Waking up to a fresh Spring morning, I made my bed - and I remembered Mom trying to get us kids into the habit of making our beds every morning.

I heard the chirping of the birds - this morning – real pleasant, light whistle by one of those out there in the trees. And it reminds me of Mom again - always telling us which type of bird it was that was singing now. "They're calling for rain," she'd say. Us kids would have a puzzled look on our faces when we heard this. Birds - talking? - asking for rain? It was the sense they had, she'd explained, when it was dry and we needed rain; or when the weather was already dreary like rain; when it had already rained. Or maybe it was just the fact that the birds' songs sounded clearer during a calm. She knew many different types of birds and their whistle. "She" could make most of their sounds herself. She could even yodel - her brother,

Jerry, and her.

17-May-95

6:15 a.m.

I received a call last night. Mom isn't doing well.  Yet the words on the other end of the phone kept it light, giving hope, as though there was still a lot of time.  I didn't know how to feel...how to think, what to think. I am sad. I worry that I haven't done enough for her, said enough, made sure she knows all that she should and would want to know.  Then I wondered, is there more that I am not being told?

I called Aunt AnaMae. She says she thought I would be there on Mother's Day like everyone else. I didn't know. She said Mom had said "Goodbye" to everyone that previous Friday, including her own mother. I didn't know what to think. I called the care center where Mom's new home had been for the last year or so. I asked the nurse to give me the true facts.  I didn't realize. I was sick inside. I couldn't work, couldn't think. Two seconds later, I made plane reservations, left a message with my family and flew home to gather a few pieces of clothing and stuffed them into a bag. A half an hour later, I was on my way to Boston to catch a plane to Wisconsin.

My sister and her husband picked me up at the airport and on the way home (to their house) we stopped to see Mom. Not being able to rouse Mom, I decided to stay the night there with her next to her bed. If there was nothing else I could do, I could stay by her bedside to watch over her.

18-May-95

2:30

It was about 2:30 p.m. Thursday, May 18, 1995, - "Sweet Hour of Prayer" came on the radio next to Mom's bedside. I asked her if she could hear it. She tilted her head a bit as if to listen.  She said she was dry. I offered her a sip of water. She didn't want any. Her word "dry" changed to "drive". "I didn't drive," she said. "I didn't do it." I told her that she did drive way back years ago on the farm when I was a little tot. She drove down to the store. She repeated, "I never did"..."I didn't drive." Then she hesitated and said, "I'm sorry.”  I told her she had nothing to be sorry for. I told her to try and relax - that they're done messing with her for a while. (The nurses were in and out to roll her and give her medicine and such.) She said, "It's hard." I said, "I know but try, Mom...It's OK. Let go, Mom, and try to sleep." She seemed to say, "OK". I think she heard me.

Earlier in the morning we had a similar conversation. But she was clearer then. She had said my name and I had told her that my family all send their love and wished they could be here. She struggled with words that sounded like what she always said and worried about. She never wanted anyone to put themselves out and never understood that, to me, it wasn't putting myself out, that...I wanted to be with her and for her. Nothing else mattered.

And earlier in the same morn a nurse was giving her juice and asked if she knew I was there. Mom said, "Yea. She surprised me. She always surprises me."  "Just like", she said, "her Grandpa Jim always use to do."  And later just before lunch when my brother-in-law, brother and niece came, I told her who was there. She said, "Oh they're all here, huh?" I said, "Yes." I think she thought everyone - all the kids and their families – were there.

A couple times during the pain in the morning, she mumbled, "Oh, please, please Lord." and in another moment, "Help, help me.." and yet another - (I can't remember the exact sequence.) - "Take my breath. Take my breath away," in repetition.  She was trying to let go. She had seen everyone. She knew everyone was there for her and loved her. And she knew that no one wanted to see her in pain. And she, definitely, knew that "she" was tired...tired of the pain, and ready.

And now she still seemed frustrated, frustrated that she couldn't speak. She mumbled more now. And she was breathing a bit differently but I wasn't sure. Her eyes looked half-open and a bit wider at times as though trying to see us, but not really seeing us.  I touched her forehead, trying to soothe her, as I did earlier in the morning. She seemed to calm a bit. The touch was cool and, I didn't realize, a bit cooler than earlier. I wanted to cover her up more. I asked her if she was cold. She said, "No."

