The Last Goodbye

Chiming sounded from all around her as Mom lay in the hospital bed, tubes and alarms consuming her exhausted body. I thought back to the day I received the card in the mail from my mother—the day when one chapter in our family’s saga would end and another would begin.

It wasn’t like Mom to just send a card and money for no apparent reason, but there it was…in my hand. My birthday was at least six months away, so I knew that was not the occasion for my mother’s generous greeting. Whether or not the words and contents of the card were intended to come across as nonchalant, it was anything but. I was overtaken with sadness upon its arrival--I just sat there sobbing. I felt a dark shadow come over me like an overwhelming cloud of dread.

My daughter didn’t understand why a card with money from my mother could reduce me to such sadness. Somehow I knew the gift was just to soften the blow of bad news or a secret withheld. For about a year her declining health had reflected through her drastic loss of weight. My brother and sisters, who saw Mom almost daily, didn’t notice how skinny she was getting; but I did.

The last time Mom had taken the 1 ½ hour trip to visit me, it was a shock to see her so thin. I asked her how she was feeling, suggesting she see a doctor, but she just shrugged it off to dwindling age and an appetite to match. There was no convincing my mother once she made up her mind.

Receipt of the card, lovingly hand written by my mother, and the hundred dollars safely tucked within its crease, brought with it an underlying message of dreaded news yet to come. I called my sister Ginger asked her to help get my mom to change her mind about a check-up. Of course it was to no avail, my mother hated seeing the doctor, and had not had a thorough examination in years. Somehow it always got put off until tomorrow after tomorrow.

A short time later, Mom caught what seemed to be a seasonal cold. But the longer the cold hung on, the weaker she became. Two weeks, numerous doctors’ visits and prescriptions later, what started out as just a cold was upgraded to a severe sinus infection. Still, Mom’s condition continued to drain her of all energy—her eyes swelled into blood shot surrounds where her whites once shown. Mom’s hearing started to fade until she was nearly deaf. Somehow the clinic, where my mom had become a frequent visitor, saw no need to admit her to a hospital. My brother finally had to insist in a harsh way before the referral papers were issued.

We were later told at the hospital, that if my mother had been left to suffer one more day at home, she wouldn’t have lasted more than 48 hours. It was clear to all of us by the time Mom was hospitalized; she faced something much worse than sinus problems.

Whatever monster ravaged my mother was swiftly claiming her life. I know she must have been scared, though she tried to remain a pillar of strength. Somehow I had known from the day I received the card and money, that our days were numbered until things would change forever in our lives and within us.

Following extensive tests, a biopsy revealed that Mom was suffering from Wegener’s Granulomatosis, an uncommon disease in which the blood vessels become inflamed, leading to vasculitis; which affects important organs like the upper respiratory tract (sinus, trachea, lungs) and the kidneys. My mother grew weaker and more defenseless against the disease that had been stewing inside her for a length of time no one could determine. It explained so much: why Mom had been dropping weight, why, it seemed, she wanted to give to me while she still could, and why I had felt overwhelming grief upon my receipt of the last words my mother ever wrote to me.

Mom’s condition seemed to improve at times, and we actually had hope when she somehow drew strength to wean herself from the respirator that kept her breathing for over a week. I know the tears of her children must have been her fuel for the strength she needed to fight the disease. My admiration and respect grew for Mom, seeing what she went through with nary a complaint, but always a smile whenever she was able.

In her lifetime, she had pulled through the loss of my father, my sister, and my little two-month-old nephew, her own parents and only brother. We had all suffered these losses together, but now our vine of life was losing her battle with death. Never had I felt so defenseless and alone than when I had to watch as my mother took her last breath July 6th of 2003, only one month and three days after she turned 77 years old.

The birthday party my mother’s emergency room nurses threw for her before sending her to a regular room was bittersweet indeed. The whole family was there,
though that seemed to be a first, since I couldn’t remember the last time we had all gathered in the same place for an occasion other than a funeral. Tragedy had brought us all together for the sake of the love we all shared for one woman: my mother.

She was an angel with eyes of blue that last celebrated day—her tears shown like diamonds streaming down her sweetly aged face. And I’ll never forget my last visit with my mother, exactly one-week before she passed. She was still being the caregiver. After the nurse brought in Mom’s dinner, I pulled her chicken off the bone, and buttered her bread as her dainty grasp of thumb and forefinger—chicken in one hand, bread in the other—brought the food to her mouth taking most of her strength. She lovingly offered me some of her food, always insisting that I was too skinny. So we shared her dinner: chicken, rice, bread, and zucchini squash. It was the most memorable and meaningful meal we had ever shared.

Right up to the end of her life, my mother was still giving unselfishly, and babying me--the one she always called her baby--my being the youngest of the six kids she brought into this world. The last thing she said to me as I hesitantly left her room that day was “I love you”. Three words I will always remember as if that was the only time I ever heard her say them. Two days later my mom suffered seizures that would render her non-responsive. From that day on, we all agreed to let His will be done, and pray for a miracle. That following Sunday, our miracle took came in an unexpected way. Though my mother would likely soon pass since her condition had not improved, she seemed to be hanging on to life as she continued to grasp each breath with a struggle.

My sister Ginger and I had stayed the night by the side of our dying mother, both agreeing that Mom seemed to be holding on for something. At first we thought perhaps that Mom wanted us all there with her when she died. Since the seizure had left her in a vegetated state, there was no way to know for sure. Something told me that it was for another reason my mother struggled to capture each breath, not yet allowing herself to pass. Something, or Someone, reminded me of The Little Bible that had belonged to my Me-Maw, my dad’s mother. I always carried the playing-card sized Bible in my purse for protection.

Ginger and I read from my pint-sized Bible, God’s words out loud from cover to cover. And in the forty-five minutes it took for us to finish and re-recite the 23rd Psalm, my mother’s breathing softened and slowed until more and more time was lapsing between her ever-calming breaths. Five minutes after we finished reading from The Little Bible; my mother took her last tender breath, and passed from this world. The moment was that of miracles and everlasting memories--clearly, Mom had been anticipating God’s word to call her home. Until that day, we had struggled with worry over whether or not my mom knew God. Suddenly it was all so clear: Mom had maintained a personal relationship with Him that required no approval from anyone of the earthly world. Though she was not able to respond, we knew she had thirstily absorbed His every word. It has been over a year now since my mom left our world, but I feel her presence in my heart, as she crosses my mind continuously throughout every waking hour, and perhaps in dreams I cannot remember. I often wonder if, upon her own passing, she was met by those who preceded her; those she never stopped missing or loving.

And even though the pain never ceases, my only daughter found a consoling answer in the irony of it all. As I stood crying over my mother and dad’s gravestone; the one that reflects the love they shared in the phrase “Together Forever”, my daughter made it all so clear in her perception of linking the ties that never neglected to bind my parents as husband and wife. How could something so clear have been so easy to miss to all but one so young? For such irony could only be seen through the eyes of a child, that Mom had celebrated her 77th birthday in room 77. Which could be deemed a coincidence, if it weren’t for the year of my father’s passing—1977.