Meet Me At Monument Hill

To just keep going, doesn’t sound like a difficult task, does it?  I guess that depends on who you are.  Some people struggle every day to live even a half way normal life.  Depression is more wide spread than we know.  Personally, I think every one has fought it at one time or another.  Some don’t win.  Some barely keep their heads above water.  Some do alright.

Doing alright?  Is that good enough?  Will it get better?  Can you make it better?  My experience has been that you really have to work at it……making it better.   Drugs help.  Prescription anti-depressants that is!  I’ve been taking them for many years. 

I have never been a strong person.  I crumble pretty easy.  In adverse times, I am not the one to lean on.  I will do the leaning, thank you very much!  But I will say this, I am a survivor.  I have kept going.  I have picked myself up.  Dusted myself off.  And got on with it.  Because there is nothing else you can do.  Except kill yourself. 

My brother had a good friend who did that.  This guy was “sad” all of his life.  A bad childhood.  Abusive Father.  A Mother who didn’t care.  He married his high school sweetheart and their marriage was extremely volitile.  One long argument.  He became an alcoholic.  Then he quit drinking.  He took the prescription drugs.  He did alittle therapy.  The wife divorced him.  They had two grown sons and a daughter in high school when they split.

Nothing ever made him happy.  But my brother would make the 1 1/2 drive just about every weekend to see him.  They would hunt together.  And talk.  They shared their innermost feelings.  Mostly about the Dad’s.  Probably about the Mom’s too.  My brother knew his friend had been contemplating suicide for a long time.  He talked and talked to his friend about it.  He begged him to think of his children.  How would this affect them for the rest of their lives? 

I know my brother talked long and hard for years to keep his friend going.  Then one day, the call came.  The friend had written a well thought out letter.  Then he called the police department and told them to come out to his farm.  He told them where they would find him. 

He shot himself.  It was over.  He just couldn’t keep going.  He said in his letter that he could not keep living like he was.  He would rather be dead.  My brother was devastated.  Years have passed now, and he still asks himself if there was something more he could have said or done.  Guilt crowds his heart.  He will never get over the suicide of his friend, his very good friend.  It doesn’t matter how many people tell him there was nothing more he could have done to stop it.  He will always wonder……..could he have made a difference.

We don’t talk about it anymore.  There’s no point.  And you and I can talk about why we are sad or depressed until hell freezes over and it probably won’t change anything either.  And don’t forget…..there’s this chemical in our brains…..yada, yada, yada. 

I know whats bugging me.  And I can tell you I’ve “let go of it”.  But thats a lie.  I so admire people who can rise above tragedy in their personal lives.  I see folks who have experienced the very worst things, and let go of them, freed themselves.  Yes, I envy them.

But one thing I can say for myself; I just keep going.  Because there are days when the sky is so blue it takes my breath away.  There are sunsets so beautiful they can make you cry.  There is the sound of rain on the roof at night.  Lets not forget the wind blowing through the trees.  I will keep going to see and hear and smell and touch all these beautiful things of nature.

And I will keep going for the babies that are born into this extended family.  Holding a newborn is the most precious moments I have ever experienced.  Its like looking into the face of God.  It is the purest thing you will ever know. 

So just keep going kids.  Life is worth living.  And while I grieve so very deeply for my beloved Mother, I must look to each new day.  For while I cry, at night, in my bed, there is a new, fresh day coming.

I am standing on the shore.  A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.  She is an object of beauty and strength.  I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says; “There, she is gone!”

“Gone where?”  Gone from my sight.  That is all.  She is just as great in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her.  And just at the moment when someone at my side says:  “There, she is gone!”  There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout:  “Here she comes!”

                            And that is dying.

                                                                        Anonymous

That particular passage comes from a small booklet that Hospice provides for caregivers and their families.  The grief is a bit easier to bear because of it.

I surprised myself.  I did not fall to pieces at Mom’s funeral service as I had feared.  We requested that only immediate family view her.  And then the casket would be closed to the public.  When the time came, I went to her side as a frightened child.  I broke down and sobbed as I searched her face and hands.  I wanted to touch her.  I knew she would be so cold, so cold.  I cried, almost out of control.  I stepped away.  My sisters each took their turns.  My brother stood back, he did not cry, still in disbelief.  The girls cried more than I had ever seen them cry before.  They, the four of them, are all older than me, as is my brother. 

I went back again, to Mom.  Crying, I fought to touch her.  I still couldn’t, afraid of the coldness.  Finally, I touched her hand.  So cold, so stiff, so not Mom.  I caressed the left side of her face.  The side affected by the stroke.  It was hard.  I stroked her right cheek.  I was surprised that is was soft and pliable.  I felt a relief.  Though still so very cold, it felt ………more natural.