Her eyes, now, had changed from a creamy puffiness to a bit sunken and red circles appeared around them. I didn't know what this meant. I wasn't reading the clues. It just wasn't registering yet. I felt as though I was just taking care of my sick Mom and as though she would be getting better one day. At one point, she said, "Always something else," like she always said when something else would happen to a person.

The puffiness in her eyes was from tearing, I thought. Now why were they changing in color? I asked myself. And now her chin and face were paler, and maybe even a tad blue. I saw a bit of her medicine drip down from the side of her mouth. I went to get a towel and dabbed it up.

She was letting go. Her body was letting go. The signs were there but I didn't see. I wanted it but didn't. And so I was blind to them, to the changes that were happening before my very eyes. If I had really thought that something was going to happen any minute, or in the next hour, I would have called everyone to come and be there with me. But, for some reason, as much as I wanted Mom out of pain, I fooled myself into thinking she'd be with us for a while longer.  If I had known, I would have asked my brother-in-law to stay when he stopped in with my niece.  (He had a chance to do some extra work that day and asked to leave her with me for the time - a welcomed companion.)  I would have called my sister to come from work. I would've called my younger sister from home and younger brother from home and older brother from work and pickup Dad on his way.  There was a reason. I'm still searching for the answer.

I had just sat down with my niece, helping her to color while keeping an eye on Mom. (It was good to have company, even the little one..so unaware of what was in the air.)  Ann, Mom's roommate,  there in the care center, had asked if I wanted to go with her to watch a movie. I said, "Thank you, but no. I want to stay here with Mom." And, at that, she was off to the movies in her wheelchair, the aid pushing her along.

Then I heard something... a silence...Mom had closed her mouth and I no longer heard her hard struggled breaths.  I heard no more mumbling, no more sounds of pain. She looked calm and peaceful. Then her head jerked upward to the right with another breath of air. And then she settled down into what looked like a calm sleep.  I moved closer to see her chest moving. I couldn't focus. I checked by touching her chest, then her wrist. I felt nothing. I called, "Mom?" No response. I put my hand near her nose and mouth to try to feel her breathing. I felt nothing. I heard nothing. I saw nothing - no motion. I looked up at Ann, (She had been back from her activity by now.) looking for help. She just watched and said nothing - probably knew. I went down the hall, as fast as my legs could carry me, to get someone.

It was now 2:45.

They flew down to her room. It seemed like only seconds. The curtain was pulled around the bed and across the little one's feet where she was still trying to color, oblivious to what was happening. As I picked her up to get her out of the way, I realized what a Godsend she was. She helped me to keep my composure.

The nurse came out of the curtain, and said, "I'm sorry", and hugged, no - held me. I hugged her back like I felt like holding onto Mom. Then let loose, catching myself saying, "I knew...I knew."

...

June 28, 1995

In Heaven now, she's peaceful and happy. She sees and enjoys all the wonders of life. When I feel calm and serene,  I somehow know or sense that she feels it too, right along with me.

The other day, oh so serene, riding in the car, I felt a sense of security, of calmness, of wonderment of the world.  The air was smooth and not too cool, not too warm, just right.  And I wondered about Mom...Had she ever felt such content, such happiness.

Looking up into the sky, just then, a small section of a beautiful rainbow peaked through and between some light fluffy clouds. In another section, the sun was spraying rays of sunbeams out across the blue and white of the sky. (It was going to be a beautiful sunset. I could tell.) And I wondered, in that instant, if it was a sign.

My mind was heavy on Mom now, wanting her to be happy.  That piece of rainbow appeared as though, it was a sign to me, or that it was Mom telling me she was alright and that, yes, she saw it and felt it too. Tears came, difficult to hold back now - so happy, hoping and hanging onto the few times I knew and could picture Mom happy. Oh, how I wished she could've been there with me to feel and see what I felt and saw.

And finally, I was able to speak. And in return, I heard, "And it'll happen again, and again, when you least expect it." Why? Because, you see, my Mom...She is the wind beneath my wings.

....