We are at the bedside.
It was the celestial weather report, wasn’t it, Mom? Here comes the snow, and off you go.
We make the calls, send the texts, post the posts.
When we return, they’ve bathed and dressed her in her favorite top, the one with the sparkle neckline. She wears her glasses, the ones she wore 24/7 so she didn’t miss a thing. And Doc rests on her heart. He’s the plush pillow pet I bought thinking he might help support her in the wheelchair. He was her constant companion–Doc H (for Hippo–or Hippocrates of “first do no harm” fame.) She renamed him recently to “Doc Do-Nothing.” He was in charge of her call button.
I support her feet during the final transfer. Nurse Denise, the one I’ve dubbed an honorary deep see diver because she says I inspired her to wear pearls to work, strokes her right foot, and we look at each other. I pull them from the drawer, the long pink and white knit socks, the ones they called Cat-in-the-Hat socks, the ones she wore outside, and we slip them on.
They drape the blue and white patchwork quilt over her, and she embarks on her final journey.
We gaze at the empty bed, at the squirrels and the birds busy outside, and we busy ourselves.
We pile pillows and extra sheets and blankets on the floor between the wall and the desk.
They bring boxes, and we fill them with half-empty jar of peanut butter, cake mixes, a box of cereal, leftover turkey, hot fudge sundae topping, cream cheese, sour cream, homemade strawberry jam, and more.
We empty drawers, pack fragiles in the folds of a bathrobe, pad with slippers, and slip in the bottle of Chanel #5.
I cram too much into my suitcase, and the zipper sticks.
I check the CD player and retrieve Martha and John’s Celtic music.
I fold the rainbow blanket that my niece made and the handprinted throw that my daughter and grandgirls made.
I wrestle the harp into the bag.
It takes four cars to take away what two brought during the last month plus.
I sigh.
This place, it’s become home.
Safe.
Serene.
The staff has become family.
I’m going to miss it.
We head down to room 7 and sit with Nick for awhile.
We hug Nurse Denise and CENAs Deb and Rhonda.
We walk past the unfinished puzzle and out the door.
I put the Journey in reverse, stop and put it in park.
I reach for my camera and climb out to snap a picture of the bench. It’s where we sat next to her to watch birds and wonder at “sun spots.” My dad gathered stones on it. We spilled coffee on it. She told me I’d get hemorrhoids if I sat on it while it was cold. And my sister curled up on it with her head on my Mom’s shoulder on our last outing.
I get back into the Journey, head down the hill between the dune (?) grass that lines the drive, turn left at the stoplight, and drive west, away from the lake.
The journey is over.
And the journey begins.
Bernice M. Heska
January 1,1929 – November 27, 2011
The promise of “arrival” and “rest” is still there for God’s people. God himself is at rest. And at the end of the journey we’ll surely rest with God.
~Hebrews 4:9-10 (Message)
I have you in my heart tonight. God be with you.
Thinking of you, Sandy.
(((Hugs))) to you and yours while you’re hurting.
P.S. My Mom’s birthday is Jan. 1st, also. Great day to be born, my mom says, because the whole country celebrates her birthday. ;))
You are a beautiful writer, Sandy. Thanks for giving your readers a vivid picture of that final day. I felt like I was standing off in the corner watching you.
After my mom died I told myself I would return many times to see the wonderful caregivers at Providence House (it had become like home to my family and me since Mom had lived out her final 3 1/2 years there), but I only went back once. I found it was too hard. I wanted to walk down the long hallway to her room at the end, but I knew someone else would be occupying her bed.
God gives and He takes away – but in the end it’s still good. We have His grace to carry us, and who could ask for more?
Love and Hugs…
Peace be with you and your family as you find your way without her. Hugs Sandra.
Sandy,
It’s beauty and pain and wonder and loss and rejoicing, all wrapped into one big God-sized bundle, isn’t it?
You are so much on my heart tonight…I’m wondering if you’re in a “now what?” place yet. But I remember with you the contentment of knowing that our mothers rest safe in the arms of Jesus, like the disciple He loved.
Thank you for sharing the journey with us. It is a tremendous gift.
xoxo.
So beautiful…hugs to you.
Sandy, your beautiful words of remembrance have SO touched my heart tonight, unaware what this day has held for you. Nothing prepares us for the loss of our moms, I still miss mine. I’ll be lifting you and your family up to our God of all comfort tonight, and the days ahead. Blessings, my friend.
This brings back memories of my own mother’s passing. May God be with you as the paradox of the next few days take place: mourning and celebrating. they seem to go hand in hand.
Oh my, so rich. So filled with soft and sweet ordinary every-dayness – which is, of course, the very richest of all treasure. Thank you for this, for inviting us on this journey as it wound down to this point. And so much love, so many blessings as you step out into the next leg, the one without your mom to make you laugh and smile and remember your own story with you. Our parents knew us before we knew ourselves and when they go, big ole chunks of us go right with them. Love you.
Your descriptive words and photos touched my heart… you are a warm loving person. So happy for your mom that you were there with her… it most certainly blessed her last phase of life this side… I’m always looking forward to the Life ahead on That Side. You’re just the kind of person I’d want to have holding my hand.
