LOSING MOM - Part 22
Mom’s 89th birthday dawned sunny and bright, a welcome reprieve from the gray March weather of the past few days. Mom also woke up in brighter spirits than we’d seen for a while - maybe because of the sunshine, but more likely because Lib had arrived back the evening before so Mom had all three daughters in one place again.
It was a good day...well, at least until it wasn’t. After picking at her food the past week, Mom ate a good breakfast and allowed the aide to give her a sponge bath and change her hospital gown without too much resistance.
Flowers arrived from all of her grandchildren, a beautiful bouquet of tulips, freesia and anemone in varying shades of violet and purple. Not too big and not too small, the splash of vibrant color in the otherwise drab room brought a smile to Mom’s face that even made it up to her eyes.
The morning passed quietly as we took turns opening and reading the numerous birthday cards that had been piling up the past few days in her mailbox at Swan Creek, many from friends who hadn’t yet heard about Mom’s situation. To be honest, those innocent happy birthday wishes were a welcome respite from the sad 'thinking of you' missives she'd been getting, even as we had to note the names of the senders to let them know later that Mom was in Hospice.
The saddest/happiest moment, though, at least for me, was giving Mom a photo album I’d put together in honor of the upcoming 100-year-anniversary of our summer place in Maine. Filled with old photographs from the year her grandfather had built it in 1917, up to the past summer when all 18 of us had been there for what, sadly, would turn out to be Mom’s last time, the album was full of the history of the place we all loved so much.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I turned the pages slowly so Mom could follow along as I read the poem I’d written to accompany the pictures, a fervent attempt to keep safe the treasure trove of memories I’d grown up hearing over the years. But even as my heart filled seeing how happy this gift was making her, it was also quietly breaking knowing that she would never be there again.
Maine without Mom seemed impossible. In all of my 59 years I’d never been there without her, and though I’d been preparing myself for its eventuality the past few summers, the reality that she was never going back to her beloved camp again was devastating. It took every ounce of strength to keep down the lump of unshed tears throbbing in my throat as I turned page after page of memories.
Don’t cry, Peggy, don’t cry, I kept telling myself. You can’t cry. Just keep reading. It’s okay. It’s okay.
The first time it really sank in that there would, in fact, be a last summer in Maine for Mom had been about 8 years before. She was maybe around 80, definitely before her many health issues had set in, so still able to be up there on her own for extended periods, but not as able to open the camp for the season by herself as she always had. Living the closest to Maine, I offered to go up with her for a couple of days at the beginning to help out and, thankfully, she accepted.
I hadn’t arrived in Maine with Mom since I was a teenager, and it was so much fun to be with her again as we turned down the bumpy, rutted driveway for the first time since the summer before. Her excitement was palpable as she sat forward on the passenger seat in anticipation of that first glimpse of the camp as we rounded the bend - the cluster of white-shingled buildings vivid against the blue and green backdrop of river and woods.
Pulling into the parking area, we smiled at each other happily, sitting for a moment as the sound from the tires on the loose gravel driveway echoed away into the hushed quiet of the late afternoon summer day.
“We made it!” Relieved to have the long trip behind us, I eagerly opened the door and stepped out of the car, stretching my arms wide as if to embrace a long lost friend. Inhaling deeply, I relished that first breath of Maine air, a sweet mixture of fresh cut grass, saltwater and pine.
“God I love that smell!” I sighed with contentment, savoring the moment that I honestly dreamed about all winter.
Mom smiled, but didn’t say anything, so I stayed quiet, too, as we slowly made our way over the newly mowed lawn down to the camp. She walked much like a general inspecting her troops, arms crossed behind her back, eyes critically surveying the outbuildings and gardens for any damage the harsh Maine winter may have incurred.
Reaching the wide, stone steps that lead down to the camp, a large one-room cabin built on a rock bluff, Mom paused briefly before placing one hand firmly on the wood railing to steady herself, then carefully making her way down the stairs one at a time.
She paused again just outside the front door, her gaze joyfully taking in the familiar expanse of river and shoreline that spread out before us.
‘Hello river!” she whispered softly. “I made it back!”
Her words hung in the air between us for a moment, and I realized it had never occurred to me that Mom was at an age when there was no guarantee she’d make it one summer to the next. That when she had left the year before she didn’t know if she'd ever be back.
I suppose there’s really no guarantee for anyone, but still...death is just that much closer when you're in your eighties.
Standing next to her, I took in the familiar vista of pine-dotted islands that specked the wide sweep of blue water, backed by the rolling hills of the rocky, Canadian shoreline that banked the other side, and tried to imagine myself at Mom’s age, not knowing from one year to the next if I would ever look out at it again. It was already hard enough to say goodbye when I had to leave - standing on the porch my last morning I'd look out at the river, amazed that it would somehow continue to exist without me there to look at it. That I could exist without it.
How hard it must be for her now when she has to go home, I thought sadly. And she’s never let on.
But then I remembered some advice she’d given me a few years before when, for the first time in my life, I had stayed for an extra week after all the kids had left. For 10 whole days we’d had the entire family there - 14 of us buzzing around each other like so many bees in a hive - always someone to talk to, or do something with. I was so sad when the last car drove away, the kids’ sudden absence like a vacuum sucking up any remaining energy left in their wake, and I honestly felt physically unwell, nauseous, in fact, when I would pass by their empty rooms.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Mom reassured me when I tried to describe how I was feeling, ‘and it’s no fun. Luckily it doesn’t last forever, I promise. But I told myself from the beginning, and especially after Dad died, that if I couldn’t handle being sad when you kids left, then I just shouldn’t come. Kay, I’d say to myself, you have to be able to take the sad with the happy.”
Such a Mom-ism, but it turned out she was right. After a couple of days the sadness dissipated and the void that the kids had left filled up with the happy memories they’d also left behind.
I guess happy will always trump sad if we let it, I concluded, glancing over at Mom who was still, happily, gazing out at the river. We just have to remember to let it.
A few moments later she turned to go inside, so I quickly stepped in front of her to push the old glass-paned wood door open, heavy and sticky with age as it was. We stood for a minute just inside, letting our eyes adjust to the dimness as we surveyed the large room before us, unchanged since I’d been a little girl.
Unchanged that is except for the generations of memories that were swirling in and out of the rafters, welcoming us back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I closed the album and handed it to Mom, who held it up to her chest and smiled, “It’s just the right size.”
“It’ll be nice to have it when new people come to visit,” I agreed. “We won’t have to pull out all those dusty, old albums. We’ll have this little story.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mom murmured, her voice still weak despite her brighter spirits. “Thank you.”
Just then Dora, one of Mom’s dearest friends, appeared in the doorway, and much to our surprise, Mom welcomed her in happily. Maybe it was the box of cupcakes she brought with her, or maybe it was simply Dora’s sweet nature, but somehow Mom didn’t seem to mind having her there.
“Don’t tell anyone!” I whispered as I hugged Dora tight, half-joking, half-not.
Sal, Lib and I left them alone for a little while, going out to the sun room to give them a chance to chat. When Mom’s lunch arrived we went back in, and before Dora left we lit a candle on a cupcake and sang Happy Birthday, the nurses and aides coming in to join us before dispersing for the 12:00 medicine rounds.
Dora left, and Mom closed her eyes.
And she didn't open them again for almost a week.
*Note to Reader: This is a story in progress, so I am sharing it as I write it, as a way to spur me on. If you're interested in following along, here is the link to the others I've written so far. Thanks!