Disturbing Dream

I very rarely have nightmares or unpleasant dreams, but last night's was kind of disturbing.  I dreamed I was meeting this professor and to get there I was directed to take a road which was along side an ocean.  As I took the road in my silver Honda Accord the road went from pavement to dirt and eventually it became hard to tell where the road even was as it was covered with shrubbery and water.  Because the ocean was level with the road, they became hard to differentiate.  I crossed what I thought was a puddle, but it was the ocean itself, and my car was swept away and began to sink.

Suddenly, my perspective changed.  I was on a bridge above the sinking car, but I knew I was still in the car.  I watched as the rear end of my silver Honda (with me inside) disappeared under the water.  The me on the bridge tried to call the me in the car, but I didn't answer.  I then knew that I must have drowned and died, and all I could think of was, "How will Jonah be able to survive without me?" and I just felt so concerned about him.

Anyway, it was a strange dream, but my death felt very real even though I seemed to witness it from an outside perspective.  Anyway, it seemed worth recording.

'Til We Meet Again, Dear Anne

On July 6 I wrote this post about my dear friend, Anne, who was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer.  On Saturday night a friend informed me that she had passed away that afternoon.  What was weird was that ten minutes before I found out I suddenly got emotional and weepy for no apparent reason.  I don't know if it was coincidental or connected, but I thought it was interesting.

I wish you could have known Anne.  If joy, laughter, light, energy, life, and love could be personified, it would be Anne.  It's so fun to read all the nice things people have been writing about her.  It's clear that everyone who knew or was touched by her feels the same way about her as I do: she was one of the most beautiful souls, inside and out, that I have ever known.

Anne died as she lived, as fully as possible and with no regrets.  When she walked in a room, it was like getting a breath of fresh air.  I shall miss that.

I truly think the world is poorer for the loss of Anne (although I know Anne is still very much with us).  Anne was truly too good for this world and heaven is truly fortunate now.  But those of us left behind are heartbroken.

I know you're still around, Anne, but I can't wait to see you smiling face and to feel your warm embrace and energy again.

I love you.

The Period of Mourning Is Officially Over

Sunday night I was feeling particularly sad and missing Mom a lot.  It had actually been a rough day for both Jonah and me.  He had been thinking about his dad a lot and I had been dwelling on my mom. 

Jonah had gone to work and I decided to listen to some choral music.  I found a playlist on Spotify and started listening.  The second song was one I had never heard before based on a poem I was not familiar with.

Here are the lyrics:

"Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of far-off birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
Lacrymosa, dies illa (That sorrowful day)
I am in ev’ry flower that blooms,
I am in still and empty rooms.
I am the child that yearns to sing:
I am in each lovely thing
.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die."

As I heard these words I felt Mom's presence very clearly, and the message she had to give me was simple and direct: "Stop mourning!"

I felt her spirit say to mine, "It's okay that you miss me; it's even good that you miss me.  It's okay that you cry because you miss me.  It's okay that you're sad sometimes.  But you don't have to be sad, you don't have to miss me, and you don't have to cry because I'm right here.  I have never left.  I am still with you, so there's no need to mourn anymore."

I felt no judgment from her, and I also felt that it was my choice to continue to grieve or not, but that she was simply telling me I didn't have to anymore; that if I was grieving for me, that was my choice, but if I was grieving for her, it isn't necessary.

Part of the reason I get sad about Mom (aside from the fact that I just miss her incredibly) is that I never want her to forget how much I love and miss her.  She was essentially telling me she already knows, nor is she gone, so it's not necessary for me to be sad.

Little things trigger my emotions.  On Saturday I was thinking of going to Wells Fargo to deposit a check, and for some reason I started thinking about the branch my mom banked with in Utah and how the tellers were all so friendly with her and new her by name and appearance and I wondered if any of the "regulars" she had seen in there ever wondered where she was or if they missed seeing her, and it made me sad.  It was a weird chain of thoughts, but it just made me miss the way things once were.

When I researched the poem the song was based on, I found this on Wikipedia:

[Mary Elizabeth] Frye, who was living in Baltimore at the time, wrote the poem in 1932. She had never written any poetry, but the plight of a young German Jewish woman, Margaret Schwarzkopf, who was staying with her and her husband, inspired the poem. Margaret Schwarzkopf had been concerned about her mother, who was ill in Germany, but she had been warned not to return home because of increasing anti-Semitic unrest. When her mother died, the heartbroken young woman told Frye that she never had the chance to 'stand by my mother’s grave and shed a tear'. Frye found herself composing a piece of verse on a brown paper shopping bag. Later she said that the words 'just came to her' and expressed what she felt about life and death.

I completely agree with Frye's assessment on life and death: Mom is actually here with me.  There is no need to weep over her loss because I haven't actually lost her at all.  While I can't see and talk to her in the same way I could when she was in her physical body, I can see talk to her and hear and feel her if I pay attention.  I can still "see" her in many, many different ways.  This knowledge is of great comfort to me, and I believe it.  As we approach the first anniversary of Mom leaving her mortal body, I am choosing not to mourn and grieve, for she is not gone at all.  I'm sure there will be moments when I forget that and become sad. but I am actively reminding myself that she is still right here with me.

Remembering Pam (Feeling Homesick)

A few days ago one of my mom's best friends passed away.  Her name was Pam and I had known her as long as I can remember.  Mom and Pam were particularly close in the late 80s and through the 90s.  They were still friends after that, but Pam gradually kind of disappeared from view over the last few years.  I know she had health problems and she stopped going to church, and I felt like her and Mom lost touch even though they both lived in the same neighborhood.  I felt like Pam, for whatever reasons, became a bit of a recluse.  We saw her occasionally, but it wasn't the same.

The last time I remember seeing Pam was probably three years ago.  Mom and I went to one of our favorite restaurants at the time, Jumbo Buffet, and Pam was there with her son.  We chatted and it was all friendly, but Pam seemed distant...different, somehow.  Mom was showing signs of dementia then, although she was still doing okay.

Pam and Mom used to take walks every day in their neighborhood.  It was a ritual for both of them for quite some time, and I know both ladies enjoyed their friendship and talks very much.  I always felt a little sad that Pam kind of withdrew.

I understand that she even kind of withdrew from her family somewhat as well.  Evidently no one in her family, including those that lived with her, knew how sick Pam was until very close to the end.  She apparently didn't share that information with her family for whatever reason.  She also chose not to go to the hospital or a care facility and died at home, from what I understand.  I can respect that, but I also wonder if those who loved her most felt cheated at all.

I actually don't know what was going on in Pam's life these last few years.  As I said, in her later years she didn't seem the same to me.

I'm glad Pam and Mom are reunited again and I hope they are taking many "walks" together, wherever they may be.

I'm been thinking a lot about death lately.  A lot.

It's funny, as I get older I think about my own mortality and, obviously, the older one gets, the more death one experiences.  It's natural to lose people you've known and loved as you progress in age.  I think Mom's death, Pam's death, Jonah's dad's death, the deaths of some people in Mom's old ward, Harold's death, and the impending death of my friend, Anne have really put death on my mind this past year.

Another friend's longtime dog passed away, and my other friend's brother just died from cancer.

And as I get older, I feel my body slowly falling apart.  I'm only 43, but my hips and knees and back and neck and feet ache.  I get winded more easily.  I can't as easily do things as I could in my twenties or thirties.  I don't see or hear as I did ten or twenty years ago.  I know I'm getting older.  And I know things will just continue to deteriorate.  That's just part of mortality.

I've talked about death before (here and here, for example).  It's not something I find depressing or scary.  It just is.  It's a part of this journey we call life and every one of us will experience it eventually.  But it is sometimes hard to be separated from people you care about or love or see others go through the same thing.

I think about Jonah and me.  One of us is going to go first (unless we somehow die together, but that isn't as likely a scenario), and it's going to be very painful for whoever is left behind.  I think about my poor mom, who had to wait 21 years to be reunited with my father or my grandma, who had to wait almost as long to be reunited with my grandpa.  I think about another friend who lost his wife shortly after Mom died and how much he misses her and misses her.

Recently I finished re-watching "Lost" and one of the themes of the show deals with death and what happens to us in the afterlife.  I am convinced that the afterlife will be a great and wonderful place where we will be able to have continuing relationships with those who have gone before us.

