The morning after

It's 6:30 in the morning. Erin and D are sleeping quietly on Craig's pull-out couch as I type. I just gave C his morning meds; our energy is now focused on helping C through his process, just like we promised Mom and just as she wanted. He seems slightly better than he was a few days ago, and has had fewer anxiety attacks/vomiting episodes. Strange Craig-esque body gestures are still common, however; he was pointing his arm towards the ceiling when I entered his room this morning – a common Craig move these days. We’ll learn tomorrow the results of his latest CT scan.

It's hard to know where we are in all of this, but for Craig, it’s especially difficult. I can't imagine what he must be feeling. We called C yesterday morning to touch base with him on Mom’s process. He had left the evening before to get some rest. We told C that Mom was nearing the end of her process, but that she would want him to take care of himself, and that we’d be there for him should he wish to stay at home. Still, he mustered the energy to travel the thirty minutes from his apartment to the hospital, just to be with her one more time. Mom held on while he was there, and shortly after he left, she began her process. It was as if she was waiting, as if she knew that it would be best for Craigy for him not to see. Throughout her stay in Denver, she constantly asked of his health, and insisted that he put his own before hers. I know he had wanted to be there in her final moments, but he was there with her in the morning, and in all the months and years before. The five of us were all able to spend quality time with her, and were able to say all that needed saying. We were singing, laughing, and sharing stories up until her final moments. That’s what counts, and is exactly what Mom would have wanted. She left with us by her side, and in the most peaceful way -- just as she had wished. Dad, E, D and I held her hand until the end, and told her we loved her. I can say definitively that she left on her own terms, and without regrets.

Though cancer took her body and her ability to speak, she was very much herself, even until her final moments. Her journey with cancer was long and difficult, but you wouldn’t know it from her. Through all the skin tears, the incontinence, the immobility, she embraced her diagnosis with the same no nonsense attitude that’s grown to define her. She laughed when tears seemed more appropriate. I remember a time back in November when she fell back on me, pinning me to her bedroom mattress. We laid there laughing – mom with her body on mine (we took a picture of this). She danced with a hip shake when her feet wouldn’t move. And she said “thank you” with every compliment. Erin and D have a funny story of her telling the CT scan people “thank you for bringing me down for a scan.” It took all her energy to muster the words, but she was able to say them just as the CT folk were leaving her room. She had the nurses and doctors looking out for her notorious one liners and sassy comebacks (e.g. feeling with my fingers). I remember her responding to one of the doctor's question about searching for her legs under all the sheets with “ohhh, believe me, they’re in there.” She was their favorite, and they only saw a fraction of her true personality.

We'll be taking Mom home to Stillwater soon (we're still in Denver), and are planning a service for sometime late next week. Craig and Emily will also join. It's hard. I can't describe it in any other way. No matter how long I've prepared myself, it still doesn't seem real; I can hear her voice so profoundly. Just at dinner last night, I had the sense she was talking to me, telling me in her calm voice that “it’s going to be okay, sweetheart.” I know she's still with us.

Speaking for myself, I’m hanging in there, and feel as though I’m doing well (whatever that means), given the circumstances. The sense of permanence is overwhelming. I'm sad for all of us. We’ll all be reliving moments, remembering the past, and grieving a life without our beautiful Mom. Thankfully, we're talking and sharing our feelings, as they come and without pressure. Last week, E, D, and I took Dad out for Father's Day dinner, and talked, then, about how we were going to get through this. We didn't know the 'getting through' would be so soon, but we're talking and mourning her together. Dad said yesterday that he just lost his life partner of 36 years, the woman he’s built his entire life around. Like us, he’ll see her everywhere, and in everything we do. Some memories will be sad, others will make him smile. He assured us, he’ll be okay and will move on with life, as will I. Being with her throughout this process and sharing in the memories will help ease the grief. There’s peace in knowing that she didn’t suffer and didn’t experience pain. Still, losing mom has left a bruise that will take some time to heal. Until then, we’ve tucked wads of Kleenex into our pockets and sweaters to catch our tears – just like Mom used to do. -- J