Category: Mom

stories of hope in healing and found forgiveness

Cautionary Cake

On By LisaIn Arrow, MomLeave a comment

Every August 15th I bake a German Chocolate cake even though no one in this house eats it. Well I do but I can’t eat the whole thing myself. I have taken to only putting the coconut icing on half so that my Chef will eat some of the cake, his aversion to all things coconut winning out over his love of pecans. I make the cake anyway, once a year and have since 1998. I make it for my older brother on his birthday, it was his favorite.

I’m not one for visiting gravesite, my sister-in-law is so faithful at this. She ensures my mother always has flowers and a grave blanket in winter, something that was really important to mom. She and my little brother go to all the graves and then send me pictures of their work. I went right after mom died, right after Joe died, but then rarely go back. They aren’t there.  So I bake a cake and remember my older brother, focus on the good times and try not to beat the eggs too roughly as my anger rises again.

Everything good in my little brother was missing in my older brother. I can explain it away by the high fevers he had as a toddler, the extra time he spent with our abusive father, the addiction that grabbed him as he hit his tweens. He was just a shit. He stole from us, mom’s keepsakes from her mother, my babysitting money. He introduced both his younger siblings to drugs and alcohol and then told mom on us, reaping the rewards of the confiscated goods and gaining points with her. He was a shit but God was he charming. Four years older than me, with a group of rowdy friends, always ready to party, always laughing. My friends thought he was gorgeous, wanted to be around him. I tried to escape him, his bullying and late night parties when mom went away. I loved him because he was my brother and hated that he was my brother, that I couldn’t turn my back all the way on him.

My mother learned to enable as a child with her own father, she hid his bottles from her own mother, told lies to protect him. She did no less for her son. Fresh starts broken promises money slid across the table. Leftovers always packaged for him to grab, no need for him to spend his money on food. This boy never had to grow up even when he fathered a child. We all stepped in and began to provide for this beautiful boy because my brother would rather buy beer than baby bottles. My sister-in-law raised this boy into man who has his own family and provides for them. A man to be proud of, a man my brother never got to know.

My brother killed himself in 1997. He finally gave up, stopped fighting his desire to use drugs and to drink. He wanted more and had no idea how to ever get there, at 37 years of age and most of his life high. Friends had gone on to college, gotten married, were raising their kids instead of hell. He gave up after dozens of times calling me threatening to do so, me talking him down. He didn’t call me this time. His life has been a cautionary tale for the nieces and nephews he barely knew. We can’t play with substances like other families. We have bad genes. His life was not wasted even though he mostly always was. I grew strength, resolve, to stand strong in the face of my own son’s use. I left him in rehabs while he begged to come home. When he made promises and pledges that I knew were lies and out of his control to keep, I walked away and into a parents group. I testified to judges about addiction and the need for help and not just incarceration. I have fought with and for my son.  I have fought the urge to enable with every breath. I have seen the outcome. I don’t want to see pictures of a gravesite my sister-in-law has decorated for me. I don’t want to bake a cake for him that no one will eat.

Every August 15th I bake a cake. By August 20th it is in the trash.   Wasted, no more candles ever. A cautionary German Chocolate cake. And I remember my brother.

Hands

On By LisaIn Faith, MomLeave a comment

I wrote about my conflicted relationship with my mother after she suffered a stroke, her first one, not the big one. This morning Facebook showed me a picture of our hands and a link to that post. This is the original:

  • I have been openly mad at her since ’95.  I was probably always mad at her, always wanting more than she could give but that was the breaking point.  She chose reputation over responsibility, her name over honesty and lies over her love for me.  It took the death of my brother to open the doors again but I never let them go very wide.  Without trust, relationships are really just drive-bys.  So we circled around each other and tried to find a way in, a way back.  Then she started using pain meds like I eat M&M’s and once again it became clear she would never be the mother I wanted.  More backing away, more superficiality.  Weeks would go by and I wouldn’t talk to her and it wouldn’t bother me.  She stopped coming to family events, became a joke when it was time to send out invites.  We all learned not to count on her and we all pretended we didn’t care.
  • Two days ago my step father called to tell me in agonizing detail how he thought maybe she was sleeping longer than usual, how he later, yes, later went to check on her… detail after detail before he finally responded to my “Bob, is she alright?”   She wasn’t.  She isn’t.  Sixty years at 2 packs a day plus 10 years of pain meds that would make Intervention shocked led to an inability to breathe deeply enough to rid her body of the carbon dioxide.  She may as well be in the garage with my brother, whose death she has never recovered from.   We are left with the choice of treating her pain and thus killing her or clearing her lungs and leaving her in excruciating pain.  Add to the mix that she is so disoriented and confused that she by turns doesn’t recognize us or can’t bear for us to leave.  She has no idea where she is and often can’t string a sentence together.  Nine hours of “please help me, please, I am begging you, please someone help me, please Lisa won’t you help me” gave way to more pain meds and higher CO2 levels today.  I have about a 5 minute tolerance for the begging and pleading by a 75 year old woman.  Fortunately my brother and the hospital staff support this decision as well.
  • When the priest came in last night to administer last rites, I felt no spiritual connection, I felt no presence of the Holy Spirit.  I felt shocked that this man could so easily forgive her sins and send her on to Jesus when I still was holding on.  Holding on to all those times she let me down, hurt me, didn’t seem to care.  But a weird thing happened today:  all I could remember were the times we went shopping and laughed until we cried.  How I used to call her every day.  Every day.  For years.  How I learned to cook from her and used to call her and ask for Betty Crocker.  I started to remember how much I loved her at one time and I really wish I hadn’t remembered that.  Because now this really hurts.  Because I still do.

Facebook, using an impersonal algorithm that chooses important events in my life, decided I needed to remember. My first response outrage, tinted with the ugly colors of self-pity. I really need no help remembering loses. But my eyes kept going back to the picture, our hands united. I have a fascination with hands. I notice people’s hands like others notice eyes or clothes. Hands tell me how hard someone works, of course, with callouses, but other work doesn’t produce those. I look for scars, for how well the nails are maintained. That tells me how much self-care the person practices. I seek signs of anxiety around the nails, a bit of dirt or flour from time in the garden or kitchen. Any paint flecks? More still, I watch how each person uses their hands. Do they gently ruffle a child’s hair, any child that happens by? Do their hands stay in constant flight as they speak, creating words and song to animate the conversation? Is there a hand free ever to pat the back of a stranger, a friend as they meet? One free to wave? Are their arms always full, to create a protective barrier while doing good works? I have created my own hand evaluation measures. Probably quite flawed but it works for me.

Thus, I kept looking at my hands clasped with mom’s and saw more. Now with eyes grown accustomed to life without her, life lived with many more hurts and celebrations she has missed. I looked at her bruised hands, the nails she took such pride in, remembering every Sunday night she set up her station to remove the polish from that week, began filing and reapplying the color for the week ahead. I don’t know that my mother ever had her nails done professionally. I have never grown nails like her. I rarely polish my nails, she had an office job, I work in kitchens and play in mud. I also noticed the ring she was wearing, one always on her hand. It was one she had created from the stone from her wedding ring from my father, I believe. That ring now graces my hand, a daily reminder of where I came from,   a piece of my mom always with me. I’m not sure why I wanted that ring, the only thing besides her recipe books that I asked for. I haven’t dug too deeply into my motivation, I wear very little jewelry, I certainly don’t wear big diamonds. My nails don’t do justice to such a beautiful piece. It hasn’t left my hand though since the first time I put it on.

I carry my mother with me, our differences evident in our hands. Mine is tattooed now with a charm bracelet, each charm signifying a member of my family and one for my faith and friends. I know she would ache at our current hurts, she would delight in our grandson. I am grateful for my mother, the woman who gave me these hands. Hands to type, hands to ruffle my Plum’s hair. She gave me a chance to make the next generation better.  She set me free to become my own woman, away from old hurts. I pray I do her working hands justice. Her hands remind me she loved hard, she tried, she hurt much. She  is my mom, bruises and all.

Bridges and Magpies

On By LisaIn Faith, Mom, Plum, StellaLeave a comment

Touring the stalls of the Round the Fountain Art Fair, I was transported to times I had made the laps with my daughter.  Silver jewelry, funky collages, exquisite paintings captured our interest.  As an artist herself, Stella took in more than me.  I watched her more, swelling with pride as she spoke with the artisans.  I saw my little girl, growing into a woman.  One stall in particular captured her interest: the picture of a magpie, key in its beak surrounded by stolen items.  It reminded her of her time in South Korea, a purchase she had to make.

Yesterday I walked back into time, back into the stall of this same artist.  I purchased my own bit from her, a block of wood painted with funky designs describing a love of travel.  I felt connected to my far away daughter.  As I was paying, I mentioned the magpie purchase many years ago.  She remembered my daughter, remembered their talk.  She asked where she was, how she was.  I pretended I knew.  Like the magpie, I only have stolen bits of information, bits I keep closely guarded lest my treasures disappear.