I came to her casket several times in the hour that we had with her.  Each time I touched her hands more.  I touched her hair, her forehead.  I laid my hand on her chest, as I did when I found her the morning she passed.  Except this time, her chest was hard, like a rock.  It hurt me to the core.

We had Mom in her favorite flannel nightgown.  We had planned for her to wear a new gown.  But it was better that she be in the one she loved.  The warm one.  It was worn at the elbows.  That didn’t matter to us though.  As long as she was comfy.  We also had them put her heavy blue blanket in with her.  The one she always kept on her feet at night.  Just before they were to close the casket, for good, the blanket was to be pulled up around her neck, so she would be cozy.

All these things were for us.  To help us with our grief.  Anything to ease our breaking hearts.  Did she look down from Heaven and smile at her babies?  Loving us more for missing her so?

The flowers I had ordered were beyond beautiful.  I was so overjoyed.  They were breathtaking!  And the bouqets we received from other family and friends were just as lovely.  Flowers, to heal the heart.

Mom’s casket was beautiful.  Wood, a warm golden color, with angels at each outside corner.  As we followed her down the aisle of the church, a recording of “Softly and Tenderly” by Rebecca Lynn Howard, played.  We all wept again. 

The mass was beyond my expectations.  The priest said all the right words, in such a loving manner.  My closest cousin read from the Bible.  He had lost his brother just a year ago, to cancer.  During the service, another song; “The Old Rugged Cross” sung by Alan Jackson.  When the service ended, we followed Mom back out, down the aisle, as “Softly and Tenderly” played again, only sung by Alan Jackson this time.  Later on, there were many, many comments on how lovely the music was.

Now it was time to make the short journey to the cemetary.  She would be laid to rest with my brother and my Dad.  I must tell you that it was very cold that day.  The trees and shrubs were white with heavy frost.  The wind swept down from the north and it was bitter.  The sky was overcast.  Everyone gathered around the casket, and Brother Martin began to speak.  My sisters all shook from the cold.  Each one trembled almost violently.  But I was unaffected.  I did not shake, but stood still, and cried. 

When the reading was over, each one of us took a rose from the spray of flowers on her casket.  Two dozen red roses, her favorite.  And seven white roses (for each child she bore) forming a cross in the middle.  A tiny pink rosebud for the grandbaby she lost many years ago. 

The crowd began to break up and hurry to their vehicles, out of the cold.  I stood with my hand under the spray, touching the casket, caressing it.  How difficult it was to leave Mom there, to drive away.

Tomorrow, my two remaining sisters (the other two went home, out of state) will return to the cemetary.  Its about an hours drive from here.  I will kneel at Mom’s resting place, and tell her how much I love her, again.  I know she will hear me.  I know she will see us.  I know she is finally happy.

Its over.  Mom passed away last Wednesday, 12/6/06.  Her funeral is in the morning.  I can’t believe it.  I can’t believe it.  Somebody make it all go away. Please!

She must have had another stroke.  Monday morning she couldn’t swallow anymore.  Her neck was stiff.  She couldn’t speak at all.  Her eyes never closed from that point on until her passing Wednesday morning. 

Everyone, including me, says it was a blessing she didn’t linger.  And its true.  I couldn’t have watched her dehydrate and slowly ebb away……..its best she went when she did.  I knew the time was close, just not that close.  I went into her room around 8:00am.  I cheerfully said “Good morning Mama”!  I took one look and I knew.  I touched her face.  It was almost cold.  I touched her chest.  It wasn’t moving.  I lifted the covers.  The Hospice people had said when a person begins to die, their fingernails will start to turn blue.  Moms fingernails were purple and her fingers were turning the same color.  I picked up the phone and dialed my sister.  I said “I think Mom’s gone”.  She got here in no time at all.

She entered the bedroom and began to softly cry.  She put her hand on my shoulder.  I was numb.  I did not cry.

She and another  sister had made funeral arrangements less than a week before.  Everything was paid for in advance.   We called our Hospice nurse.  We called the funeral home.  The man who had made the arrangements was on his way home from another call and was able to come right over.  He sat at the table with us.  We had coffee.  We waited for the nurse.

I went back into the bedroom.  I put my hand on her chest again.  It was still warm.  Her torso was still warm.  But her face was cold.  Her hands and arms were cold.  I began to cry in total disbelief.  The nurse arrived.  She hugged my sister and then me.  She was so sweet.   She talked with us for quite awhile.