It's weird, but sometimes I think I get "homesick" for my heavenly home.  Sometimes when I watch the news and hear about wars and crime and the terrible things human beings do to one another, I long for a place filled with peace and love and kindness, which is what I think heaven will be like.

Don't get me wrong; I don't wish for death.  Not at all.  I like my life and it has been and continues to be a happy one.  I recently wrote on Facebook:

"I was thinking about it today: I have had a great life thus far. Sure, it's had its share of trials and disappointments, but I honestly wouldn't change a thing (except maybe quitting piano lessons when I was 10). Every moment I've had in life, both good and bad, has brought me to the person I am now, and I like who I am and the life I lead. If I died today (which I hope is not the case) I could look back on the life I had and be very satisfied with how it turned out."

I think how wonderful it will be to see Mom and Dad again and my friend, Melanie, and Marlyse and my grandmas and grandpas and aunt and neighbors from the ward and Jonah's dad, etc.  But it also saddens me that those left behind continue to grieve, even if it's only for a relatively short season.

I'm quite convinced that Mom visited me this evening.  It was a feeling, but a very strong one.  I'm glad she reminds me she's still around.  Sometimes I need it.  I am quite certain our departed loved ones are not far off at all.

I recently read a book called The Afterlife of Billy Fingers, which I briefly talked about in this post.  It reminded me of something that has really been solidifying itself in my brain: I am more and more convinced that the essential purposes of life are to learn and to love.  If we are doing those two things, we are living successfully.  I don't believe that the kind of judgments we cast on one another (and ourselves) in this life exist so much in the hereafter.  I recently came across this quote by Ram Dass:

"When you go out into the woods and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You appreciate it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don...’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree. The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You’re too this, or I’m too this.’ That judging mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are."

Many near death experiences I've ever read about describe an indescribable love and the experience of not feeling judged.  I think this life is a school of learning whatever lessons we're here to learn and a place to learn what love is and how to give and receive it in great abundance.

Actually, we don't need to learn to love.  We already know what that is from the pre-existence.  We're here to be reminded of the love we already know.

I would like to experience a life of pure, unfiltered love.  The world would be so much better if we just loved without judgment, if we could really understand each others' hearts purely and totally.  I long for that.

As for me, I try (and sometimes fail) to be as good and as loving a person as I know how to be.  I hope whenever my time comes that I will be remembered as someone who brought love and positivity into this world we all share.

Cancer Sure Knocked The Wind Out Of My Sails

On my break at work last night I received some very sad news: a dear friend of mine [let's call her Anne], one of the greatest people I have ever known, has pancreatic cancer and has probably less than two months to live.  I have wrote in the past that death is just a part of life, and I still believe that, but man, this one bites.  This also comes on the heels of a childhood friend's dad dying and two friends who have lost dogs they've had for many, many years. 

The friend who informed me of Anne's cancer told me she's too weak to let everyone know, so she asked him to tell various friends, including me.  I'm glad he did.

He said I should write her a letter, and I felt like I should.  This is, in part, what I wrote:

My Dearest [Anne] (and you are very dear to me indeed),

You can imagine the shock I must have felt when [our mutual friend] told me you had pancreatic cancer and would not be pursuing treatment for it.  It was as if someone told me the sun would stop shining soon or air would no longer be available to breathe.  That may sound a bit hyperbolic, but it is how I feel. 

I don’t know how much time you have left, but I can’t imagine it is relatively much, so I wanted to get this letter off to you as soon as I could to just remind you how much you have meant to me.  I know you know I love and adore you, but I hope you know that meeting and knowing you has been one of the great privileges of my life.  I know our friendship may not be as close or as long as some of your other relationships, but since I met you, my life has been richer for it as I know it must be for anyone who knows and loves you.

You are truly one of the kindest and most generous souls I have met during my sojourn on this planet.  If I may say so, you are pure light.  You’re the kind of person who, when you walk in a room, fills that room with light and joy and effervescence and makes anyone else in the room feel more buoyant and happy.  You’re the kind of person people just want to be around because you have such an optimism of spirit.  You are good, and in a world that often has a lot of unpleasantness, you are truly a breath of fresh air.

I remember when I first met you...  I immediately adored you...

I remember you and [Rick (Anne's husband)] inviting us into your home and it was such a wonderful time.  I remember...you and Mark sharing with us your memorabilia from your days on Broadway.  But mostly, I just remember feeling the love, laughter, and friendship in that room.

I remember your coming to see Little Shop of Horrors, I think it was.  It was such a joy to see you again.  And I’ve enjoyed the brief contacts we’ve had via email since then.

Knowing you, I imagine you are at peace with where you are in life and the circumstances in which you now find yourself.  I imagine the hardest part will be having to leave those you love behind for a season.  I know if I’m feeling the way I’m feeling right now, this is probably especially hard for [Rick and Cecily (Anne's daughter)].

Mortality sure does have a way of kicking you in the teeth sometimes.  As you may know, I lost my mom about ten months ago.  Although it gets easier, the pain of losing her never leaves.  I miss her every single day of my life.  It was hard to watch dementia alter her just as I’m sure it is difficult to see what cancer is doing to you, my vivacious friend.  But I suppose these things are a part of the life we lead here on earth.  All of us must face the travails of mortality and aging eventually, and there are many wonderful lessons to be learned from it, even if those lessons are sometimes accompanied by pain.  Watching my mother’s last days was very illuminating for me.  Caring for her made me a better and less selfish person.  Facing death with her was an extremely spiritual experience.

The day Mom died I was sitting in her room listening to some of the most beautiful harp music I had ever heard being performed by a harpist the hospice provided.  As I let this gorgeous and ethereal music envelop me, I looked around the room in Mom’s assisted living facility and saw all the photos she had hanging on the walls, and as I looked at the snapshots from my mom’s life, I was made aware of just what a full and wonderful life she had led, and I was crying tears of joy because I was so glad it had been such a good, fulfilling life.  I was grateful that she (and my late father) had raised us children well and instilled us with the values that have shaped our lives ever since.  I realized that although she was leaving us, the legacy she left behind will influence generations to come.

The angel Clarence says to George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, “Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?”  The loss of my mother has left such a hole in my life, although I know she is still around because I feel her spirit often, but it’s not the same as seeing her face or touching her hand or hearing her voice.

When it comes time to make your transition into whatever lies beyond this mortal life, you will leave “an awful hole.”  The world will be poorer for losing you, but so rich for what you have left behind.  The influence you’ve had on friends and family is more far-reaching than you can ever imagine.  You will be leaving behind a legacy of love, joy, and inspiration.  I know you are not gone yet, but I want you to know how very sad I will be when you are.  My life is so much richer for having known and loved you.  I will always love you, my friend. 

Whatever remains of your mortal journey, my dear [Anne], I hope that it will be as pain-free and as comfortable for both you and your loved ones as is humanly possible.  I pray that your days with [Rick and Cecily] will be filled with more happiness than sadness and more love than fear.

[Our mutual friend] told me you are weak, so I don’t expect to hear back from you.  I hope my letter doesn’t seem too maudlin or macabre.  I am a realist, and death is not a frightening aspect of life for me; it just is a part of life.  I only wanted you to know the amazingly positive effect you’ve had on my life (and I’m sure the lives of everyone you have ever touched) and how much I love and miss you and will miss you.  Please give my love to [Rick and Cecily] as well.

Love,

Your friend,

[Cody].

Losing someone you love is never easy, but this one really sucks. 

Tribute To Harold

Jonah had a dream about a week or so ago.  In it, Mom paid him a visit.  She was very childlike, much like she was in her dementia days.  She was holding a white book and she was in a blue room.  Those were the main details Jonah remembers and one other big one: she was coming for someone.

I've learned that Jonah's dreams are not to be ignored.  He's very intuitive and almost psychic, and he has had many dreams that have been precursors to major events.  Two days before his dad died Jonah had a dream that his grandfather came to visit, and he was troubled by the dream because he thought it might be an indication that his dad would pass soon, which he did.

Once skeptical, I've learned to take Jonah's dreams and feelings seriously because he's usually 99% right about the intuitions he's having.

We wondered who Mom might be coming for.  My uncle (Dad's brother) was recently re-diagnosed with cancer.  My great-aunt and great-uncle are both in their late 90s.  I wondered who Mom might be coming for.

