A New Life Starts Here
My mother lived until she was 71 years old. As a loving mother and wife, she dedicated her life to
her family. She had enormous patience, cooked a great lasagna, loved to travel, had a thirst for
knowledge, enjoyed writing, put others first, and dedicated much of her time to her church. She had
a deep spiritual understanding and knew that all people were God’s children. Her generosity and love
will never be forgotten.
I came into the picture when my mom was 37. A bit late in the game to still be churning out
children, (I would be number 5) so there was some trepidation on her part. The pregnancy was
blamed on a combination of things: One was a romantic trip to Tahiti. And the other, a bit more
obvious, was my father’s overzealous sexual appetite. And in the case of five children, it doesn’t
really matter where the romantic adventure would take them… Tahiti… Hawaii… Delaware… or
even a freight elevator in the back of an old grain mill. (just a rumor I heard) Whatever obstruction,
obstacle, hitch or hurdle lay before him, he would find a way to sow his seed! And so, I was born.
I’m very thankful for the loving relationship I had with my mother. For the last two years of her life,
I was honored to be in a position to take care of her. She had experienced a stroke several years
before and had lost much of her physical dexterity and some mental skills. However, she was quite
capable if you gave her, and yourself, a little time and patience.
There are moments in the last two years of her life I will never forget. Both good and bad. There
were times I simply took for granted. There are times I would rather forget. However, more
prominent are isolated moments that positively epitomize my relationship with her. These memories
are strong and they get repeated, over and over, like watching my own personal home movie in my
head.
These are my films. These are my stories. My experiences. This is a part of my own personal
inner life. We all have our own inner personal life. My mother had hers. And YOU have yours.
And Regardless of our external relationships with friends and family one fact remains, that each of us
have to live our inner life alone and ultimately die our own death. I don’t know what that will be for
me. Or for anyone for that matter. But it will be our own. No one can go through death for you.
You will do it alone.
I don’t know what that experience was like for my mother, however, I like to imagine the following:
She follows a tunnel towards a blindingly bright light. She can barely make out the spirits of loved
ones, relatives and friends who have already died. Also near her, a loving, warm spirit of a kind
she has never encountered before - a being of light. This being asks her a question, nonverbally,
to make her evaluate her life. To help her along, she is shown a panoramic, instantaneous
playback of the major events of her life.
Death is a transition. It’s a birth into a new existence. I’m not quite ready to find out for myself
what that new existence will be. I’m not finished here on earth. I’ve still got lots to learn. Lots to
do.
As far as my mother is concerned, I too would like to watch an instantaneous playback of her life.
That is a movie I would like to see. I think it would be fun. In fact, when we all die lets make a deal
that we will get together, somewhere on the other side, and have a movie night. It’ll be the
‘Instantaneous Major Events Movie Night’.
Until that time comes, I’ll have to remember the stories that swim around in my head. The movies
that play over and over again. I’ll write them down. I’ll read them out loud. And I’ll share them
with you.
The End
Somebody said, “She’s crying”. I looked up and saw a single tear roll down her face. Somebody
else repeated, “She’s crying, she’s crying”. We all held hands. We held on to each other. We held
on to our mother. We held on as much as we could… and then we let go.
The room was very cold. We were not alone.
A few moments later… she was gone.
The Beginning of the End
We heard our mother call for help. My sister and I ran up the stairs and into my mother’s bedroom.
She was on the floor, reaching out for help. On her forehead a large bump. Already black and blue.
She tried to speak and the left side of her mouth sagged and her words were slurred. She was
soaking wet with perspiration. There was urine on the floor. She couldn’t pull herself up. She
couldn’t move. She was helpless. She was scared. So were we.
We dialed 911.
“I was trying to get to the toilet” she managed to say, slowly slurring her words, “I felt sick to my
stomach”.
Right next to my mother’s bed was a portable toilet. She had been using one for the past few years
because it was becoming more and more difficult for her to walk.
