The Goodbye
May 12, 2023, last Friday afternoon, marked my mother's departure from this earthly realm to her new abode, wherever that may be. In this moment of reflection, I earnestly hope that she finds the peace that eluded her throughout her existence.
As I maneuvered "Big Red," our trusted F150, into a spot on the entrance road, enveloped by towering trees in full bloom and the sweet scent of lilacs permeating the air, I took a brief respite in the driver's seat. The metaphorical fortress that was my truck provided solace, shielding me from the emotional battleground that lay ahead. Gathering my essentials – fanny pack, water bottle, and phone – I emerged from the vehicle, momentarily locking and unlocking my protective bubble. Inhaling deeply, I recited my personal mantra, reaffirming my conscious decision to be present in this moment. Whatever may transpire during this visit, I retained the power to choose whether to stay or depart. It was all within my realm of acceptance.
A gentleman strolled ahead of me, kindly holding the door open and greeting me with a smile. "Good morning," he uttered, his eyes an intriguing blend of beauty and weariness. "A beautiful dreary day, isn't it?" I nodded in agreement, finding it fitting that my mother would transition on such a day. I observed the weeping willow, its tears cascading onto the grass, grateful that nature expressed the mourning I couldn't conjure myself. For some inexplicable reason, I bypassed the sign-in sheet this time, instead simply acquiring a mask and engaging in a brief conversation with the gentleman. His striking white hair, his sizable gray eyes and his hands that bore the marks of time formed a captivating presence. He grumbled about his disdain for those confounded masks. Before parting ways, I extended my well wishes for his visit, although deep down, I recognized that visits in this place were seldom "good" in the traditional sense.
It's curious how certain habits or rituals, even those intertwined with pain, offer an odd sense of comfort. As I input the code to my mother's memory care unit, I couldn't help but be acutely aware that this might be the final instance of me punching in those digits, the last encounter with this stagnant air and the residents' voices – their exclamations, groans, and conversations with their own minds – as they traversed their individual time and realities. Each person within my mother's unit possessed a distinct persona, and despite the havoc that wretched disease wreaked upon their bodies and minds, fragments of their genuine selves endured. I recognized their voices and movements, witnessing their decline alongside my mother's. Questions about their lives prior to this moment infiltrated my thoughts – who held them dear, their preferred culinary delights, music, and movies, and who now held them close within their memories.
The head nurse, a familiar presence throughout the passage of time, welcomed me alongside my mother's other favored nurse. The sympathetic looks and unspoken understanding conveyed our shared acknowledgment as they fetched a chair and accompanied me into my mother's room. Placing the chair next to her bed, I could sense the warmth emanating from the space heater as soft world music filled the void. They updated me on the preceding 24 hours, expressing astonishment that my mother clung to life. Days had passed without her consuming sustenance, her skin now hanging loosely upon her frail frame, her weight reduced to a mere 80 pounds. I glanced at her, avoiding direct eye contact, unwilling to etch the image of her sunken face, pallid complexion, and open mouth into my consciousness. Yet, for a fleeting moment, I discerned a reflection of her true essence within her countenance – an alignment that had perpetually eluded her appearance, her character, and her personality. The notion of newfound harmony brushed my thoughts briefly before slipping away. I did not pass judgment upon any of my emotions or thoughts; instead, I allowed them to coexist.
Setting my handbag upon the adjacent chair, I leaned over to touch my mother's leg. The fragility of her body sent shockwaves through me. As I grasped her leg, all I felt was the hardness of her thigh bone, devoid of flesh or muscle. Once strong and resilient, those legs carried her through life, traversing countless miles during her daily walks. Now, they had vanished. I admired her unwavering commitment to exercise and meticulous care for her physical vessel, which had served as her armor. My memory drifted back to the time I saw her after her bladder surgery, during the few days I stayed with her before departing to be by my grandmother's side during her final month. I marveled at her youthful appearance, as if time had not marked her face since the day I left home at 18. She scrutinized my skin, pointing out signs of aging and providing me with an inventory of measures I should undertake to conceal my age, forestalling wrinkles and sagging skin. "Heather, you must maintain your appearance. For heaven's sake, put on some makeup." I turned to open her medication bottles, carefully placing the pills into a disposable paper cup and handing her water, urging her to rest and allow her body to heal. "How can I rest? You'll only be here for two days, and then you're off to tend to your grandmother, neglecting me. I never have the chance to heal. I'm always taking care of your father. And when I need you, you choose her over me. You should be ashamed of yourself. You've never been the daughter I desired." Hatred permeated her words, polluting the room's atmosphere, as she clenched the paper cup with her graceful hands and raised it to her lips. The scowl etched between her eyebrows remained, and I withdrew into the hallway, opting not to engage.
The sound of the door creaking open and the scent of cafeteria food, accompanied by the faint squeaking of wheels on a food tray, brought me back to the present. I turned to witness a nurse with brown hair, adorned in mask and gloves, entering the room, attending to my mother's peacefully slumbering roommate on the other side. It dawned on me that I knew nothing about her, not even her name.
Redirecting my attention to my mother, I offered reassurance that it was acceptable for her to release her grip on life, to find serenity. I forgave her, longing for tranquility to embrace her now. I conveyed that our personal battle had reached its conclusion. I comprehended that she had adopted a version of herself to navigate her own conflicts, and I held hope that wherever she ventured next, should our paths intertwine again, she would shed that version, and we would meet as individuals who had undergone healing.
Gathering my belongings, and preparing to exit her room, I sensed the weight of the past slowly lifting from my shoulders. The arduous and protracted journey of healing and self-discovery had reached its culmination, and I had arrived at a juncture of acceptance.
Inhaling deeply, savoring the freshness of the air and the liberation that enveloped me, I embraced a newfound sense of freedom. The world appeared brighter, and more vibrant, as if a weight had been lifted from my chest. I acknowledged that I had done everything within my power for my mother, and now it was time to let go.
Strolling toward my vehicle, memories of my mother surged through my mind. Yes, our relationship had been intricate, teeming with anguish and resentment. However, it also imparted invaluable lessons on forgiveness and the potency of letting go. I had acquired the strength to find solace within myself and prioritize my needs and happiness.
As I settled into the driver's seat of "Big Red," a profound sense of gratitude washed over me. Gratitude for the experiences that had sculpted me, for the love and support of my family and friends, and for the opportunity to grow and heal. The path ahead was uncertain, but I stood ready to embrace whatever came my way.
Starting the engine, I switched on the radio, allowing the music to permeate the car. Pulling away from the parking lot, I left the memories and pain behind, carrying with me the wisdom and resilience that had emerged from it all.
Driving down the road, I glanced at the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of my reflection. I beheld someone who had shed the version of herself that had been forged to survive the tumultuous battles endured. A new iteration had emerged now that the war was over, one that had weathered storms, confronted demons head-on, and emerged stronger and wiser. I saw a woman who had learned to embrace herself with unconditional love, flaws and all.
Ultimately, I remembered my mother not solely for our struggles and the moments of tenderness and love that surfaced amidst the turmoil. I honored her memory by embracing the lessons learned, nurturing the relationships that held utmost significance, and living a life imbued with love, authenticity, and self-compassion.
Thus, as I bid farewell to my mother, I also bid adieu to the lingering shadows of our past. And with each passing day, I found myself wholeheartedly embracing the beauty and brutality inherent in life, understanding that it is through adversity and loss that we genuinely learn to cherish the moments of joy and connection.
May my mother find the peace she sought in her lifetime, and may I continue to forge my own path—a rendition of brutally beautiful.
