Changes

I suppose by now everyone who knows me also knows my mother passed away just after dawn on April 29, 2011.  My phone rang at 0230 that morning.  A nurse from the rehab center was on the other end of the call.  “Your mother’s condition has changed,” she offered flatly.

“I was planning to come see her tomorrow.  Should I change my plan?”

“I cannot tell you what to do.  All I can tell you is her condition has changed.”

“Thank you for calling.  G’night.”

I hung up the phone and fell into bed.  Sleep drugged my brain, but I felt an annoying uncertainty.  “I don’t suppose that nurse called me in the middle of the night to tell me she was getting better,” I thought to myself.

Then I replayed my visit from the previous day in my head.  Mother had been semi-unresponsive, but we managed a conversation whenever the fog lifted.  After an hour, I told her I had to go, but I would return Saturday, the day after tomorrow.

Without warning, she sat upright in bed, a position that caused her excruciating pain.  She looked me directly in the eye and said, “I love you, Hank!”  She used a loud voice, as if to reach me at a long distance.  It sounded strained, as if speaking was almost impossible.  Then, as quickly as it had come, the light went dim in her eyes and her face became expressionless.

“Are you okay Mom?  Shall I get the nurse?”

She sat still as stone.

“I’ll get the nurse for you – then, I’ll have to head home.  I will return Saturday.

I fetched a nurse and she checked mother’s vital signs.  A physician entered and inspected the wound on her back, taking samples and applying medication.  My mother lay still in her bed.  No spark of life lit her features, but the nurses seemed content that she was stable.  I left for home.

It was 0330 when I poured a cup of strong coffee and hit the highway.  Traffic was mercifully light at this obscene hour and I pressed my speed to the outlaw side of the speedometer.  It was not quite 0500 when I arrived at mother’s bedside.  Other family members showed up and I took a seat by mom’s bed, holding her hand for a long time.  She appeared to be sleeping, but her breath was ragged.  Nurses were in the room, doing what little they could to keep her comfortable.  Most of us stood about the room making quiet small talk until my sister-in-law noticed mom’s breath had slowed dramatically in the past few minutes.  All fell silent and listened.  In, pause, out, went her breath.  In, long pause and then out.  We waited what seemed like an hour for the next breath, but it never came.  The charge nurse stepped to her bedside and held his stethoscope to her chest.  After a few seconds, he looked up at me.

“It is 7:30 a.m.,” I told him.

In a few seconds, we all left the room.  I sat in a padded chair in the hallway while attendants made her “presentable.”  After a time, I went back in to say goodbye.  I found her draped in a clean white gown that covered her from her neck to below her feet.  The attendants neatly brushed her hair and closed her eyes.  There was a palpable silence in the room.  It might have been the first true peace mother had experienced since her birth in 1923.

We each drifted away slowly.  I drove to the funeral home of mother’s choosing and made the final arrangements.  It would be everything she could ask for and more.  The recitation of the Rosary was set for Sunday evening.  Mass of Christian burial and interment would follow on Monday night.

April 29^th was also my eldest grandson’s 6^th birthday.  He graciously agreed to celebrate at the Lego store on Sunday at noon, before returning to the process of saying goodbye to Grandma Lottie.

Saturday provided the time needed to find that black tie – oops – get a new one.  I picked up my suit at cleaners.  Then, I collapsed.  I think I napped and slept straight through to Sunday morning about ten a.m.

That was when things began to get exciting.

…