Mama 1

I won’t even begin with the apology for not writing here in so long. Or the promise that I will do a better job of in in 2014.

But I am. And I will.

Without a doubt, the biggest event of 2013 was the unexpected death of my mother. She had a stroke and fell. Or fell and had a stroke. It was more than a day and a night before she was found.

The stroke was huge. “Devastating” was the word used by the doctors that came into the ER, and then later to her room. I didn’t know it at the time, but “devastating” means no chance of recovery; nothing we can do. I learned that, and a lot more, during the next week.

I began writing while we were in hospice. I thought maybe there was something to be said in the jumble of grief and sorrow and tears that filled the days and nights of waiting, something worth saving. Lessons learned.

Friday September 6

Two weeks ago, I was having  “slumber party” with one of my favorite nieces on the eve of her wedding. Tonight, I am in hospice with my mother. Another slumber party of sort, but with too many tears, and the counting of decreasing breaths.

I should be working on the obituary, which I have started, but then I stopped when I realized how much I need to ask of my brothers to really tell the tale. I am a writer. Why didn’t I record all of this years ago?

 In spite of the agony of this, there is so much to be thankful for.  There is a 12 day old baby own the hall. Zellwegers* . The second for this family… I cannot imagine.

 My own mama was found last Tuesday in her retirement apartment. I am afraid she had this “massive stroke” on the Sunday afternoon prior… leaving her lying on the floor, all alone, for well over 24 hours before she was found and the nightmare for me began.

 I thank God that two weeks prior we were all at the wonderful wedding of my niece. She will be in wedding pictures. She was with six of her grand children all together. She met her most recent great granddaughter. It was a celebration, and we were all happy and TOGETHER.

 And now she is at 8 breaths per minute. Her feet are getting cool. There are signs that the end is coming. And after spending the last couple years thinking, “Hurry up!” whenever I took her somewhere, now I am realizing this is the end. I am stroking her cheek. Touching her hair. Tracing the bones in her hand. I feel guilty that I want this to be over.

 There is a fountain right outside our door, and it sounds as if we are beside a bubbling brook. The door is wide open, and a group of geese has just passed, calling to one another in the coming darkness. She loved geese. I told her they were calling for her and she could go. That I would be okay.

* http://rarediseases.info.nih.gov/gard/7917/zellweger-syndrome/resources/1

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