Two days ago my sister called my tears telling me that the daughter-in-law of Harold (Mom's pseudo-"boyfriend" from her days in assisted living) had called to let her know that Harold was in hospice care.

My sister wasn't necessarily crying over Harold.  It sounded like she had just had a really difficult and painful couple of weeks overall.  In fact, both my sister and I found much to rejoice in.  Harold, after all, hadn't looked well at all the last time we saw him in January.  He was very depressed and lonely and while I'm sure he never would have acted on it, he even seemed suicidal.  His body and spirit were broken.  It was hard to see him like that.

It gives me great comfort knowing he will be with his late wife soon and that he will get to see Mom again and meet Dad as well.  It makes me happy that he will be free of his suffering.

But it also brought up old feelings (or rather, lingering feelings) of when Mom died, and that has been hard.  I also regret that since I saw Harold in January I never spoke to him again.  I was pretty good about calling him and even attempted to several times, but was never able to get a hold of him.  Still, I know Harold knows how I felt about him, and that must be enough.

A friend of mine at work gave me a good perspective as we talked about how I was feeling.  She said, "It was great that this man was able to help your mom make the transition into assisted living and make her feel good about being there after so much time of not wanting to be there.  I believe your mom is now helping Harold make the transition from his life here, which has become very sad, to his life on the other side, which will be one of happiness."  I liked that.

I will miss you, Harold, and I will be forever grateful for all you did for my Mom and for the special friendship you had.  I'll miss talking to you and sharing stories about Mom.  I'll miss visiting you at the assisted living facility (now I really have no reason to go back there).  I'm glad I got to see you one last time before you leave us.  I'm glad you and Mom were away from each other for only a half a year, and I'm glad you'll get to be reunited again (but don't forget, she's with Dad now).  I love you, my friend.

The Rock In My Pocket

The last time Jonah and I visited my great aunt together we had her and my great uncle record some of their thoughts about their family.  We did it as a way to preserve some of our genealogy because once my great uncle and aunt are gone, the memories they still have about my ancestors will be gone, too.

As my aunt was talking about her mom (my great-great grandmother), she got wistful about her, and my uncle got teary-eyed as he talked about my his brother (my dad's father).

As I have been dealing with my own grief regarding Mom, I've realized something: this grief is never going to go away.  Not entirely, at least.

There has literally not been a single day since Mom died that I haven't thought about her.  Everything reminds me of her.  And I miss her terribly.

A friend wrote on Facebook: "...putting these things into words is an essential part of the healing process. David Lindsay Abaire says it well in 'Rabbit Hole,' when a parent grieving the loss of her son asks her mother if the feeling of loss - of grief - ever goes away, and the mother replies (I paraphrase) - no, not really . . . It gets better, even diminishes, but it's like a rock you carry in your pocket, and some times you stick your hand in your pocket and your pocket and you're suddenly reminded, 'oh, hello. . . you're still there.' It takes time - a lot of time - but time, though it does not heal everything, does help."

I'm always going to have this rock in my pocket.  That's not a bad thing, but I think of my aunt and uncle weeping for people they lost years and years ago; I think of Dad's mom who lived in sorrow for years after her husband died, so much that she almost became debilitated by it; I think of a friend who will never be able to get over losing her child to an accident-related death.  And I realize I will never get over losing my dear mother.  And there's no reason I should.

I certainly have not allowed her death to cause me to stop living my life, and as I've stated before, I feel her presence with me often, which is nice.  But she is ever in my thoughts, and some days I feel such a longing to have her here with me.

I am glad we didn't have to watch her keep disappearing.  I'm glad she never forgot who I was.  I'm glad I didn't have to watch her physically waste away.  I'm glad I didn't have to watch her go confusedly go through dialysis with an amputated leg, which is what would have happened had we chosen to keep her alive.

One thing I am always struck by was when I came back home to Utah knowing Mom would be dead within a week or so.  She was so excited to see me and like a child, she had no idea she would be dead soon (frankly, I don't think she even understood why she was in the hospital at all).  I don't think it was until we transferred her back to her assisted living residence that she finally understood what was happening.  And I do think there was a point when Mom recognized that she was dying, and I believe those on the other side were helping her understand that.  But that initial meeting when I knew she was dying, but she didn't, has always remained in my mind.  She was just so happy to see me (and I her), but I knew we would be saying goodbye for a while in only a matter of days.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I didn't grieve so hard when my dad died as I have with my mom.  I loved him very much; he was a great father, and I do miss him.  But I have to admit that Mom's death has been harder on me than his was.  But then Mom and I always had more in common than Dad and I did.  Dad liked sports and fishing and country music and wasn't very talkative, none of which I related to.  Mom loved movies and theatre and we had great talks, not to mention 21 years more together to cultivate a relationship than Dad and I had.  I also was, as my family says, "the golden child" to Mom and was her primary caretaker for several of the last years of her life.  Even after her death, I have been knee-deep in her journals and photos and financial and legal affairs.  She is ever present.

Dad died while I was on my mission, and his death almost felt surreal.  I was nowhere near him when he died.  I didn't watch him die like I did with Mom.  I was on the other side of the earth and felt somewhat removed from his death.  In fact, coming home from my mission it almost felt like Dad hadn't existed at all.  When I left for my mission, he was still home.  When I came back he was gone.

I can't really explain it.  I miss hearing Mom's voice.  I miss holding her hand and hugging her and kissing her.  I miss her childlike dementia just as much as a miss the level-headed woman I grew up with.  I miss eating meals with her and going to the theatre with her.  I miss playing games with her and talking with her.

I know pain will lessen with time, but I also know I'll always have this rock in my pocket until Mom and I are reunited once again.  And maybe Mom will again repeat the second to the last thing I ever heard her say: "I knew you did it right." 

Little Signs And The Story Of My Life

I wrote the following on my Facebook page a few weeks ago:

"I'm sure there are those who get tired of these posts (to which I say, 'Don't read them.'), but for me, they help me through my grieving process.

"I am and always have been a mama's boy. My mom was one of my very best friends. Even though her early passing saved herself and her family from a lot of suffering, there are days when I still can't believe she's gone.

"Many days I'm fine, but there are days like today when I miss her terribly and long for her immediate presence.

"Since her passing nearly five months ago, she has let me know many times that she is still around and very much a part of my life. That is comforting, but it's not the same.

"I just miss her. I hope it gets easier. I guess it's a testament to our deep love that the deep pain of her passing still remains.

"-sigh-"

I discover that I miss Mom terribly.  While the rational part of me knows that things worked out for the best, the emotional part of me just wishes she were here.

Yet she has shown me many times that she is very much around.

They're just little things, and others might chalk them up to coincidence, but I believe Mom is letting me know she is still very much a part of my life.

I've already talked about the Josh Groban concert.  The song "Smile" has become a way for Mom to let me know she's around.  Recently my brother and sister-in-law and their kids through town and we agreed to meet at a local IHOP.  I started my car to meet them, and a version of "Smile" by Barbra Streisand began to play.  I felt maybe it was Mom's way of letting me know she'd be attending breakfast with us (and sure enough there were two empty seats at our table, so maybe Dad was with us as well).

That's actually happened a lot (the two empty seats).  I attended a fairly full house of the show Rock of Ages, and there were two seats next to me (although I'm not sure either Mom or Dad liked the show), and at a Kristen Chenoweth concert the same thing happened.

I recently visited my family in Utah and we had dinner at Su Casa, one of Mom and Dad's favorite places, and again, there were two empty chairs at a rather full table.  I also saw a rehearsal of one of Mom's favorite shows, A Few Good Men, and found myself beside two empty seats.  (I know Mom loved that one.)

I've also felt Mom communicate to me through music.  Not just "Smile," but other stuff as well - the Josh Groban and Kristen Chenoweth concerts; songs on the radio; etc.  I was playing a rendition of a song I like (which I imagine Mom would have liked) called "And I Love You So,"

and I got in my car to go to work, and the exact song started playing on the radio.

It just felt like too much to be just a coincidence.

One unexpected song has become a sign for me.  About a month or two ago I had seen "The Story of My Life" performed by One Direction.  I liked the song and wanted to watch the video, which I did and which left me a weeping mess.

