Look Deeper

It was Monday, October 6, 2008. Mom had not awakened since Saturday. She had slipped into a coma. The days were unusually hot as a heat wave had arrived to the otherwise mild central coast. Sharon, our faithful caregiver, and I kept the house as cool as possible, but still it was uncomfortably warm. I kept my mother’s body cool with damp wash cloths, and her lips moistened with lip balm. We turned her to different positions in her bed frequently to avoid the formation of bedsores on her bony and wasted frame. I slept at her beside at night. There were no more visitors now. These were sacred days, as God was near. I played her favorite tune, “My God and I,” for her on the piano. I whispered in her ear that famous and beloved psalm of David, the 23rd.

The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall lack nothing.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul.
He guides me in the paths of righteousness
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and love
will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house
of the Lord
forever. Psalm 23

This routine was to continue for three more days. We were only caring for my mother’s body now. Dad was holding his own in his incapacitated state. When I said goodbye to Sharon as she left on Thursday, somehow we both sensed that she would return to care for my father only the following day. Bob and I kept the nightly vigil at my parents’ bedsides. Dad had drifted off to sleep. I was on a twin bed next to my mother’s bed so that I could monitor her condition and keep her cool. Hospice partners had informed me well so I new the signs that would indicate that life was coming to an end. I kept my hand on her wrist pulse and noticed her heart beat becoming irregular. By about 10:58 pm, I heard the “death rattle,” that mysterious clicking at the back of a dying person’s throat as the end nears. “Fly to Jesus, Mom, fly to Jesus,” I whispered as I choked back the tears. I felt her heartbeat; it was her last, and God came. It was 11:00pm and the moment was sacred. I called my dear brother and reported Mom’s home going. “Mom is in heaven now,” I said.

Two young men arrived to the home about an hour later, dressed in black suits, and with solemn expressions on their faces. They asked me to remove Mom’s wedding rings, and Dad’s wedding ring, which she had worn on a chain around her neck ever since he had become disabled, and it broke my heart. I recall asking them to please treat her kindly, that she was a beautiful woman. I kissed my mother and told her one last time that I loved her. The young men left the room to get the gurney. The room was dark, the only light coming from the light in the entry hall adjacent.

I moved to my dear dad’s bedside so as not to face what was about to happen. Dad had awakened, but I will never know if he realized what had just taken place. Somehow, I think he knew. I heard the legs of the gurney snap into place as I sobbed uncontrollably at the rails of my father’s bed. I heard the rustling of the sheets, the whispers of my kind husband and the young men, the squeaking of the gurney wheels. The front door shut. Mom was gone, loaded into the back of a van. Gone. Forever, or so it seemed.