So, so lovely. Sending love and hugs your way, dear one.
Standing with you in your loss Sandra, and sending much love and prayers your way. Both you and your mom are extremely loved!
My heart is with you … so very with you in this.
Thank you for sharing this precious time with us, Sandy. I hope her fresh joy is helping to offset the deep loss you must be feeling now. Be blessed.
What a wonderful blessing the staff were to you and your mom! I was alone with my mother in her passing. The staff were kind, but not as attentive as yours … it was the palliative care ward of a busy hospital. But in the end all that mattered was being together with her at the end as she was with me in my beginning.
Love to you.
A beautiful post from a beautiful daughter. Thank you for allowing us to peek inside the precious moments. I hope someday I can be as strong and as loving as my mom journeys home.
Sandy, you’ve inspired me as I’ve watched you from afar and you’ve taught me as I’ve allowed myself to understand and feel your words.
I know God doesn’t play favorites but I’m thinking you are one of His most beloved deep sea divers.
Loving on you & your whole family from Tennessee.
Toni
So lovely, and yet so yard. Remembering you in prayer, Sandy, as you walk through these days. May God be with you always.
so “HARD” not yard!
Thank you for sharing this beautiful transition. Thanking God you got to be there. All there. Praying for you and your family from here. That memories would bring you comfort and God would surround you with peace. You are loved.
Beautiful story, Sandra.
You have my heart, Sandra. xoxoxo
This is my first “read” of the day (after the second chapter of Isaiah). So glad you wrote it when you did – when all the details were right there at the surface. It’s like reading a prayer. Thanks for letting us join you in this. Thanks for inviting us in. Grace and peace to you, Sandy…
(And this: one of my longstanding memories of my grandfather is hearing him tell me not to sit on the concrete porch to play jacks – for the very same reason your mom warned you against sitting on that path.)
You have, as always, captured the essence of life here, Snady. Anyone who has been down this road with a parent or grandparent can truly feel the bittersweet ache and longing of every word. It transported me back to the day my grandmother passed, and I recall that in the “aftermath,” everything happened in slow motion, and I felt like I was watching a movie reel of moments and movements. My mind would get hung on the smallest of objects or the most subtle of nuances….the deep scratches in the arms of the chair by my grandmother’s bedside where I had rubbed my thumb constantly but absentmindedly during her last days, the magic marker smell on the cards made by my children taped to the wall, the precious way her wedding ring, that had never been taken off in 56 years (even long after my grandfather had passed), seemed to symbolize in that moment all the strength and faithfulness with which she had lived her life. Those slow-motion moments are beautiful, painful, and eternal. I treasure every one.
I pray God gives you peace in this time and that your heart and mind are filled with beautiful, beautiful memories.
-Lea
I was reminded of these words from the hymn “For All the Saints:”
The golden evening brightens in the west;
Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest;
Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!
Sounds like you really made yourselves at home near your mother during her final days, giving her the gift of being fully present with her. A beautiful gift. May God continue to comfort you with His presence in the days ahead, Sandra.
You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers. Although we know our loved ones are in Paradise, they leave a huge hole here with us. Only memories fill it, and it sounds like you have a great many.
Your story is so warm, touching and encouraging. You have blessed many by sharing. Thank you.
Oh friend … No words, just love and tears here.
I love you, Sandy. I’ve been checking every day. I’m so sorry. And you’ve chronicled this beautifully: “the zipper sticks.” So does my heart.
So good.
Praying for you!
I just “had” to share this with my readers at my site. Thank you for sharing your gift of writing with us!
So thankful that the end is only the beginning for those who believe.
We love you. You & your family remain tucked in our hearts and in our prayers.
LYI!
oh, sandy. everything I want to say seems insufficient. so there’s just this: God bless. Much love. What a beautiful lady your mom is-what a beautiful lady she raised.
“We’ll surely rest with God.”
Yeah. That. Love and good courage to you, my friend. Hold your dad and his Malfalda neck pillow tight.
Grace and peace and much love to you. So much love.
The ordinary becoming the sacred. It has been a long journey Sandy, and you have traveled well – with such grace and love. My heart and prayers are with you. I am so very sorry.
Oh.
I’m so sorry for your pain in separation. So glad for your hope in Jesus and His bright, painless place of many mansions.
You did all the right things. Thank you for teaching us so much.
Just stopping by one more time to say I’m thinking of you, praying for you…and to urge you to read through Megan Willome’s lovely, lovely poem set, written as her own mom was dying. How I wish she could publish these somewhere – I am losing my own mom so
s l o w l y, and her words just went right in past all the defenses to the real. Love to you this weekend…
Overwhelmed with all of your responses and stories. I’ll be back . . .
It’s a painful and beautiful journey to say our earthly goodbyes to a parent. It sounds like you have made the most of it, and God is pleased with the love and honor you showed her in her final days. Rest well. Drink deeply from His love. His name is Comforter.
You and your family are in my heart and prayers.
Hugs
Oh, Sandy. Sending you a big cyber hug. Thank you for sharing this beautiful journey and tribute.
Sandy, You do an amazing job of sharing your thoughts. Thank You for helping me to remember there is a memory in every moment.