“I couldn’t stand up. My legs don’t work. I fell over and hit my head on the table”
I glanced up and saw the small bedside table. A few things on the table had fallen to the floor. Baby
powder. Tissue paper.
She was lying in a very uncomfortable position. Half on her side, half on her back and her left arm
stretched above her with her head semi-resting on her bicep. Her right arm was reaching out for
something and moving through the air in an awkward motion. It seemed as though she were
balancing herself as she walked along a narrow elevated path. She was obviously very
uncomfortable. However, despite her physical disorientation, she did seem incredibly coherent and
aware of her circumstances.
I pushed the bed against the far wall. Moved the portable toilet out of the way and made a clearing
so my mother could lay comfortably until the paramedics arrived. She held my hand. Periodically
squeezing it tight and releasing. Simultaneously gently rubbing her thumb over the back of my hand.
She had often done this in the past. It was a familiar form of comfort for both of us. When I
dislocated my knee in high school , she held my hand and did the exact same thing. Squeezed tight
like a steady pulse and gently rubbed the back of my hand. It was smooth and gentle with assurance
that everything was going to be okay. She did it for both of us.
When I was about 12 years old we came up with a system of ways to say “I love you” without
embarrassing me in front of my friends. She would hold my hand and squeeze it three times,
meaning the words, ’I love you’. And I would respond with four squeezes, ’I love you too’.
And here we were at the beginning of the end and she was still being the mother. My mother. I was
trying to help her be more comfortable and she was trying to ease my pain. She was squeezing my
hand. Holding it. Rubbing it. For both of us.
I Don’t Have My Underpants
It had come to the point where my mother could no longer take a shower on her own. She needed
someone to stand just outside the shower door, reach in and put soap in her hair, wash her legs and
feet and just help out with the basics. Aside from some minor details, she was very capable. She
could easily take a shower on her own if she had to, however, she was never shy about asking for
help. I always respected her for that; Her ability to ask for help. I, like my father, will never ask
for help. I’d rather do it myself or not do it at all.
One day, after a shower, my mother was standing in the doorway of her bathroom. She was holding
fast to her stainless steel walker. She was butt naked.
“Well, I’m here and I don’t have my underpants!”, she said to anyone within earshot. And
considering I was the only one in the house, I suppose it was meant for me to decipher. I looked up
and gave her a perplexing and somewhat cynical little smile. At first she looked impatient, as if she
should already be wearing her underpants and it’s my fault she was freezing her ass off. Then, a
moment passed. I could see the wheels spinning. She looked at me and played back, in her mind,
the last thing she said.
“Well, I’m here and I don’t have my underpants!”
There are few times I remember my mother laughing really hard. When she did, it was so hard and
intense, I thought she would stop breathing. It always made me nervous and I half expected an
eyeball to pop out and fly across the room and hit me in the forehead.
This was one of those moments. I repeated what she said, “Well, I’m here and I don’t have my
underpants!” and I gave her a funny look and asked, “Is that what you just said?”
She nodded in agreement then shook her head back and forth in disbelief… and laughed…. And
laughed and laughed and laughed... She was slowly bending over her walker, every bit of air was
escaping her lungs as she exhaled one of those long sustained laughs that borderlines crying. I’m was
nervous for her eyeballs. I stood guard, ready to block one if it flew my direction.
I repeated the line again to realize it’s potential. How many times have any of us been caught
without our underpants? Calling out to whomever will listen? “I need my underpants now! Can
someone please get me my underpants for Christ sake!” You have to admit the scenario begs for a
juicy metaphor.
It could compare to a presidential address: “Ask not what your underpants can do for you, but what
you can do for your underpants”
It could be a weather report, “Well I’m here and my butt is cold”
It could mean that someone is late for a dinner, “Well I made it! I’m here! I’m on time! Where the
hell is my date!?”
Homeland security, “We need more protection on our boarders”
The Thinker: “I‘m naked therefore I think…”
Power of positive thinking, “I am here! Look at me! I am here and I don‘t even need my
underpants!”