I don't know if it's because I've been dealing with Mom's journals and photos, but the whole idea of the video (these frozen memories in time; the moving on of time even after loved ones have left us) just really connected with me.

During my visit home when I was visiting Mom and Dad's grave at the cemetery for what turned out to be the last time it was warming up a little after a cold week and I could feel the sunshine on my body, and I closed my eyes and imagined Mom and Dad were beside me, much as I felt Dad beside me when I was on my mission shortly after he died.  I don't know if I've ever shared that story here, but the week he died, I was in church and bore my testimony and when I sat down I felt like Dad's hand was on my shoulder (and I believe it was).  Much in the same way, I felt like Mom and Dad were standing beside me in the cemetery, and I felt that same feeling in St. George recently when Jonah and I were married.  After I basked in that feeling, I got into the car and what should start playing but “The Story of My Life” by One Direction , and I started crying because I just felt sure it was Mom telling me she and Dad had been there. 

Other remarkable things that happened two other times I visited the cemetery.  The first time I visited it was a windless day a bit cold.  I'm not really a cemetery-going kind of guy, but the cemetery was only three blocks from where I was staying so I figured why not?  I was met at the grave site by several geese who were milling around, and it felt like kind of a sign to me.  I guess the life that was present felt like Mom reminding me that she's not really dead, just on another plane of existence. 

  
I hadn't been to Mom's grave since the week she was buried and I broke down.  I just miss her.  Sometimes I feel bad because I didn't behave the way I did with Dad's passing as I am with Mom's.  It's certainly not because I loved Dad any less.  I adored my father.  But Mom and I just had more in common (plus 21 more years together than Dad and I had).  Plus I was away when Dad died, so it didn't seem as present in my mind as Mom's death, when I was stroking her hair and looking at her face at the exact moment she passed.

There were two pinwheels on the graves of a nearby couple, and although I did not feel any wind, they both began to turn.  

 

I wondered if maybe Mom and Dad were making it happen.  It made me feel good to think they did.  I just let them know how much I missed them.

My other visit to the cemetery was at dusk so it was dark, but as I drove in I saw a herd of seven deer leaping and bounding about the cemetery.  While it is not uncommon to see deer in this part of Utah, the cemetery is in a fairly suburban area where deer don't frequent.  I was actually afraid to get out of the car until the deer departed, but they were a truly beautiful sight to see.  And then I saw a flock of the same geese I had seen previously honking and flying above me.  I took it as another sign of Mom's presence.  It was almost magical.


Recently, for their tenth anniversary, Facebook created commemorative movies based on each individual's photos and posts.  Somehow I felt mine was tailor-made to let me know Mom was around.  Yeah, I know it's based on algorithms and popular posts and photos, but it just felt like Mom had a hand in it.

The movie starts out with my profile photo of my headshot.  Then as it shows my first moments, we see the house Jonah and I bought together when it was just in its beginning stages.  Then there is a cast photo and a teaching job I had.  My most liked posts have to do with acting and my job and the day Mom died.  Then there's a shot of the sun breaking through the clouds the day after Mom died that was my sign from her that she was okay.  Then more shows, a trip to Disneyland I took with Jonah and a close friend, a favorite photo of my cat, the march I did with Mormons Building Bridges at the Gay Pride Parade in 2012, a picture my niece drew of Jonah and me, my current job, a silly photo of me, my family in the early 80s (complete with Dad, Mom, and my siblings), my recent trip to Disneyland with Jonah, and then as the movie ends with a compilation of several photos, there's Mom right in the middle smiling at me, and I think to myself, Facebook could have picked any photo.  I think the center one is based on a profile photo, but if it had chosen the most used or popular one, my headshot would have been at the center, but no, it's Mom. 

I just felt her love, and when I showed it to Jonah I just wept and wept in his arms because I felt so close to my dear, departed mother.

People can call these coincidences.  I don't believe they are.  Even if they were, they bring me great comfort, so I'm taking them as little signs.

Of Colonoscopies And A Life Well Led

Not to get too gross (although I've already done that here and here), but today I went in to have a colonoscopy.

 
For the past year I've been having weird digestive issues.  Lots of cramping, bloating, loose stool, gas, plus the acid reflux I already have.  Anyway, I've been a bit concerned, and because my grandfather died of colon cancer, I figured it might be worth checking out.

It may be something as simple as being lactose intolerant, but I wanted to make sure everything was good down there.

I've never had a colonoscopy before.  I was actually expecting the bowel prep to be worse than it was.  I was near the toilet a lot yesterday, but the whole thing was not nearly as bad as I had imagined.  

I've also discovered that a good way to lose five pounds in two days is to prep for a colonoscopy.  And actually, the cleanse made me feel a little more energetic and more buoyant.

Jonah drove me to the surgical center because I was not permitted to drive for 24 hours after the procedure (although I think I could have; I didn't notice any impairment after I woke up).  As we were driving, I said to Jonah, "I don't tell you this often enough, but you're one of the best things that has ever happened to me."

I ended up waiting a good while before I went back for my procedure.  While I was waiting, an elderly, hunched-over woman and her caretaker daughter came in.  The mother had to be in her 90s and I would have put the daughter in her 60s.  The daughter made sure the mother got to her seat all right and went to deal with the receptionist.  I heard them talking about her being the mother's power of attorney while the mother looked around in sort of a daze.

The daughter seemed attentive to her mother's needs and the two seemed to get on well; but I also sensed maybe some weariness and impatience from the daughter and a bit of annoyance from the mother that the daughter was babying her.  I felt such empathy for both women.  I know the situation well and it brought back memories of my own relationship with my mom.

After my procedure, Jonah and I went and ate at Sweet Tomatoes and I saw yet another elderly mother with her caretaker daughter, and I felt maybe Mom was just reminding me that she's still around.

When I went back for my procedure, I was instructed to remove all my clothes and don a hospital gown and booties.  Then I was asked to lie on the bed while two nurses dealt with me.  I actually found everyone on the surgical staff to be very personable, compassionate, efficient, and informational.  I had a very good experience.

When one nurse was preparing my IV, she didn't cap it tight enough and blood started spurting out.  That was a new experience for me.  Both nurses (and the anesthesiologist) were so nice and friendly, though.  The IV nurse got it capped pretty quickly.

They were a little behind schedule, so I ended up lying in the bed for about 15 or 20 minutes.  They came in a few times to apologize for the delay, but mostly I was left to myself.  I didn't mind; it gave me time to contemplate and meditate.

As I was lying there some strange thoughts came into my mind.  I thought, very calmly, "What if something went wrong with this relatively simple procedure, and I died?"  While I didn't want to die this young, and even though I knew it would likely be a devastating shock to my friends and family and particularly hard on my husband, I thought to myself, "If I were to die today, I would have few regrets.  I've lived a good life, a life that I am proud of.  I feel prepared to go if today were the day."

The only regrets I would really have would be leaving my poor husband behind; putting my family in a temporary financial bind because I am the trustee over Mom's trust; not finishing transcribing Mom's journals; and leaving Jonah saddled with a mortgage to pay by himself.

I was looking at the ceiling and the curtain and thought, "What if this was the last thing I saw and suddenly found myself in heaven?"  That would be a surprise, but a pleasant one.

Anyway, I just thought it was unusual, but I was happy I felt I could die with a clear conscience, having lived a happy life.

In any case, I did not die.  I was brought into the operation room where the doctor and anesthesiologist asked me a few questions, and then the anesthesiologist shot something into my arm that hurt a little,

and the next thing I know a nurse is telling me to wake up.  I was actually shocked that it had all happened.  It felt like the blink of an eye.  I was also surprised by how coherent and aware I seemed to be.  I remember when I got a a cornea transplant in 1997 that was not the case at all.  I was OUT. OF. IT.  Mom helped me get dressed and I didn't even remember it.  I fell asleep in the car on the way home, and it seemed like forever before I finally felt like myself.

I was told they had pumped air into my colon and so that I would be expelling that same gas.  They needn't have bothered.  I let two huge ones right after I woke up (happily, no one was around).

They gave me some apple juice to drink and gave me some final information.  I felt perfectly fine and was pleasantly surprised that I didn't feel any adverse effects or residual pain or discomfort (aside from some minor flatulence).

Oh...and the doctor said everything looks good in my colon.  So that's nice to know.  Maybe it's just milk that's the problem.  Or...

