One night I dreamt I was walking down the dead-end road of my childhood home. In my dream I’m walking down this road and the sun is hot, burning me. No matter how long I walk, I don’t seem to be getting any closer to the house. I’m exhausted. I want to rest, but I can’t get there. And then all at once my heart is full of sorrow. I remember my mother is dead and that even if I do make it home she won’t be there. I realize it’s not just this road I have to walk, it’s my whole life. I have to live my whole life before I get to see her again.
When my mother was dying I held her hand. By this time, she could no longer speak — could no longer speak twice over, once from the disease and once from the tubes in her throat that kept her breathing. My mother loved to talk. Her silence was the beginning of her separation from life. Because it was part of the illness it happened long before the ventilator. It was a presence moving her away from me, and I hated it. This was July.
In June, my husband drove us all — me and our six children — from Oklahoma to New Hampshire. We called it a visit, a trip. But really it was a farewell, and we knew it. My mother knew it, too. I spent that week by her side in the mornings and left in the afternoons when she was too tired to stay awake. I brought Andy with me on these visits. He was four months old. She held him as long as she was able, smiling at him, stroking his head. He smiled back. I was glad she could meet him.
When it came time to leave, I found I didn’t have the courage to say those needful words like, “I’ll miss you. Forgive me. Please forgive me for moving so far away.” I hugged her and hugged her again. Doing it a third time seemed too much because she was so tired. But I wanted to. I looked back at her one last time. She was already looking away, looking down at her hands. Just before we left, I sat in the car thinking, “She’s in there, still alive. I’m here, still alive. I should go back inside one more time. Maybe she wants to see me one more time.” I didn’t though. It was time to go home, to take my children back home.
Still, I couldn’t stay away and so booked a trip in July. I brought Andy with me. As I was boarding my flight, my mother was being admitted to the hospital.
At first, I couldn’t bring Andy in to see her while she was on the ventilator. I said, “Why on earth can’t she see her grandson? I travelled all the way from Oklahoma, and she’s dying. I just want to see my mom. Why can’t we just go in and see her?”
“Because he’s a baby,” one of the nurses said, as if that was the piece of information I was confused about. Eventually another nurse explained that it increased Andy’s chance of sickness to be in the room while my mother remained on the ventilator. I guess it’s true, though it’s hard to know these days what’s science and what’s policy.
When I finally sat down beside her, I asked her to forgive me. I told her all the things I loved about our lives together. I talked about one Halloween several years before when my sister and I brought our children to our parents’ house to trick-or-treat. Halloween is my favorite holiday, and that Halloween night was gorgeous. It’s never warm in New Hampshire on Halloween. But that night it was, and there was a full moon with thin black clouds gilding past on a warm breeze. I remember seeing my mother’s face in the full moon light and saying, “This is a perfect night.” She smiled and said, “It is.”
Being human and stuck in time hurts. I wish I could walk that night again.
She went on the ventilator on Friday. I saw her Saturday when the doctor said there was nothing more to be done. We waited for Sunday to remove her from the ventilator so that her older sister could be there to say good-bye.
It was her fifty-first wedding anniversary, and because she and my father loved each other so much it seemed to all of us a fitting day for her to leave this earth. It felt like her way of telling him how much he meant to her. Small doses of medicine were administered to keep her calm as she starved for air. The only priest we could find to be with us was a Franciscan. My mother loved Saint Francis. My aunt brought her face close to my mother’s face. She whispered to her, and for a moment I felt like I was seeing them as they must have looked when they were children together, all those years ago. My sister wept and kissed her forehead. My father kissed her hand and said, “Cheryl, it’s me. It’s our wedding anniversary. I’m you husband, and I love you.”
She died in less than an hour, and we talked over her body about the day we drove up Mount Washington, my aunt behind the wheel trying not to panic as the car cut through thick fog. At one point, we almost drove off the edge — at least that’s how we remember it — and we always tell it that way because it makes us laugh.
I never dared hope to be there when my mother passed away. I never even thought of asking God for that grace. And yet, He gave it to me all the same.
We left her body and met with other family who were waiting outside. My sister decided to return to the room. She wanted to to climb into the bed and be close to our mother one last time. I thought it was a beautiful impulse and let her go alone. I guess even though we’re older, in some fashion we always remain children.
As we approach All Souls, we pray for our loved ones who have passed, that they may rest eternally in God’s goodness. But let us pray, as well, for those who have no one to pray for them.
My heart is restless until it rests in You, O Lord.
Rachel Kennedy is Lydwine’s resident playwright, as well as artistic director of Lydwine Stage. A mother of six, she writes from Guthrie, Oklahoma.
Having seen some of Charlotte's earlier art work, this is really astounding. I am so impressed with the shadow work and the wind/stars/leaves/sky background. The details are really good.
My parents are 85 and 86. I lost my ex-father in-law, who I absolutely adored, just a couple of months ago. So this made me cry, knowing the coming loss. It is a beautiful tribute to your devotion and love for your mother.
Thank you for sharing it.