My grandson accompanied my friend and I on this outing, was really too tired to go yet it was too early for a nap.  He quickly became bored although he enjoyed asking the first 5 or so artists if they had made the creations in their stall and then issuing a compliment.  “I really like what you made.”  “I really like your stuff.” Soon discovering dogs to pet, ledges to climb, he found freedom from touring boring things he wasn’t allowed to touch.  We moved too slowly for him, he pulled us faster than we wanted.

My friend, K, who met us there is one of the last my daughter has allowed contact with.  K is my closest friend from college days.  A friend who heard all my old secrets, knew my mom, sees my soul.  My daughter knows K well, Stella knows she is a safe person to allow a little flow of information with.  Stella meets her on the bridge of Facebook sometimes. I didn’t realize K had taken a picture of my Plum until it was done, didn’t know her intention.  Later she sent it to Stella, poking the bear a bit.  I was on the edge the frame.  K also sent me a picture of my granddaughter, her mama on the edges as well.   Her scrunched-up face took me back to images buried in a chest upstairs, images tucked in my mind.  Another little girl I had known so long ago.  I found them, made a collage, sent them to K.  Maybe she sent them on, baby pictures Stella doesn’t have. A history she has cut off.

I sensed the tug of time at the art fair.  A bridge between generations, allowing the next child to explore art and this one to pretend for a moment we can go back.  I searched for sadness all day, came up empty.  I found a sense of peace, a letting go that comes from traveling to a new place and finding something familiar there.  Just enough to keep me grounded, not enough to bury me. I watched my Plum climb on ledges, jump off without fear.  He rolled down the grassy hills, walked barefoot and wanted carried.  He was free among the creations, crossing the bridge between buying art and living it.  I traveled to the art fair and carried home new memories.  The magpie can’t steal these, stored up in my heart.

 

Straight Lines

On By LisaIn Mom, The ChefLeave a comment

I finally got my push mower.  Every year I ask my husband for one as a gift, mother’s day, Christmas, my birthday.  I could buy it myself but needed not only the machine but the acknowledgment that I would step into his space.  He mows on his rider with a headset on, listening to music, getting lost in making beautiful golf course designs, as much as possible in our dog destroyed yard.  I, on the other hand, wanted my mower in order to be walking those lines, to create order from chaos,  to be in charge.

As an adolescent, I often got to mow even though I had two brothers who were supposed to handle this chore.  They avoided it, I jumped at the chance.  I realize now the anxiety was stilled as I pushed the mower and followed the lines, knowing exactly where to go, progress evident.  My need for safety screamed out as I diligently pushed on, daring not miss a blade.  Tires in the track of the last row, perfect.  Controlling my world, for the moment.

I experienced horrific sexual abuse as a child. My earliest memory, a 3 year old, laying on the bed, while my father molested my body.  I was watching from above.  The abuse would these days make national headlines if detected, a ring of men who shared their little girls.  It was the 60’s though and no one talked.  My mother either didn’t know or couldn’t see.  She married an alcoholic, like her father, her troubles were great.  She worked constantly in order to keep us clothed and fed.  Finally, after catching him in affair, She had enough.  It was okay to cheat with your child, other peoples children, just not another adult.  Something broke through her denial.

After my parents divorced, my abuse stopped and I was safe, for about a year.  Mom moved us into a smaller house, I loved it.  My little brother and I got roller skates and new hooded jackets, sliding down the driveway carefree.  The greatest year of my childhood.

Then they remarried.  He joined us in our tiny home.  As the only girl, I had my own bedroom while the boys shared.  I remember vividly my father coming into my room to store his stuff in my closet.  My room was no longer safe.  My new home was now a place of fear.  He always had an excuse to be in there, should anyone bother to ask. I don’t think they did.  I remember thinking that I had everything exactly as I wanted it in my closet, there was no room for him.  I was a child who kept her room spotless, no messes ever.  I couldn’t handle the clutter, everything always had to be perfect.  One of my father’s favorite things to do was hide somewhere in the house and jump out at me as I passed by, scaring me.  He thought it was hilarious.  I was terrified. He destroyed my sanctuary, my sense of control.  I remember little else from that home, after he intruded.  We moved to a bigger home at some point, he died when I was 14.