Day of the Dead and Missing People

Since Mom passed away, I find that every little thing reminds me of her.  This is not a bad thing, but it can sometimes cause a previously normal activity like, say, eating a yogurt to fill me with sadness.  Mom liked yogurt a lot and would often eat it for breakfast.  I was eating a yogurt the other day and it made me think of her.

Or Listerine strips.  The day I started cleaning Mom's room out after she had moved into assisted living, I found a drawer full of about 20 packs of them.  I use them now to freshen my breath after I eat dinner on my break at work.

Or a movie or a song.  A few weeks ago a local movie theater was showing The Wizard of Oz on the big screen.  Jonah wanted to go, but it was one of Mom's favorite movies, and I just wasn't in the right place emotionally to be able to do it.  (I wish I had; the movie we ended up seeing, The Family, was a dud, and we ended up walking out halfway through it).

I can't hear "Smile" or "Embraceable You" or "Que Sera Sera" or a million other songs without thinking of her.

Or places.  If I'm at a Sweet Tomatoes or eating sushi somewhere, I am reminded of the many lunch dates we had together.

And of course, I am consumed with her stuff, whether it be transcribing her journals, receiving her mail, or handling her financial and legal matters.  She is ever-present with me.  And that is a good thing.  But I am also more prone to feeling great sadness at the loss of her.

Two nights ago I had the night off as did Jonah.  Jonah wanted to go to a Day of the Dead celebration at a local park.  I am not very familiar with Day of the Dead, but it's apparently a pretty big holiday in Mexican culture, and while Jonah doesn't celebrate it, it is a part of his heritage, and he had always wanted to go to one of these events.

We went with a friend of ours.  It just so happens that the park where the celebration was taking place was the same park I had taken Mom to on her last visit here.  So being there already reminded me of her.  The fact that the theme of the day had to do with death or celebrating of the lives of those who had passed only made me think of Mom more.

While intellectually I know that Day of the Dead is a celebration of life and can often even take a humorous tone, emotionally I find the art depressing.

Even though I know there is the fanciful, mocking sort of attitude towards death, to me, culturally, skulls and bones represent a side of death that seems so permanent and without life, and I know it's just a cultural difference, but it made me feel sad rather than joyous.

We passed many altars dedicated to the likes of the poor kids shot to death at Sandy Hook Elementary; victims of domestic violence or gang violence; girls who never reached adulthood (and there were dolls dressed in corn husks to represent that); and memorials to such fallen icons as Harvey Milk, Selena, Michael Jackson, and Frida Kahlo.  The more we wandered around, I just felt a great heaviness of spirit and I began missing Mom terribly.

Jonah and his friend had primarily come to examine some of the art, which just isn't my taste.  Jonah noticed I seemed withdrawn, and came up to me and said, "I'm sorry if you're not having a good time."  It wasn't that I wasn't having a good time; I actually found the experience very interesting.  I just missed my mom.  As I started to explain this to him, I just started weeping, and amidst a large crowd of people who didn't even seem to notice, Jonah just held me in his arms and hugged me tightly while I sobbed.  I told him I just felt overwhelmed by all the death talk and that we were in a place that reminded me of Mom, and it was just hard.  Jonah kept repeating "I know, I know."

Just a day before Jonah had been feeling similar emotions because his dad had always given the grandkids a ride on his miniature train for Halloween, and Jonah was feeling a deep sense of loss.

As Jonah has said, it's not easy.  We both have lost our parents so recently, and we are still grieving.  Some days are easier than others, and I feel like I'm adjusting quite well.  Other days I feel incredibly sad that our parents are no longer with us in life.

I will always miss my mom, I'm sure, although I imagine the pain will get easier just as it did after my dad died.  I miss hearing Jonah's dad hum his little songs or seeing him sit out on the front porch or hearing him ask me if I brought snow from Utah.  I see how his passing has made Jonah's mom more lonely.  I miss my dad when I hear a particular country song or "Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley" by the Kingston Trio.  I miss my mom when I happen across a favorite movie of hers or when I'm out to lunch at a restaurant we frequented.

I guess that's life.  And I'm grateful for the reminders that bring back pleasant memories.  I often wonder what people will miss about me when I go.

Yesterday Jonah and I went to the cemetery to honor his father.  Neither of us are really cemetery-goers, but Jonah was curious about Day of the Dead festivities that were taking place at the heavily Hispanic cemetery.  I was truly surprised by the goings-on.  There was a high school Mariachi band (a very good one at that); a taco truck, balloon animals; face-painting, people hanging out in lawn chairs, etc.  For many, it was an all day celebration.

The cemetery where Mom and Dad are buried has a reputation for being a bit solemn and quiet, which is actually how I prefer it.  I would think a Mariachi band and a taco truck would be kicked out of the cemetery for disturbing the peace.  The most music I've heard at Mom's cemetery was the sound of a lone bagpipe.  Jonah's dad's cemetery seems much more relaxed than Mom's cemetery does.  To each his own, I guess.  Truth be told, the Mariachi music was quite enjoyable.

But the atmosphere was much different than I am used to.  Not bad.  Not good.  Just different.
 
Jonah left some flowers, candles, a coffee cup (representing his Dad's favorite beverage), a garden glove (representing his love of gardening) with a brick on top of it (representing the foundation he built with his children and family) and a framed photo along side the other mementos that had been left, including a wrench (representing his love of fixing cars), a statue, and a piece of duct tape that said "I love you."  It's so interesting how different people memorialize their dead loved ones.  I have a feeling Mom's cemetery would only have allowed the flowers.

When we were listening to the Mariachi band, I noticed two gravestones placed very close to each other: one was a Jewish man who died at the exact same age I am now, and the other was a black man who died at 20.  I don't know why it struck me, but I liked the idea that there were no racial or religious divides in this cemetery.  I also was struck by how many young people were buried in this cemetery.  I encountered grave after grave where the deceased was in his or her teens or twenties.  I wondered why so many had died so young.

We then went to a different part of the cemetery where Jonah's grandfather was buried.  It took us a while to find him, mainly because Jonah had told me to look for a fairly new upright stone with an eagle on it.  It turned out the stone was flat rather than upright, dirty, and had no eagle on it.  It also turned out that after having walked around extensively looking for it that the stone was a mere 15 feet right in front of Jonah's truck.

After the cemetery we went over to Jonah's sister's house, where Jonah's great-nephew was celebrating his first year of life.  It seemed apropos to be celebrating his birthday after so many days focused on death.  We visited with Jonah's family and his mom.

Anyway, I miss Mom, and my Day of the Dead experience was educational.

Funeral and Burial

It's strange how the absence of just one person can make the world seem a much emptier place.

I miss Mom.  She's in a better place and she's better off, but I miss her.  I miss her presence.  I miss her voice.

It's funny, when I was her primary caretaker, I admit there were moments that I kind of wished she would pass.  That's hard for me to admit, but I understand it's a common feeling for caretakers to have.  Her mental decline was just hard to watch, and caring for her could be very stressful at times.

I never thought Mom would go this quickly.  She had the kind of personality and energy where I just thought she'd hang around for years no matter how badly her dementia robbed her of her faculties, independence, and abilities.

In truth, it's a great blessing that she went out the way she did.  Two weeks ago, she was doing well.  Although her mind was continuing to get progressively worse, she still knew all of us and was still able to learn new information.  She was still independent and active.  And most of all, she was happy.

It was only the last week that was difficult, and even then, I never felt she was suffering or in much pain, and I still felt she was very much aware of those who around her and who loved her.  What more can you ask for?

She lived a great life and her influence will be forever felt by those she touched.  I'm glad I don't have to watch a slow, painful decline in both mental and physical health.

But I miss her.

Friday morning we went to the funeral home to dress Mom.  Initially, I didn't want to dress her.  I wasn't sure how it would make me feel.  But I had changed my mind after talking with a friend who helped dress her grandmother.  It felt like one final act of service for my mom.

My aunt and cousin had come to help do Mom's makeup.  I had asked them to help because when they did my aunt's mother's makeup when she died, it looked terrific.

