She couldn’t wait two weeks, not even one. Right about the time we turned from one North Georgia highway onto another, she was already past the Milky Way, and by the time we pulled into my parents’ driveway, she’d already spent 30 minutes in her new home.
Time enough, as time goes there, to catch up with her husband, sister, parents, and all the rest. Time to take a few running galaxy laps, just for a bit of a stretch, then settle in to compose a couple of oratorios and organize choir rehearsals. Time to curl up in Jesus’ lap and ask all the why’s she still cares about, if any.
As we told the kids, “Grandma just closed her eyes, sleeping like she has been in her chair, and next thing she knew, her eyes opened and she might have thought to herself,
“This isn’t my room. As a matter of fact, this doesn’t look like any place on earth I’ve ever been.”
Next she might have realized that nothing hurt and everything worked, her speech, walking, full range of motion restored, withered forearm and clenched fist uncurled and relaxed, and ready to take the hands of a couple of angels who flew up right then and said, “C’mon, there’s people lined up to see you.”
That at least she would be used to. All her life, people connected with Mom and she with them. As a customer service supervisor for a large ministry, she had a stream of employees in and out of her office getting coaching, counseling, prayer, problem resolution.
Once, I suggested she could try to think of the caregivers in the same way. “Only this time, they’re coming into your office to ask how they can help you.”
Strong-willed to the end, she never lost her core qualities reflecting out of her deep blue eyes, although she lost everything else. Even the caregivers who came in the last year, who never heard her say one word, developed a strong connection with her.
Sanguine, sassy, spicy all her life, she retained that as well. Never shy and often ornery, she would sometimes express herself in the few ways she still could. Once a caregiver was late, and told Mom she was sorry. “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Mom shot back. Our friend loved it and retold the incident for days.
But Mitch and a few caregivers could still make her laugh by clowning.
“I must have been a beautiful baaaby,” Mitch would sing, rolling his eyes, and pinching his cheeks. She would shake with mirth, making small choking noises in her throat that let us know she was laughing – or crying as the case may be.
Shades of her busy office, she still loved being the center of attention. One caregiver would “dance” with Mom while maneuvering her in and out of bed, joking about good-looking Tom Jones. Another would kneel by her side, holding her hand, and pray for her each morning. You can’t buy help like that, but we received it over and over again.
“Giver-Givers,” my three-year-old called the ladies who came into our home four times a day to feed, bathe, dress and care for Mom, and the name fit well. Many became like family, preparing Mom’s food in the kitchen side by side with me as I cooked for the rest of us. Several bought her gifts, new pj’s, slippers, a pillow for her back. A year ago when she could still barely speak, one caregiver would cajole her into saying “Walla Walla Washington,” then they’d both collapse in giggles.
Mom always loved her family and friends. My children would go downstairs and lay on her bed, next to the Lazy-Boy where she spent all her waking hours and, as time wore on, many more napping hours as well. They’d watch cooking shows or kid shows with her. I know this brought her a lot of joy, so I let the kids get away with more TV than they would have upstairs.
We are so glad we kept her in our home, and that she was able to stay here until the start of her next journey. That’s what she wanted. Her leaving marks the end of a journey for Mitch and me as well, in a sense. Thankfully, one day at a time, it worked. I think it could have continued working for as long as she needed us, had she stuck around for another few rounds. But we’re glad she left while her clear blue eyes still told a story her lips could no longer manage, and that her mind still understood all we said. Most of all, her heart still gave and received love.
The best of caregivers are vulnerable because they do not keep those tidy professional boundaries. They really bond. And at times like these, they really, really hurt.
And of course, Mitch is deeply sad. Although it’s been many years coming, one step at a time, the finality is different. I did not realize how different it would be for him. Having not yet lost a parent, I’m trying to enter in, to feel his heart in all of this.
Right now we are on a sorrowfully-sweet journey of a different kind – rediscovering Mom and all our family history and roots. In preparing for the memorial service, we’re spending many, many hours digging into old photo albums, tracing family trees, trying to figure out how to turn Mom’s favorite big band, swing jazz and Gospel CD’s into MP3 clips to accompany photos of her.
Meanwhile, I’m re-gathering my earlier, pre-stroke memories of Mom – the time she comforted me when Mitch first hurt my feelings in our dating days, the great mind connection she and I had as partners in a round of Taboo, her weeping joy when she unwrapped a tiny pair of baby shoes we gave her at the Villa in Palmer Lake, in 1996.
This will be a service not run by ministers but a gathering of friends, each of whom we hope will share a memory, a song, a prayer, a verse.
Once again, on August 19, Mom will be the center of attention. And we’re working very hard to make sure it’s one sweet party.