I wasn’t free from him for many years, still carry the scars of his abuse.  I continue to avoid clutter, I search for perfection.  I seek to control my environment to avoid surprises.  I mow the yard in straight lines, pushing forward, creating beauty, stilling the inner voice that asks, “what is right around the corner?”  I can see where I have been, where I need to go.  For the moment, it is enough.

Mom still

On By LisaIn Arrow, Mom, StellaLeave a comment

 

We watched her take her last breath, held her hand and played music as she crossed over, 4 years ago today.  Still so fresh in my memory, a memory that seems to be failing more and more.  The constant in my life was gone.  Such a complicated relationship, she was a complicated woman.  Her life was never easy, time has given me the chance to forgive and the distance to see her with more forgiveness and grace.

I think of all that she has missed and would delight in.   She would love my grandson, her great granddaughters.  She would see the similarities in us, would tell stories that I have forgotten.  She would be so proud of my brother in all that he has accomplished, would grow ever closer to my sister-in-law, whom she adored.  My husband, whom she loved to tease, had an easier rapport with her, something I was slightly jealous of sometimes.  She took comfort in our love for each other.  She would have loved to hear about our trips and our dogs would bring her immense pleasure.  To hear that her granddaughter is living on her own in Indianapolis, working, rescuing dogs, Mom would have been secretly envious and oh so proud.  The trip my sister-in-law just took would have reminded her of times the 3 of us went, the laughs we had.  She would love the closeness we still share.

But she has also been spared much pain.  I can’t imagine telling her about Stella, I just can’t.  It would break her heart.  And if Stella cut her off too, which I imagine would have inevitably happened, the pain would have been even greater for me.  Arrow’s relapse would have hurt her deeply, reminding her of her own son that just was too far out of reach.  Another grandson on the fringe would have caused great worry.

I understand that it was her time.  I still just want to show her pictures and tell her what I ate and tell her what my dogs did today.  I want to tell her that I love her and that I am glad she is spared the pain of this world but I sure wish she could share in our joy. I want her to see the videos my niece makes and watch my grandson build legos.  I want to talk recipes again.  After all this time, I still miss my mom.

Coats

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

The catalogs come, the flyers in the paper, the ads with great bargains and ideas for holiday shopping.  My list this year is filled with legos and flannel shirts and men’s socks. Arrow’s needs are so great it is too easy to find things for him.  Plum still wants every toy in the ads but no dolls, nothing pink or frilly.  Chef is always the hardest, most particular.  Same things every year, few surprises.  For the first time in 27 years, I won’t be buying anything for my daughter, the girl who has now decided she doesn’t want her mother.  I won’t be sending packages to her daughter either, not knowing if she gets them or they are discarded.  Money is too precious.  Last year I sent the special nail polish for babies that Stella wanted, put that in the stockings we sent.  I never saw little toes with pink or purple nails.  I didn’t even get the stockings back, which match our collection.  I persevered for a while, sending books and toys for my granddaughter but finally gave in to Stella’s desire to be left alone.

The ads with little girls in warm winter coats call to me, beg me to carry on the tradition begun with my grandmother.  She always purchased our winter coats, knowing what a help this would be to my parents as they struggled financially.  My mother continued on when my kids were little, the help coming at just the right time.  She was able to buy the heavier, warmer coats that were out of our budget, not caring that the kids would grow out of them each season.  I bought warm clothes for my granddaughter for her first two seasons, to carry her through, but it is time again for a coat.   Too many times I have selected the coat, carried it throughout the store, made it all the way to the checkout, only to stop.  Defeated, I put it aside and rush from the store, into my car with the tears threatening to alarm holiday shoppers.

I found several adorable outfits in one store that I couldn’t resist.  I took my time putting together leggings with tops and little poncho covers, found ways to mix and match to help a mama get the most out of the outfits.  Satisfied, I purchased the lot, not making eye contact or responding to the clerk’s attempts at small talk.  When the charge came across Chef’s alert, he called and I had to confess that I just wanted so desperately to pretend that I have a granddaughter, that I get to shop for her as well.  Back to the store I went, no eye contact, more tears.

I haven’t bought any Tom’s for Stella, none of the sweaters she would love, no boots, no socks, no chocolate covered cherries or make up for her stocking.  I haven’t stashed away the special avon dew kiss lip gloss she likes for the winter.  The boxes of beignet mix stay on the shelves.  Bath and Body works will get none of my money, there will be no cherry blossom lotion sent this year.