It turned out the funeral home had really done a great job with Mom.  Both her hair and makeup looked great, and she truly looked like she was sleeping.  She certainly looked a great deal better than she did when she died.  I had sent the funeral home pictures of Mom with her hair done up, and they really did a good job.  Jonah made a couple of alterations that really made her look like Mom.  My cousin only put some of Mom's lipstick on her, and it really turned out great.  It made Mom look like Mom on her best day.

Dressing Mom was both spiritual and...well, weird.  We put Mom's temple clothes on her.  The mortician was LDS so he knew how she should look.  Mom was very cold.  She'd obviously been in refrigeration.  Parts of her body that had scars from surgery and from her fall had been wrapped with plastic.  Her feet were too swollen to get her temple booties on, so we just laid them beside her feet.  

Mom's dress was of a fabric with not much give, and it was a little tight, so we just cut it down the back so it could breathe.  Flipping her from side to side to get the dress and accessories on and trying to get her stiff fingers through her sleeves was an odd experience, but also gratifying in a way.  By the time she was all dressed and made up, she really looked beautiful.

The mortician said his favorite part of his job was taking people that looked terrible upon death and making them look the way they looked in life.

My cousin's friend had died of cancer the same week Mom died (and in fact, the funeral home was handling her funeral as well) and both funerals were at the same time, so she was feeling very conflicted, although it turns out she went to Mom's.

After the funeral home, Jonah and I went to lunch (eating at the same table Mom and I often ate at, and it made me sad to know there would never be another lunch with her again in this life) and shopping to get him some nicer clothes to wear for the viewing and funeral.  Then we went back to the apartment we were staying at to get dressed.

While out shopping, I received a call from the bishop of Mom's old ward (my old ward as well) informing me that both he and the stake presidency had a problem with the song Jonah was to sing at the funeral.  It was "Embraceable You" by George Gershwin, and because a funeral takes place in the chapel, it must be according to Sacrament Meeting standards.  I guess they felt some of the lyrics to "Embraceable You" were too racy.

I was livid.  "Embraceable You" was one of Mom's favorite songs and also one I had sung with her as she lay dying.  I felt like it was an insult to Mom's memory, and felt that something lascivious and salacious was being attached to a song that was neither.  The bishop passed me on to an old family friend who is in the stake presidency.  He is a dear friend, and I don't think I have ever been angry at him in my life...except for at that moment.  I was mad and at that moment, if I had had the power to move the funeral elsewhere, I would have.

I ended up choosing "Smile" by Charlie Chaplin as its replacement (and that was approved), but I went to the viewing with a lot of anger in my heart, which was unfortunate since I had expected to feel peaceful and contemplative.

The viewing was nice.  Mom looked great.  We had the funeral home put her purse in with her.  In life (and especially as her dementia worsened), Mom was rarely without her purse, and we felt it fitting (and humorous) that she should take it to the grave.

Jonah and my sister-in-law made some flowers to go in the lid of Mom's casket.  They looked beautiful.  My brother-in-law had made a video presentation about Mom.  We had pictures of her, although I regretted that the picture of Jonah, Mom, and me at our commitment ceremony wasn't there due to the funeral home borrowing it for the obituary.

It was good to see old friends and relatives and visit with them.  Among my recollections at both viewings was one sister who talked about Mom being one of her favorite visiting teaching partners; one woman who's husband just died thanked me for a phone message I left for her (her daughter thanked me as well); Mom's childhood friend visiting; my old boss at a theater I used to work at seemed especially grief-stricken; another friend from the same theater made me feel better about the song situation.  Truth is, Mom wouldn't have cared that much.  She liked "Smile," too, and would have been happy to hear Jonah sing anything.  She certainly wouldn't have wanted me to carry a grudge about it.

I had no shame in introducing my partner to many of my former Mormon neighbors, and hardly any of them batted an eye.

 Jonah's Mom and sister-in-law had surprised us Friday night by coming up from Las Vegas.  I was so surprised and touched to see them.  We invited them to have dinner with us at my brother's and sister-in-law's house.

The viewing the next day was good, and we had to to wait a few minutes for my cousins to arrive.  My sister-in-law gave the family prayer, and it was quite nice.

Both of my sisters spoke as did I.  A family friend shared a retrospective of Mom's life.  I think the service was recorded by the funeral home, and if so, perhaps I'll publish my remarks in a future post.  Several people remarked on Mom's quiet service, and that is quite accurate.

I had seen my mom's former coworker (and former boss of mine) in the congregation and had hoped to talk with her, but she left before I got the chance, but she left a card and a plant for my siblings and me.

The weather was cool and rainy, but it didn't rain until after the graveside service.  I guess a marathon was going on on the same route as the funeral caravan, so that caused a bit of delay, but everything went smoothly and on time.

As we were at the graveside service, I couldn't help bu notice the trees showing the very first inklings of fall, and I thought that apropos that things were dying and changing from summer to autumn just as Mom made her departure.  It seemed metaphorically fitting as did the rain that started falling literally as soon as the service had ended.

We had a simple luncheon at the church, and my cousin played a really fitting song that seemed to relate to Mom.  After the luncheon was over, I said goodbye to my siblings, not sure when I'd see them again.  Mom felt like the glue that held us together, and I hope we will still get together even though she has passed.

I spent the rest of the time with Jonah, his mom and sister-in-law.  We took naps and then ate dinner at, coincidentally, the last place Jonah and I took Mom out to eat.

Sunday morning we went to a farmer's market and then to IKEA and then said goodbye to Jonah's mom and sister-in-law.  Then we ate, did some shopping, and then visited Mom's friend Harold at the assisted living facility.  He was so sad and lost.  He asked me to send him a photo of Mom.  I shall.  I also plan on calling him from time to time and will ask my siblings to check in on him if they feel the inkling to do so.

Jonah and I then visited Mom's grave again.  I had also visited it on Saturday after they had buried her, and it looked beautiful with the fresh flowers.  I'm not typically a grave visitor, but I somehow felt the need.  It was very peaceful.

Monday, Jonah and I headed home.  And now here I am trying to go back to normal without Mom.  It's going to take some time to adjust.

Mom's Death...And Her Beautiful Life

This has been a truly exhausting week.

Mom made her exit on Tuesday, September 10 at 2:23 PM Mountain Standard Time.  She was surrounded by me, my brother, my sister-in-law, my cousin, and my aunt.  Although both of my sisters had been there earlier, neither was there when Mom actually passed, and I think it worked out better for them that they weren't.

Although this has been a very difficult and painful week, it has also been a very spiritual and meaningful one.

I had never actually watched someone die before and certainly not someone as close to me as my mother was.

Jonah and I arrived in Utah on Thursday of last week, and I wrote about that night here.  Friday morning Mom was still pretty coherent, but drugged out a bit.  We had already determined to let her go, so it really was about making her as comfortable and pain-free as possible.  We took her off oxygen.  The tube in her nose was annoying her, and we figured it would only prolong her life anyway.  We also stopped the IV fluids.  Mom had already stopped eating by this point, although she was still drinking water.

She was in renal failure, and we were told it would take anywhere from a day to a week or so for her to pass.

As I said in my last post, I am convinced that we made the right decision on her behalf.  It is what she would have wanted and she would have been pretty miserable and confused otherwise.  She could have gone on dialysis three times a week for a the rest of her life and lived with her right leg missing; but a woman in her mental condition would have been very agitated, confused, and miserable as a result.  It might have been nice to keep her around longer, but I think it also would have been a long and painful road for both her and us.  I just think she would have been very sad, which would have been hard for her after she had finally found happiness again.  I miss her already, but we did the right thing, and now she is with my dad, whom she has been away from for 21 years.

Many of us stayed in the hospital with her on Friday.  I wrote down some of the things she said, which may have been drug inspired, but which I like to believe were her thoughts as she grew closer to the heavenly realm.

Here are some of the things she said, both in the hospital and in the assisted living facility:

"It's different."
"It's weird."
"I'm happy."
"It's great."
"I'm doing great."
"It's funny."
"Somehow I found a place."
"Everything went well."
"Nobody will understand.  Just the people who know."
"Nobody knew but us."
"It's a secret.  Then they'd know."
"Sounds like little children."
"It's so beautiful.  It's so beautiful."
"It's a little trick."
"I think it's fun."
"It's fun to watch it because we already know."
"We find each other.  We find each other somehow."
"Did you see that?"
"I think we have to."
"It's true."
"It was really good." (about Harold's guitar playing when he visited Mom)
"Who's the boy with the monkey?" (my favorite)
"You're welcome." (after I thought she said "Thank you," and repeated it to her to see if that's what she said), and which was the last audible thing she said to me.
 and
the second to the last audible thing she said to me: "I knew you did it right."