I would hazard a guess and say even the most enlightened Zen Buddhist monk could sit and ponder
the existence or non-existence of my mother’s simple truth.
“Well, I’m here and I don’t have my underpants”
It’s really not much. But it makes me laugh to the point where I too start to cry. Because
sometimes I feel like I’m here on this planet, naked, a little cold, standing outside my bathroom door,
barely holding on to my support… and lacking a little protection where I’m most vulnerable.
Kansas
For as long as I can remember, my mother’s parents lived in Kansas. (Rumor has it they‘ve lived
elsewhere, it’s just that I’m not old enough to have seen it.) For me, they were entirely Kansas folk.
Simple. Truthful. Responsible. Hard nosed country people who lived through the depression and
survived through the Dust Bowl. Their lives were molded by an old American spirit that is rarely
seen these days. My grandfather passed away in September of 2003. My grandmother still lives in
Garden City Kansas; And at 93 years old, she may not be running any marathons, but by golly, she’
s as fit as a fiddle!
Garden City Kansas, for those that don’t know, is not a ‘garden’ city at all. It’s a name given to a
place that needs a name to represent what the city is not. On a cold snowy day you can take an
enchanting tour through the cities own slaughter house! (I bet money you will become a vegetarian)
On a warm sunny day you can take a trip to the Zoo! (known as, “The oasis on the plains”) On an
average day you can sit in your home and be thankful you don’t have to go anywhere at all.
Despite the town’s luring antidotes for amusement, in May of 2007, my mother and I commandeered
ourselves on board a United Airlines flight bound for this paradoxical city that celebrates both live
exotic animals and those we massacre in great number.
The town’s only saving grace? It was the home of my grandmother. And regardless of all the towns
anti- luxuries, she stands a diamond in the rough. If not for her shinning presence, I would suggest a
large tractor to scoop the entire town from the surface of the earth and fling it into outer space.
However, small towns have their advantage. Baggage claim was a single bench. Some guy carried
your bag from the airplane to the bench. You picked up your bag. That was it. No bells. No digital
flight information. Just Some dude and a bench. So simple. I struck up conversation with one of
the attendants and inquired how to get a taxi for a ride into town. She said, “if you give me ten
minutes, I’ll drive you myself”.
We pulled in to my grandmother’s house and there she was sitting in the garage waiting for us. I
offered the attendant some money for her trouble, but she refused, said she’d feel guilty taking
money, “after all it was on my way home”. We said our pleasantries and waved goodbye.
Grandma had her hair cut at chin length in a bob and was wearing a green polyester pant suit. The
same suit she bought the year I was born. (1972) In fact, her entire wardrobe consisted of clothes
bought between 1955 and 1979. And the funny thing is she’s right back in fashion. That same suit
is probably selling on Melrose for $400. Proves everything does come back around. The world is
running in circles and she just stayed in one place until the rest of us came round for another pass.
My mother found an empty chair and sat down next to her mother and they began their visit.
The term, ‘visit’ is a very quaint phrase. People in the slower states (like Kansas) love to ‘sit and
visit’. Just sit down where ever you are and talk. Maybe look around at the weather and mention a
storm coming. The talking is not nearly as important as the pleasure of just being with somebody.
That’s what you do. You sit there, nod your head, rock back and forth, notice little things like…
dirt… and you visit. Just be thankful you have someone to visit with.
For the rest of the day they sat in the garage and talked. They talked about everything. And then
they nodded their heads, pointed at the storm clouds, looked at the dirt and talked about everything
again.
Now, it’s true that both my mother and grandmother were having to play the memory game of who’s
who and what’s what. It was a struggle for me to watch. Their brains were not what they used to
be. It was extremely tedious and grueling to see two old ladies battle it out over, ‘what was the name
of that man who delivered the milk?’. And a couple times, this led to some heated arguments about
names and places from long ago. They loved to get into the minutia of who, exactly, was at the
family reunion in 1959 and, “what was that special ingredient in old Aunt Trudy’s Methodist Pie?”
