I'm not always good about keeping my cell phone charged and with me and on and stuff like that. I had it with me that day when Daddy called. I was at work down in the research room when he called. He was calling to tell me he thought that "this is it" and he thought I should come home. The day was February 26, 2003. It was Wednesday.
I burst out crying right there at work and was glad that J was there to help me get out the door. I usually kept to myself and didn't get too personal with J--she had a bit of a rough edge that wasn't entirely pleasant to be around. But at that time I was glad she was there. Crying, I told her that my mom was dying and that I'd be leaving and didn't know when I'd be back. She helped me put my paperwork away, turn my computer off and put my jacket on. She kept saying, "Just go" and I kept saying, "Sorry, I'll try to keep you posted."
Kate is the first person I called. I remember I hadn't even made it to the first stop light yet. I was devastated that I might not make it back in time. She said just to get here safely and that she would fill me in on what was going on with Hospice, the nurses, especially K, with whom Kate was especially impressed. Kate sounded strong and I was glad because I wasn't.
I called David next and told him to please help me get my things and Grace's things together. He asked no questions and was ready to go when I got back from work. I was quiet on the drive to Boone, not crying or talking, just thinking. Hoping that I'd see my mom alive at least one more time. I was so glad I'd stayed the extra night on Sunday and that David covered for me in the nursery at church. And that he'd taken good care of Grace. She was 18 months old. On Sunday, N, Kate and I washed Mama's hair in the living room and then we all watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." It was funny, but I didn't feel well. I had a mild fever when I got back home on Monday and remember talking to Mama on the phone that night. She hoped that I'd feel better.
On Tuesday I called Mama from work and I remember her saying something about just wanting to be normal. I'm sure she did in some ways, especially if normal meant in its most basic definition being healthy and alive. But Mama was far from being normal.
I'd been going to therapy for at least a year and I knew the end was near. My therapist and I were working through ways to have that final conversation with my mom that was right up there with the most difficult things I've ever done. The previous Saturday when I was visiting my mom in the hospital, I mustered up all the courage I had and tried to bring up saying goodbye. I'll never forget the look in her eyes...beady, scared, but unflinching. She just didn't want to go there. I made the very best effort I could but it wasn't good enough. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for back-talking and being snippy as a child, as a teenager, and even as a grown-up, and I wanted her to tell me it was ok, that she forgave me. I wanted to tell her how much strength I got from watching her battle this eight-year illness with every last ounce of fight in her until the bitter end. I wanted her to know how much our road trips to CO meant and that how I found it an honor when people told me I looked like her. I wanted her to be proud of me and I wanted to hear that from her. I desperately wanted her to know that I would bring up Grace Elizabeth knowing about her Grandmama, and also the baby growing in my tummy for whom I silently wept for I knew they'd never meet.
My mom looked at me and told me her stomach hurt and she wanted to talk about cute things Grace was doing lately. I left the room in tears telling N and Mrs. C. that I didn't think she knew how sick she was. Looking back, I think she knew.
On February 26, 2003, I made it back home in time to see my mom alive. She was already back in the "white room" decorated with soothing sights, the most soothing of all, the quilt that S made. My mom's eyes were open, but barely. I stood beside her, held her hand, and smiled and said, "It's Bird, Mama. It's Bird. And Grace and David are here too." My mom said very softly--so softly I wasn't quite sure she said what she said. She said, "Bird Seed." It made me smile. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.
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4 comments:
She would be proud of you Sarah, I'm sure of that, and she would love your blog! We all miss her!
Thank you for writing this, Sarah. I was moved more than you can know. It brought back memories of your mother very strongly to me. I remember speaking with Charles Walker (at Wellborn Service Station) not long after she died. He looked at me very meaningfully and said, "You know, she never complained."
In tears, at work... When Dad died, I wanted to be right beside him... but, I got the call and when I arrived, he was gone. The week before he went, he touched my face with his finger, tracing my features, as if to remember them... I consider that my goodbye to dad... You are a beautiful writer... Love to you...
@Jim: There's no one like Charlie Walker, even after all of these years. When I was in Boone over either T-Giving or Christmas, I needed a headlight replaced. Of course I went to Wellborn's. He was there, I reminded him of who I was, filled him in on my family's life, and we too had a meaningful exchange.
@Anonymous: That is so touching about your dad tracing his face. Thanks for sharing that. Love to you too. If you keep reading as I post about the rest of the days home in Boone while my mom was dying, you'll read that even though I was there for 10 days understanding that her last breath could be at any moment. Several times we thought 'this is it' only for her to hang on more hours and days. When her final breath did come, I just so happened NOT to be right beside her. It doesn't take away anything from the experience I've internalized about her death. I think about her and miss her every single day, just as I'm sure you do your dad.
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