When hospice took over, we decided Mom could be moved back to the assisted living facility where she was living, and arrangements were made to move her there in the afternoon on Friday.  We felt Mom would be happier in a familiar place and that way her friend Harold could visit her, and his visit at the hospital really seemed to brighten her spirits.  Plus, Harold was in mourning just as much as we were, and we thought it would be good for both him and Mom.

I spoke with the hospice social worker and signed a bunch of papers and made arrangements.  She was very nice and wanted to make sure Mom was comfortable.  I do somewhat regret remaining with that hospice service rather than dealing with the one that partnered with the assisted living facility, but we made the choice we made, and that service did do some very good things for Mom.  We did have a major snafu with her morphine pump after moving her to the assisted living facility and it seemed the assisted living staff and the hospice staff were not on the same page; the first pump Mom was given was broken; and so Mom was in some pain when first arriving at her home at the assisted living place.  Eventually (although not quickly enough for my brother and me) the problem was resolved, and we gave Mom a large dose of morphine to deal with the pain, and she slept for a very long time.

During the pump snafu time, Mom was able to talk a bit, although it wasn't always coherent.  She seemed aware, but confused, which is how she was in her state of dementia anyway.  I stayed with Mom that first night.  Jonah went back to my friend's, who we are staying with, to get a decent night's sleep.  I slept on a leaky air mattress while Mom slept.  She was out most of the time although occasionally she would open her eyes. 

I didn't sleep too well, mostly because the air mattress was deflating and because the nurse kept coming in every hour to check on Mom.  Mom seemed relatively normal that first night.  Her urine output was almost nil and her fecal output was nil.  She had both a catheter and a fecal tube as well as the morphine pump attached to her.  They had removed her old bed and replaced it with a hospital bed.

We didn't know how much time Mom left; only that it wasn't much.

My siblings and I were in and out, spending hours at a time with Mom and then leaving to get a break while someone else (or many someone elses) stayed with her.  Sometimes we stuck around the assisted living facility on the porch or in the dining room.  Part of me was afraid to leave because I thought she would die while I was gone.

I don't know why it was important to me to be with her when she passed.  I guess I'm a bit of a romantic with a spirit of drama, and I wanted my "movie moment" where Mom took her last breath by my side.  Although I did eventually get my "movie moment," the long week of her dying eventually taught me that I didn't need it.

I think all of us expected Mom die more quickly than she did, although none of us were particularly surprised that she didn't since Mom tended to be very independent, doing things on her own terms, and who was a bit of a hanger-on-er. 

Much of the week is a blur to me.  I remember events and experiences, but not necessarily when they happened.  I know that Saturday morning Jonah and I went out.  Jonah just wanted me to get a break and get away.  He's been such a great support to me during all this, and I haven't always been as kind in return due to stress.  But I have a hard time imagining going through all of this without him.

I know that Saturday there was one point when Jonah, my brother, and I were all with Mom and thought she would die during a half hour period.  Her breathing was very erratic, her pulse was above 100 beats per minute, and there were about 12 seconds in between some of her breaths.  She was aware and communicative, but her voice was weak and sometimes hard to understand.  That was when she told me, "I knew you did it right," and at the moment I thought those would be the last words she ever said to me.  I don't know what she was referring to, but I know it was meant for me specifically.  I hope it refers to my relationship with Jonah or the way in which I helped care for her or the way I'm living my life or the choice we made to not prolong her life.  Whatever it was, I'm glad she's convinced I "did it right."

I remember two specific times when Mom was in the midst of dying, I felt a warmth on my shoulders and neck; not a room temperature sort of thing, but a spiritual presence of some sort.  That's what I believe anyway.  I think there was a being (or beings) there helping Mom prepare for her transition.

I also remember two interesting visions I had.  One happened while I was caressing Mom's hair and stroking her arm wondering how long she would be with us.  While I was doing this, I saw a much younger version of Mom doing the same thing to me just after I was born.  In truth, I don't think Mom actually got to hold me after I was born.  I was born two months early and was in very critical health, and for the first three days of my life, the prognosis was not good.  I spent several weeks in an incubator.  So I don't think Mom held me much, if at all, during the first weeks of my birth.  But the point of the vision, I think, was to show me that at the beginning of my life, Mom was praying for my life and hoping I'd be okay, and here I was at the end of hers praying for a painless and easy death for her and hoping she'd be okay.  It just was a testament to me of the circle of life and it felt very apropos. 

The other vision I had was I was looking at Mom breathing in and out in a deep sleep and suddenly I thought I saw my dad's face in hers and then my own.  I'm not sure exactly what it signified, although I have my theories.

Saturday night my brother stayed with Mom.  I waited for the call that never came; that Mom had finally passed.

Sunday was a day of visitors.  My aunt and uncle came by.  Mom's very close friends who she used to live across the street from came by.  Mom's friend that she's known since she was 16 came by.  My niece and nephew-in-law.

I took a picture of Mom with her old friend and neighbor.  It turned out to be the last photo taken of them together.

At this point, many of us wondered why Mom was hanging on.  Shouldn't she have passed yet?  It just felt like she was dragging it out and, frankly, it was hard to watch at times, wondering if each breath would be her final one.

Mom's friend postulated that maybe it was hard for her to leave while all of us were there, and that sometimes dying people needed time alone.  Jonah wondered if my presence, in particular, might be making it hard for Mom to leave.

Jonah, who had really been having a hard time dealing with the unfairness of Mom's early and unexpected demise and her slow death, had a long chat with God about it, and this is what brought him peace:

"I was talking to God right now and asking what lessons are learned from
a slow death ... in all this there are lessons for every one...each one us
takes a different one when we are there or when we leave.  it all about
accepting what you have seen before you.. I have already told you the
secret God says. I accept you for who you are and I love you for who
you are...Just remember acceptance is the key and I am ready to accept anyone when they are ready to be accepted..." (sent to me from Jonah in a text message)

As Jonah and I discussed Mom's impending death, one thing we theorized is that free agency being the eternal principle that it is there is no reason to necessarily doubt that Mom had choice in exactly when she might depart this mortal existence and maybe she wasn't ready or was afraid or was concerned about leaving us or whatever.  I also came to realize that Mom wasn't in pain or suffering that we could tell (in fact, one of the clearest and most audible things she said was "no" when Jonah asked her if she was in pain) and so why should I be in such a hurry to let her go.  Yes, it was hard to watch her slowly die, but I realized that wanting her to die more quickly was more about alleviating my suffering than hers, and once I accepted that I decided to just cherish every moment I still had with her, no matter how painful it might be for me.

During much of the time Mom was dying, we would let Harold come in and see Mom.  The first time he came, Mom was still conscious enough to recognize him and seemed very happy to see him.  He asked if he could give her a kiss and she agreed.

The second time Harold visited, Mom was unresponsive and he asked if he could kiss her, but she couldn't give permission, so he didn't.

The third time Mom was unconscious, his visit was very short, and I told Harold he could go ahead and kiss her.  He was very grateful.

Mom and Harold meant a lot to one another, and even though we all believe Mom and Dad are reunited now and that Dad is Mom's eternal mate, the fact remains that Harold and Mom made each other very, very happy these last couple of months.  Mom's demeanor was such a happy and vibrant one and much of that was due to Harold.

I think my brother, in particular, seemed a bit put out by Harold's visits and that perhaps Harold was overstaying his welcome and taking time away from the family.  Harold's first visit, in particular, was quite long and extended.  I even think perhaps my brother was a little jealous of Mom's relationship with Harold.

When I say what I'm about to say, I am not judging or condemning my brother.  I truly think he has done the best he knew how to do during these past few years in dealing with Mom, but the fact is that of the four of Mom's children, he probably spent the least amount of time with her.  He always had work or church or family obligations and just didn't seem to have time to visit with Mom the way my sisters and I did.  Certainly he visited with her and helped her, but I wondered now that Mom was dying if perhaps he was realizing the lost time he could have had with Mom.  Maybe my brother has no regrets; I'll never know - my brother isn't too vocal about his feelings nor does he wear his heart on his sleeve the way perhaps my older sister and I do.

