Death Watch

One year ago, we were holding vigil at Mom’s bedside. A death watch…a time of waiting for death to arrive. Hospice sounded the alarm that her time had come. We didn’t leave her side. Her body was weakening. Her breathing was a rattle. Then a gurgle. We took turns beside the bed. Reading her favorite scriptures. Talking about memories. Holding her hand. It was an excruciating time knowing she would vacate her human form at any moment.

Our emotions were right up front. Tears flowed freely. We watched for every sign. Shallowing of breathing. More gurgling. Feet and hands in deepening shades of blue. Like death, tip-toeing into the room, waiting for the appointed time. The human form waiting to release the soul to fly free. Waiting on her angelic escort to glide in and carry her home. The room transformed into a holy space. Sacred. The transition from flesh to spirit. Happening in front of us.

My own spirit, weary from the journey, wanted to fly free too. Yet, I am still bound by my human form. My appointed time hasn’t come yet. So, now, one year later, I am both astounded that is has been a year already and dismayed that it has only been a year. How can I feel both of those things at once? I am not sure, but it is the time warp of my life these days. Twilight Zone worthy, this continuum of short and long.

I miss Mom. I miss her hugs most of all. Her wisdom. Her listening ear. Her love for family. Her compassion. The way she loved God and was always seeking more of him. I miss her cooking. Her inclusion and welcome of everyone into her kitchen. Her sharing of recipes and stories. Her genuine care for all people. Her attentiveness to detail; in decorating and in knowing others. She paid attention. I miss her gift giving, just the right present at just the right moment. Her presence was as much a part of the gift as the item itself. Her ability to know just when to call. Just what to ask. Just what to say. Just when to remain silent. Her listening to hear, not just to respond.

I even miss the memory care days. Her little-girl giggles. Her smile and sparkle, even when she didn’t know us. Her willingness to continue to try. Her joy that lasted beyond her failing brain. Her love of flowers. Her noticing of ants and bees, and if Dad’s collar needed straightening. Her love of words and her babble to try to connect.

These next few days will be more emotional than usual and I am already grief-tired. Yet, it isn’t about Mom, as her spirit is living freely. It isn’t really about her body being gone either, as bodies only last so long. It is more about my own grief. About the hole she has left behind. Nothing can fill it. It will always be there, in my heart. A space only for Mom.

However, I carry her forward. In my own way, her imprint on my life shaped me into who I am, and that in turn, shaped my children, and now my grandchildren. It is a legacy. Her dream fulfilled from generation to generation. Her influence and impact are immense in my life and the lives of so many others. My heart has made friends with grief, since it seems here to stay for a bit. I have learned to allow this feeling of floating without a rudder. No direction. No ability to control where I end up. No desire to move towards any specific route. Just allowing the current to take me. And wherever that is, I know Mom will be guiding me.