Skype tells me I last used it Dec 25, 2014 at 12:37 am.  An application I once praised as straight from God, one that kept me connected to my sweet girl so far away, now is taking up memory on my mac. If only I had recorded those sessions, to visit with her again and again.  If shopping and visiting on line are indications of relationship health, we are dead.  Can anything resurrect us?  I have lived in this town for 20 years, avoiding roads and areas that hold horror.  Now I find myself averting my eyes when toddling chubby cheeked girls with fuzzy brown hair are giggling with their mamas, the desire to rush in overwhelming.  I avoid foods that remind me of Stella, no longer able to find an appetite at all.  I search out willowy blonds on campus and then hate that I am still seeking where I know nothing will be found.  More and more to avoid, until it is easier to stay in bed.

The story of the prodigal son happened, right?  Our son came back and we have celebrated him, fatted calf and all.  But the obedient child chose to leave, not sticking around to finish out the parable.  Maybe she was the prodigal all along.  Clearly I missed something.  I am sure of one thing, I would welcome her back with open arms and Tom’s and dew kiss and sweaters and boots.  And me.

Which State is Grace?

On By LisaIn Faith, MomLeave a comment

We were told we could celebrate the last communion with my mother if we were in a state of grace and then they defined it by their very catholic terms.  We weren’t in the club, didn’t know the handshake but they sure encouraged us to get to know Jesus, all while singing “One Bread, One Body, One Lord of All.”  The hypocrisy infuriated me even though I had chosen to leave the pope and his followers’ years ago.

Grace?  I can’t imagine being deeper in a state of grace.  We spent 2 days in neuro critical care and 3 days in hospice, cloaked in nursing care that felt more like mission work.  The men and women who bathed, moved, dosed my mother never left the room without asking what they could do for each one of us.  They talked to my mom, they talked to us.  They all knew our names. They hugged us and gave us room to cry and laugh.  They did not ask questions about how many times we had visited in the last year and if we had told her we were sorry.

Friends far and near used social networking sites and texts to send hugs, sweet messages, offers of help at home.  Dogs were fed, beds arranged, schedules were changed.

Grandkids that couldn’t come and shouldn’t come were kept at bay, memories intact.  Thousands of miles in travel and not one incident.

As we finally gathered to lay her to rest, the only judgment, the least act of grace came from the church.  Gone was the comfort, gone was the inclusiveness of sharing our loss among the many to bear the load.  We were divided along their lines, so many of us found lacking.

We asked for a catholic mass because that is what mom would have wanted.  But she would have hated how we all felt, so left out.  “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith–and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God–.” (Ephesians 2:8)  Guess I have a different bible than Fr. Ted.  What I do know is that we experienced both mercy and grace throughout this week, in the people God sent to care for us.  We knew Jesus because He was there bathing my mother, He was there meticulously arranging her pillows and her nightgown, He was there with cookies and magazines, with cupcakes and guidance when I didn’t know how to get back.  He was there telling my husband to get back to the hospital after I had sent him home.  He was there telling my brother’s best friend this is the time to visit.

We confessed our sins to mom and to each other.  We sought forgiveness for long ago wrongs, let tears wash away the dirt of secrets and hurts. We nurtured each other, we retold stories for adult perspective.  We offered peace, we gave our gifts.   I can’t imagine a more graceful ending.

You can keep your wafers, we communed with God all week.

Radical Breathing

On By LisaIn Faith, Mom, The Chef5 Comments

He was seriously starting to piss me off. I said I was fine, I said it was too cold, I said I didn’t want to go. So Scott put on his swim vest and joined the others in the snorkeling pool, periodically rising to say ”it’s so pretty, c’mon out” but my feet were rooted to the sand, my ass to the rock and my mind to the hospital room with my mother. I could hear the respirator breathe for her. I could hear the moistness of the tubing and the machine clicking the numbers. And then he would pop up again and ask me to look at the size of this stingray. But I could only see the size of her hands as they swelled, could only hear that breathing.

Then he really got obnoxious and asked “please.” For God’s sake, we are adults and rarely have to use those kinds of tactics on each other. “Please join me, please go get a wetsuit. Please .“ I nodded yes, but my mind was screaming “don’t you know I can’t breathe with that, I will die, I will drown, I will never wake up?” but I went to the wetsuit hut, stomping as much as I could in sand. Then I wandered slowly back, knowing he would have forgotten me, long gone with the group and the fish. I could sit back on my rock, safely breathing.

