September 10

In many ways, this is a repeat of yesterday. I'm stuck in a pattern of exquisite weather (sunny, high of 80F/26C). I sleep fitfully, get up very early, walk over to feed the animals...

(color comes in the tubs of annuals now...)

... eat breakfast with Ed on the porch, yet again chasing the sun, because in the morning, we're just crossing 60F/15C.

Animals fed, messages answered, time to set out, yet again to spend some time with my mother.

As I drive over I think about how in my older years, she has been such a presence in my life (even as in my younger years, she was not that). Ever since her separation from my father (and that was in 1980, so nearly 45 years ago), I would become the one she'd need as a sounding board for her life's woes.Which were constant and many. One of my daughters commented the other day that dealing with her now, in her final days was easier because she was like a young child, without the ability to push an agenda. And yes, this is true. But I have felt that she was like a child in great need for a long time now. How will it feel to not have to be there to dismiss or take seriously each of her calls for help?

You might wonder why I write so much about my mother now. No, it's not a cathartic process of emotional reckoning.The thing is, I've been writing Ocean posts for twenty years, but at the beginning she slammed into me for doing this. She hated that I had this platform. She let me know solidly that I was wasting my time. But recently, oh about five or six years ago she completely flipped and she read every post carefully every single day. If I was late putting something up, she'd call and ask my why I was late. Her move to Madison coincided with this. Here I was then, responsible for her in her old age, responsible for her well being. The responsible thing to do was to leave our conversations and her story out of Ocean.  And I faced a balancing act: with each post, I had to think about what information I was releasing to the world and to my mother. No one, not me, not the kids, not any of us wanted to agitate her in any way. I suppose now, when it no longer matters (she stopped reading Ocean in June), I'm seeing what it's like to write without that worry.

 

The visit itself today was quiet. She slept through it. I was happy to see that she wasn't thrashing. At peace? Oh, who knows. But not agitated. My daughter took seriously the conventional wisdom (how do they even know this?) that a dying person loses her hearing last, and takes comfort from the familiar spoken word, even if she appears to be sleeping. My girl took her work to my mom's bedside and spent the morning conducting Zoom meetings, then reading papers that she had to read out loud. Me, I checked in, then cleaned out more of my mom's folders and writings. Yes, gems, of sorts. So many folders! Here's one -- another folder of lists! This particular folder contained pages with a detailed enumeration of all greeting cards she had ever sent to anyone, dating back to 1982. Every year, every card. And she was an avid card sender! To distant friends, to all family members.  To my ex. For all holidays, even those invented for the purpose of cards.  The list contained description of each mailing. Santa face with reindeer in the background. A laughing pumpkin with a ghost. Red poinsettia with pine cones. That kind of stuff. It's another record, but of what? Perhaps a document of her Hallmark devotion to the cause of family life and to those she left behind. 

And as I looked at all this, I wondered -- is it genetic? This need to put things down in words. She was not a good writer -- a fact that she acknowledged readily -- and yet she wrote it all down. But aren't I guilty of this too, on Ocean? I tell myself that I paint a picture of a life for someone other than myself. But isn't this what she did? Lists, for others to eventually find and marvel at, because surely not for herself?

 

I bring home her computer and hand it to Ed to clean out. He asks -- are you sure? How about her Word account? You really want it deleted? 

Looking at my mother's detailing of important events -- like her daughter's misdeeds! -- is like walking through a treacherous minefield. Do I really want to see this stuff? What's there? -- I ask him hesitantly.

Well, here's something she calls "a (summary of a) police report." Written in 2018, so just before I moved her from California back to Madison. He reads it for me. Apparently her daily newspaper was missing that morning and she traced its disappearance to her neighbor. When confronted, the neighbor admitted to taking hers because her own copy was gone. She returned my mother's paper, but without one of the sections. My mother got a replacement copy from the newspaper itself and thus she knew that there should be one more section. Incensed, she filed a police report. The officer came (this was in Berkeley -- a place where crime is rampant), took down her story and asked if she was going to take the case to court. Was he serious?? The case of the missing section of a paper?? My mother definitely was serious: not this time, she told him. But the next time -- yes! I have lawyers in my family. 

Yes, my mother liked to leave her problems at my doorstep, oftentimes not expecting a resolution. She just wanted me to know, the world to know, how tough life was for her. And maybe it was. If you think life's a bummer, isn't that a very real assessment of what it is for you?

And yet...

My mom was proud of me. Maybe not for reasons you and I would embrace -- I have good kids, good grandkids. Sure, I think I was a good parent, but like everyone, I made plenty of mistakes. I got better with age! That's nearly everyone's story, no? But still, she was proud. She told all her friends. She had great grandkinds and great great-grandkids. In her eyes, in the end, I did well.

In the afternoon, I pick up the kids at school. 

 

 

 

 

Snowdrop, upon hearing of all this great-grandma stuff, insists she needs to go over and say good-bye. Is this a good idea? My mom wont hear her. She looks like a person who is on her last breath. But Snowdrop is adamant and her parents are letting her make that call, and if Snowdrop wants it, then her brother wants it too, so I take them both to my mom's bedside and I snap a photo, knowing full well that my mother would not have wished for them to see her like this, but oh well, I take care of the psychic needs of the living, mom, especially those who have so many years ahead of them.

 

 

 

They leave behind stuffies for my mom. I asked my daughter if she wants me to bring them back later and she said what any American parent would say these days: no! The more stuffies we offload from this house the better!

I ask the kids -- was it different than you thought it would be? No, they tell me, though they didn't think she'd be snoring!

(ice cream treat)

 

 

We come to the farmhouse and I read yet another book about the Holocaust (Number the Stars by Lois Lowry) with Snowdrop. What is this day, anyway, an exploration of all of life's horror? (In my defense, she chose it from the stack of new and various books I had for her.)

No, all the events of today are stories with good endings. My mom's last days are as we would wish for anyone: late in life, indeed, very late in life, and without pain. The books Snowdrop devours are sad in context, but they show bravery, kindness and strength. And love. Lots of family love. It wins out in the end, always.

My mom died tonight. Peacefully.

with lots of love...