They would spend hours talking in circles about absolutely nothing.
In addition to the arguments about simple facts, there was another underlying struggle going on. This
consisted of subtle insults. One of those things that only family members can do to each other. Off
handed remarks that cut right to the heart of what hurts most.
Even though their squabbles made me cringe, I suspected they secretly treasured their battles. Their
conflicts gave substance to their relationship. I don’t understand it so don’t expect me to explain it,
but, I believe their relationship, although tarnished by years of stubbornness, had a vital mutual
respect that reinforced a bond of love within each of them. They needed to have their differences in
order to truly love each other.
While there, I planted some tomatoes for my grandmother. She questioned not only where I decided
to plant the tomatoes but also why I even bothered.
“Who is going to water them?” she asked begrudgingly.
I said, “You don‘t have to do a thing. God will water them.”
She laughed and said, “You can’t depend on God to water things in Kansas. I’ll do it with the hose.”
“Probably a good idea” I said.
We stayed for only four days. However, in Garden City, four days equals a month.
As we were sitting in the airport terminal we took many photos. I have one of those photos sitting
above my desk. Through the lens of my camera, I see two old women sitting next to each other and
one of them about to get on a plane and fly 1500 miles away. It’s times like these you just don’t
know what‘s going to happen next. It’s in the back of your mind. You think it, but you dare not say
it. A mother and daughter. Holding each other’s hand. Squeezing tight. Wondering how life went
by so quick. They say, ‘I love you‘. They cry. They hold each other. They cry again. Beyond all
boundaries, they look at each other for the first time. And for the last time. Simple. Truthful.
Responsible.
Sing Out
Years ago my mother asked me to type up the lyrics to Credence Clearwater Revival’s ‘Bad Moon
Rising‘. The lyrics of that song are very apocalyptic and she was doing some church related study
that was all about how the biblical prophecies filtered into popular culture. Very cool subject matter,
I thought. And it was also very cool that my mother was listening to C.C.R.
Years later, she and I are driving in my truck, coming home from one of her many doctor
appointments, and on the radio comes ‘Have you ever seen the rain?” by C.C.R. I quickly remind
her of Bad Moon Rising and that this is the same band! I turn up the volume and I start singing out!
Someone told me long ago there’s a calm before the storm,
I know; its been comin for some time.
When its over, so they say, it’ll rain a sunny day,
I know; shinin down like water.
And I turn to her and say, “sing the chorus with me” and I quickly spit out the next lyric and coach
her though the lines,
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?
Comin down on a sunny day?
She didn’t hesitate at all. She just let it go. Took center stage and sang out.
Yesterday, and days before, sun is cold and rain is hard,
I know; been that way for all my time.
til forever, on it goes through the circle, fast and slow,
I know; it cant stop, I wonder.
And the chorus comes in and she picks up the lyrics right on cue. She knows it better this time and
her singing is stronger. She swings side to side, her hands gently resting on her lap, smiling and
singing out. I turn the volume up even louder and on some crazy, horribly off key, transcendental
moment of rock and roll magic, our voices connect with John Fogerty… And all three of us meet in
the middle of some open desert highway. We’re standing with arms stretched out and our heads
looking up towards the sky. A thousand shimmering drops of cold hard rain fall fast and slow and
not a cloud in the sky.
When the song ends my mom is quiet and stares off into the distance. Maybe she is having a
memory? Maybe she is thinking about the song? Maybe she is still on the desert highway with
John? After a moment she turns back to me. She smiles, gives her head a little shake and her eyes
fill with tears. She shakes again like she is trying to shake all the emotion off her face. She says
something small but clear about my father and how much she misses him. She turns back to her
memory and finds momentary peace.
After a long pause she said, “In Hawaii. In Hawaii it is sunny and it rains at the same time.”
Then she said, “And I've cried really hard when I was really happy. That’s also rain on a sunny day”
I was silent.
Then I said, “I’m gonna write that down when I get home.”
And I did.