But he looked up and then left the water to zip up my suit. He took my hand and led me to the water. He stayed with me while I got acustomed to the temp. He arranged my goggles and attached my snorkel. He said we were ready. Just go under. Just dip your face under. I started to and realized with panic that I couldn’t breathe. I forgot how, I wasn’t even under the water, I couldn’t catch my breath, I needed out. And he stopped me.

“Just Breathe normally.”

What? Completely radical instructions. I was looking for the way to stay alive, to keep from getting water in the goggles, in the tube, in my lungs. I was looking how to not do whatever would make those machines start. I looked into his eyes, followed his steps, and breathed normally. And it worked. And I didn’t die and I didn’t hear machines. I saw fish.

I still sputtered a couple of times and I did hyperventalate when I forgot how to breathe normally…. Then I got back on track. And I swam with fish today, 3 weeks after my mother died. I thought of her all day. I thought of how I hated that she stopped living long before machines did her breathing. And I am so deeply grateful for a husband who refused to let me do the same thing.

Ava Maria on my IPhone

On By LisaIn Faith, MomLeave a comment

Her breathing became our obsession.  The number on the machine said 12 and even though the respirator was doing the work, I knew that 12 meant she was still alive.  We felt a flicker of hope when it shot up to 14 or 20, learning it meant mom was “over-breathing” the respirator but both our hope and the extra effort were short lived.  By the time they moved her to the neuro critical care, the machine was frozen at 12.  Still I stared.  The neurosurgeon showed us scans of mom’s brain, gently gave us clear indications of prognosis and life after this kind of stroke, yet it was still hard to see.  We had done this so many times; talking to serious doctors had lost the gravity.  How many times had my phone rang, hearing “Lisa, Your mom’s in the hospital, you better come over”?  I foolishly missed the lesson of those dry runs.  I still wasn’t prepared.

We made the decision to stop the ventilator; we all prepped for a horrid goodbye.  They sent us out of the room; assuring us they would rush us right back in once the medical folks did all they needed to.  They rushed, we rushed, mom held on.  The machine said 12 still.  And 17 sometimes.   When everyone left me alone with her for a bit I played music on my phone.  I waited for the numbers to go up, to show how pleased she was with me.  There was no movement.

We watched while her body fought, refusing to die while for years it seemed she had refused to live.  A half century or more of smoking multiple packs didn’t seem to diminish her heart or lungs, she fought on.  And I got angry.  Where was this will power these last years?  Was she choosing this just to show she was in charge, always?  Was I mad because she wouldn’t die or because she wouldn’t live.  Or because I waited for her to say she was sorry and I never did.

They moved us to hospice, took away our machines so we couldn’t watch the numbers.  So we listened.  For days, we listened to the tortured breathing of a dying woman and wondered is she really dying?  Repeatedly we were assured she was only functioning from the neck down and was slowing down.  We knew this because now we counted.  Even in our sleep, we sat up when a pause became too long.  When the pattern changed, when she began to pant, we exchanged looks.  A return from a coffee run would be met with,” she’s at 8.”  “She’s back up to 14.”  “it seems really raggedy”.

Often we asked them to do something, to suction her out, to stop the drowning sounds.  And they did, until they couldn’t anymore.  They moved her, rolled her, made her more comfortable, all the while we knew she was gone but she was here.  Her hands were swelling; her rings had to be cut off.  They talked to her gently, we did too. I forgave her, I asked her to forgive me, whispered words of love from grandkids too far away, assurances of love and gratitude.  I began to remember the good times.  Where the hell had those memories been?  We told her it was alright to go, to be at peace.   We told stories, we laughed, we dozed, we held on with her from Sunday until Wednesday evening when she changed her breathing one last time.

She spiked a fever and her color changed dramatically, again they rushed us out and said they would rush us in.  They bathed her in lavender and prepared her, an anointing.  The lavender was calming for all of us and we again began our vigil, having had too many close calls to really feel like this was it.

I was holding her hand up, trying to push some of the fluids back out, rubbing gently over the bruises and the sores.  Everyone was chatting.  And she stopped fighting.  She just stopped the racking breaths, the chest rolling fight.  I looked around the room to see who noticed and felt panic in my soul, paralyzed with fear.  All of the close calls before and this was so very clearly it.  I could have saved so much worrying.  But I couldn’t move.  My brother hurried up to her face and whispered to her, ”yes, yes, yes, just rest.  Yes, just rest. Just let go.”

Yes… yes……yes in time with her breathing.  And with that my little brother released us all.