Then she and the man went into Mom’s room.  They came out and made preparations …….a path through the house…..out the back door……down the ramp my brother-in-law had built for Mom.  The ramp was going to make it easier for Mom when she left the house.  She only used it twice.  Now it would be used to take her out of her home, out of my life, on a gurney.

That day, two of my sisters, and two niece’s stayed with me.  My sisters began to tie up all the little details there were for the funeral.  In mid afternoon I was elected to drive to another town and order flowers.  I ordered what I wanted.  Money didn’t matter.  You only have one Mother.  She deserves beautiful flowers.

And so, just after dark, everyone left.  They volunteered to stay with me, spend the night.  But I insisted they go and leave me be.  I cried.  I sobbed.  I went to Mom’s room and cradled the sheets she had lain on and died on.  I carefully folded them and put them in a plastic bag.  Then I sealed the bag.  I held her pillows to my face and breathed in her scent.  I took the pillow cases off and folded them, placed them in another plastic bag, and sealed it too.

I went into her bathroom.  There was the washcloth I had used to cool her face.  I folded it.  I opened a cabinet and found her powder and powder puff.  Breathed in the lovely scent, and placed them by the washcloth.  I took her “Carmex” lip balm.  I had been applying it to her lips several times a day.  I took all those items and sealed them in a bag too.  I took everything and put them in her Lane chest.  And there they will stay…….until…….I myself am gone too.

We waited until Monday to have the funeral because I have two sisters from out of state. 

In the morning we will make the hour trip to the town we grew up in.  There will be a private viewing, just for immediate family, before the full Catholic funeral mass.  I am so afraid.  When I see my beloved Mother in that casket…….then her death will be ………too real to take.  I don’t think I can do it.  I’m so afraid.

She will be laid to rest with my Dad and my brother, in the little cemetary west of town. 

Why are cemetaries so peaceful?  They are all so beautiful, in a way.  Beautiful beyond words.

Our little cemetary sleeps in the lap of a big hill.  Monument Hill.                                   God, give me strength.

This time of my life will be the most difficult I have ever faced.  My Mother is dying.  She was never going to die.  She was such a dominant force in my life….good and not so good.  I am 52, she is 88.  Even as she grew old and frail, I refused to think she could die.  She was supposed to live forever, as am I.

And I thought, if she did “pass”, it would be quietly, in her sleep.  I never thought in a million years that cancer would get her.  But cancer doesn’t discriminate.  It preys on people of all color and age.

She came down with a cough, Labor Day weekend 2006.  A chest cold, we thought.  Better get to the doctor and nip it in the bud.  He said we should get an x-ray.  We did.  There was a white blur on the lung, near the heart.  “Cancer”?  my Mom asked.  “Doubtful” he answered.  But there did appear to be some pneumonia so we got some meds for that and set up an appointment for a cat scan. 

Then we were sent to a pulmonary specialist.  He said we needed to do a biopsy.  So we set up that appointment and he did the procedure.  He came out and told me that he didn’t need a lab to tell him this was cancer.  Ok, but we are not telling Mom till next week when you have the proof.  Ok.

I thought she would fall to pieces when he told her.  I really did.  Her health has been precarious these past few years, and she would go into a panic when something went wrong.  But she was calm and said she expected to hear that it was cancer.  I couldn’t believe she didn’t react negatively.

Well, she was in denial, thats why.  She was thinking maybe God would pass his hand over her lung and make the tumor go away.  Hoping He would anyway.  The tumor is right behind the heart.  And the aorta is a bit enlarged.  Plus the cancer doctor says there are some tiny specks on the other lung too.  Surgery is out of the question.  It would be a very difficult operation, especially at her advanced age.  Chemo is definitely out as we all know the side effects of that can be worse than the cancer itself.  They said we could think about radiation.  NOT!  Like we are going to let her throat be burnt and have the quality of life be miserable!

All those options didn’t matter anyway.   She declined so quickly, everyday, she got worse.  It was happening way too fast!  The doctor said she could have a year!  Ten weeks later she is confined to bed!  She apparently had some mini strokes.  We didn’t know what was happening.  In less than one week she went from being weak and needing help to the bathroom, to being totally bedridden and barely able to speak.  We are changing her diapers now, in bed.

Last weekend we thought she was dying.  I never cried so much in my life.  I think I am the one in denial now.  To look down on her, in her bed, her blank stare…..having to keep her dentures out now because she is having difficulty swallowing, putting in and taking out her hearing aids, spoon feeding her………….I feel so sorry for her.  Why her?  But why anyone?

I’m not angry with God.  I’m not questioning Him.  I guess I’m just in disbelief.  Not my Mom.  Not my Mom.  How long will she suffer?