This week is a little easier. Last week I was totally in a fog and went through the motions of living, working, eating, dressing, driving, going to church.
At night I wake up and think about things: hospitals, nurses, monitors, hospice, morphine, Mandarin oranges, 2% milk, Sprite, chocolate pudding, oxygen masks, breathing treatments, Mama's all-night prayer recital - all night, the simple pleasure she had from us holding her hands, putting cold hands on her neck, face, arm that she said felt so good; the cycle of doctors, and at the last those who gave us more time, details who, I think when they realized they had to tell us yes, she really is dying, stayed longer, talked longer, in more detail. We were given a detailed copy of a report from her heart cath done in March this year, which showed "severe pulmonary hypertension."
In the daytime, I look at her pictures, her sweet smile, that sparkling expression in her pretty blue eyes. I would call her and she would be so breathless just coming to the phone that I think, Oh, Mama, you don't have to struggle any more. You are breathing Heaven's pure air. You are with Goobie and Papa and Teri and so many others who made that journey before you.
Her breaths - so few and far between, so very shallow at the last - and only one away from Heaven. And Amy was sleeping in the fold-out great chair beside her bed when Mama died. The sound of the final breath or the sound of no next breath woke Amy and she told me she thought Grandma wasn't breathing. She was at rest, not struggling any more.
I'm glad she didn't pass away in the hospital, though the nurses themselves were angels, and would hold us and let us cry on their broad, wonderful shoulders, nurses who see this every day, yet have to go in the bathrooms and cry, too. I'm glad Mama was at the Sanctuary Hospice House if only for a few short hours. That lightning fast trip in the ambulance, the EMTs who were so kind, so professional, so caring, who lifted her carefully, placed her failing little body on the gurney and carried their precious patient to the spaciousness, calmness and quiet of the Sanctuary. We described her room, the view, the bird feeder, flowers, trees and fountain outside her window. The nurses there were wonderful, too, taking all the time we needed to answer questions, as if we were the only family they had ever talked to, explaining how the morphine pump worked, the special blanket each patient gets, the Sanctuary community cat that came to stay, the donations of cross-stitch verses and poems, the memory-brick walk, the bronze name plate in the gazebo, that this is the patients' home and they are there to help.
We could not have done this without each other either - our family. My sister, my brothers. I know we're closer. I miss reaching out for Sher's hand for quick squeeze, or for a hug, or a cry, or some silliness that will bring on hysterical laughter which dissolves into tears, or vice versa, or to ask an unaswerable question, or to try to give a sane answer, or some reassurance that we did everything we knew to do for that hour, that day; or to feel the rough work-hands of my brothers, their caring and strength. Mama told us to take care of Steve, our "baby" brother. We will, Mama! Mike has been so patient, kind, loving, helpful; Marsha so knowledgeable about so many of these situations, having helped cared for her Nanny for a long time. The grandchildren - all of them: Amy, Melanie, Jordan, Andy, Benjamin, Morgan (who looks so like Mama when she was her age!) - with the great-grands: Nathan and Kiley - made such huge efforts to be with Mama, and she knew them all when they talked to her. Paul and his quiet strength, yet uneasy; so understandable with what he'd seen with his own dad 20 years ago. I'm glad he went to see Mama in July when he went to see Mama Nick; that's the way he wanted to remember her. David, who flew into Memphis and drove to be there for Sher, for Mama, for us. Mike, Lynn and Jerry from Wynne; Jean, Dick and Richard from Wynne... True and steadfast friends. Well, if I start naming people, I'll leave someone out, Erica, Denise and Debbie, Jesse and young David!! Just thanks to everyone. Our little Mama drew everyone together, as always. Her little trailer was the hub of our holidays and visits - everyone wanted to be there with her.
When we would call and tell her we were coming, the first thing she'd say was, "What do you want to eat?" She loved to cook for us and the last meal she made me and Sher was a Crock Pot roast, carrots and potatoes on that July 29 weekend we were there for Sher's birthday. I have her cookbooks and all the little notes, Scriptures, recipes stuck inside, the yellow one from the phone company, her favorite one to use. I found some plump raisins in her cannister, so I baked a cake in her memory and shared it with my work family. This weekend I'll take a meat loaf to Sher. Mama had made her one sometime in July when she was there, and it'll be good sharing it, maybe eating out on the deck.
So we focus on the memories, the great times. We remember her struggle, but her great strength. We remember her pain, but her joy in her kids and the simple things she could still do: getting her hair fixed (the day before she died the aides had washed her hair with a special cap and I remarked about her clean hair, and she gave a simple hmph, as if to say, "I'm sure it looks just great!" She kept her sense of humor and style to the very end!), going to Wal-Mart, watering her ferns, watching Dr. Charles Stanley on TV, reading her Bible, talking to us and her friends on the phone, stepping out on the front porch and waving or talking to Mike, depending so much on Steve who took her to doctors' appointments. We remember her being so sick, but we rejoice in her perfect healing now with Jesus.
Dear Lord, Mama went to be with You on September 1. Please tell her hi for us
and that we love her.
Thank You for taking such good care of her.
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