history.

Those people start to be plucked away by death, and they are awfully hard to replace after they go. After a certain age, it can become difficult to make new friends. The world can begin to feel lonely and sparse, teeming through it may be with freshly minted young souls. 

I'm not sure whether you've had that feeling yet. But I've had it. And you may have that feeling someday."  

I've had that feeling. 

I was so taken aback when I read that. They were words that brought my feelings to life. They were words that expressed what I couldn't. And I am thankful for that. 

My mother, she was larger than life. And me and my sister were talking one day, and we found that we were thinking the same thing... we really hoped she found the peace she always sought on the other side. 

Rest in peace, Ma. We miss you.