Sunday, May 11, 2014

Mercy on Mothers Day

 photo: hannahsbotany

Given medicated techno-deaths now, my mother gave me a deep gift. She chose to die at home, un-medicated, and came out of coma to bid me goodbye. I sat with her through the night, singing and holding her hand. She died on Mothers Day.

All days have been special days at some point in human history, all days inherently special if we wake to them.

I was left to deal with the dismantling of the sick room, the hospital bed and oxygen paraphernalia. I sat quietly. Bed was removed. I'd gone into a deep place praying for Mama, when I heard a knock on the screen door.

Mama's beautiful white clematis was in bloom; the day was hot. I came to, startled, and saw a huge black man in the doorway whom I didn't know.

He saw me sitting alone crying and spoke kindly to me explaining he'd come for the last sickroom stuff. I unlatched the door, and that big kind stranger put his arms around me, and let me sob.

He patted my back and said,

"The Lord wanted somebody good, and so He called Miss Anne."

Never saw that big-hearted man before or since, but I bless him as long as I live.

I planted a fragrant gardenia bush for Mama which became the glory of the garden, and when my dad passed, a weeping crabapple. They'll bloom long after I'm gone.


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At May 11, 2014 at 1:30 PM , Anonymous Anonymous said...

Thank you for sharing from the heart. Mother's Day is a heart day unequaled.

At May 11, 2014 at 5:43 PM , Blogger Mmamallama said...

Lovely. Thank you.

At December 31, 2016 at 12:43 PM , Blogger Unknown said...

Very very touching. My mom also chose hospice at home. She didn't want IVs and other tubes and wanted to die in her own bedroom. Oxygen tank, catheterized, and in a hospital bed seemed less invasive when used in her bedroom. I too sang to her, gave foot rubs, talked constantly etc. although surrounded by all her children and some grandchildren, and my Dad at her time of death - I kept vigil around her bed for two weeks since I stayed at her house 24/7 while other siblings had family and work obligations.

At January 1, 2017 at 3:18 PM , Blogger Wayfarer said...

Unknown, though known by experience in common, thank you for contributing.

For a long emotionally-sterile era, we made death and birth into techno, neon light and isolating rites of passage.

To our own separation and impoverishment.

Bless you for standing by your mom. Even in dementia, being present at that transition can serve as final mentoring.

When I got back from my mom's funeral, a famous author asked if I understood what it meant?

I felt so exhausted and shell-shocked, just getting to the gathering of writers was iffy... No, I hadn't a clue.

She said, "It means that with your mother gone, no one stands between you and your own death."


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