But it's like Jonah said in his text message in another part:

"I look at your Facebook page and saw Harold and mom
picture...and yes I too hear the same stories over and over from you as Harold
heard from mom but not once have I left you .. I have sent all of you a
special someone like that ..Harold once again I tell you loved and
accepted mom for who every bit of who she is .like I do you .acceptance
is the key..do you accept death for what it is or do you fear it..."

I know all of us at one time or another got impatient with Mom's memory loss and hearing the same thing over and over.  I eventually reached a place where it no longer mattered.  My phone conversations with Mom these last few months rarely varied.  It was the same conversation over and over; but I didn't care; I was just happy to talk with my mom.

Harold accepted Mom for exactly who she was and not only listened to her repeat the same things over and over again, but delighted in it.  Just like our Father in Heaven, who hears us pray and ask for the same things over and over, Harold didn't say, "I'm sick of this; you're wearing me out."  He accepted and loved Mom just for who she was...and he made her very happy and she, him.  Her death was very hard on him, and I felt he deserved just as much time to mourn her as anyone, whether he knew her as long as we did or not.

I did try to make sure my brother got some alone time with Mom because I think he needed it, but I just hope he doesn't live with regret of missing time with her.  I think my brother really made an effort to be with Mom while she was dying, but I sometimes don't feel he made that effort when she was living.  Again, no judgment or condemnation; just an observation.

A really fascinating thing happened on Sunday night.  We had thought Mom was going to die soon due to her irregular breathing and rapid heartbeat.  She hadn't eaten anything in several days, and although we tried, she wasn't taking much water.  Her lips were chapped, although we tried to keep them moist.  Her potassium levels were very high, which meant her heart could give out.  Her kidneys had shut down.  Her oxygen level was 71, and they had told us the 60s was where to expect death. 

For much of her dying period, I had played old standards because Mom loved that kind of music, and it was funny how so many of the songs started to take on double meanings under the circumstances.  "They Can't Take That Away from Me" made me think that even though Mom was dying, her influence really couldn't be taken away; "Que Sera Sera" - what will be, will be; "Unforgettable" - that's what Mom was and is; the "Sentimental Journey" Mom would soon be taking; "I'll Be Seeing You" - knowing that soon everything would remind me of Mom; "Embraceable You" - one of Mom's very favorites (and what Jonah will be singing at her services).

When Mom was conscious, she would move her lips, and I know she was trying to sing.  Her first night at the assisted living before she got worse, we sang it together while we were dealing with the morphine pump fiasco, and that seemed to calm her down.

But on Sunday night Jonah wanted to sing to her.  We started singing "How Great Thou Art" and then Jonah encouraged me to sing some familiar LDS church hymns, which I did.  Even though Mom was asleep, her lips would move, and the most remarkable thing was that her breathing regulated itself.  Whereas her breathing pattern had become sporadic with 9-12 second between breaths and a heart rate of 100 beats per minute, after Jonah and I sang with her, her breathing became normal and her heart rate when down to about 73 beats per minute.  We also learned that her oxygen level, which had been 71, had gone all the way to the mid 80s.  I knew music was powerful, but I was absolutely floored by the change in her.  We told my niece and nephew about it, and they asked me to sing with them to Mom, and it was a wonderful experience.

Jonah and I stayed with Mom a bit that night.  Jonah said after I fell asleep that Mom's breathing and mine had been opposite, but that we eventually started breathing in time together while we were asleep.  I thought that was interesting.  Jonah eventually left and I stayed with Mom that night and actually got a better night's sleep.

Jonah and I actually think the hymn singing may have prolonged her life another day.  Her breathing remained fairly steady for a while.

By Monday night, Mom's fluid build up had gotten worse and her breathing had become gurgled.  I had actually read about the signs of death for someone going through renal failure, and the "death rattle" breath is a sign, so I knew death was getting closer.  And yet I also felt compelled to leave Mom alone for the night.

My brother had asked if I was staying, and I said I wasn't, and he asked if he should come, and I said he didn't have to.  For some reason I felt compelled to follow my neighbor's advice and just let Mom be by herself for a bit.  And in truth, the gurgling breath was hard to watch.  Mom kept gasping for breath, and each breath felt like it would be the last.  It wasn't watching her dying that was the hardest; it was wanting so badly to help her and not being able to.  I also felt that same warmth I'd felt before, and I knew that even if we left, Mom wouldn't be alone at all; there were spirits preparing for her arrival much in the same way my siblings and I were preparing for her departure.  Jonah and I said a very powerful prayer that Mom's transition would be smooth and free of fear and that she would know she wasn't alone.  It was a very powerful and spirit-filled time.  I put my hand on my Mom's head much like I might have if I still held the Priesthood, but simply prayed, and I knew my prayer was heard and being answered.

I told Mom that we were leaving and that I loved her.  She opened her eyes and I know she was trying to say, "I love you, too," but she couldn't speak.  Still, I knew she was aware.

There were times when Mom would open her eyes and they just had a dead look, but I always felt she was very conscious and cognizant of what was going on around her.  I also wonder if her demented mind was filled with clarity as she grew closer to death.

I fully expected to receive a call in the middle of the night saying that Mom had passed, but it never happened.  She had been so warm and had been gasping her extremities were swollen and she was unable to move herself.  And I realized I might miss my "movie moment" of being with her when she died, but it no longer mattered.  I just wanted her to be free on her own terms.

We had asked the nurse to call if there was any change, and she said she would call at the end of her shift at 6:00 am, which she did.  Mom was still in relatively the same shape.  At about 8 or so, my brother called saying that Mom had grown worse.  Jonah and I got there around nine, and I basically stayed with her until the end.

Mom's breaths were very short and gurgled.  My older sister had gotten there and hadn't expected what she saw and called my aunt, who used to be a nurse.  She picked by aunt up, and they came.  At one point, all four of Mom's children were present with her at the same time.  My great-aunt also visited.  The nurses gave Mom a last bath and changed her from her sweaty hospital gown to her regular clothes.  They also turned the bed so we could gather around it.

A chaplain showed up and talked to us.  Although I didn't necessarily require his services, it was nice to talk to him and share experiences we had had.  Jonah was also very good with my younger sister, who was really having a rough time, and said some things to her that really seemed to help her.  My cousin soon showed up.

Perhaps one of the neatest, most beautiful things that happened was the hospice service had a harpist come in.  She played some of the most beautiful music for about a half hour, and I relished in the peacefulness that was present.  It felt almost like we were in heaven.

And a profound experience occurred: I looked around the room at all the photos on my mom's wall and saw the tapestry of her life.  Here's one of her in 1975 with her husband and kids, my youngest sister just a newborn; here's another of her with my brother and his wife and three of their kids in about 1997 or 1998; here's another of her gay son and his partner at Disneyland; here's another of her youngest daughter with her husband and young children taken just last year; here's another of her as a little girl in a big bow with her mom and baby brother; here's another of her enjoying an activity at the assisted living facility; here's another of her family when Dad was having health problems taken a couple of years before he died; here's another of Mom with her extended family, but this time no Dad - he'd been dead many years by that point; here's one of the whole family shortly after my brother was engaged to the woman who is now his wife (Mom had asked, "Are you sure you're getting married?" before allowing her to be in the photo).  And now I'm looking at the map of the world my sister put on the wall showing all the places Mom had been in her life as well as the places her dementia made her think she'd been.  France, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Belgium, Austria, Canada, Great Britain, Switzerland, Holland, Alaska, Yellowstone Park, Disneyland, Hawaii, Boston, New York, and others.  And I start thing of the wonderful life my mom had had, the experiences she's lived; the family she and my dad have grown and raised; and the influence she will always continue to have after her death. 

And then I look down at this frail, dying woman who's mind and body have been wracked by mortality, but who is now surrounded by people who love her very much and whose lives she has impacted for good through her love, generosity, kindness, faith, and sacrifice.  And I am only sad because this beautiful, lovely woman will certainly leave a void in my life and others' lives when she departs from this world; but I am not sad for the wonderful and very full life she lived.

And I truly believe that although her spirit and her body will be separated, that we will never be without her.  She lives on in us.  Those grandkids and great-grandkids who will never know her in this life will know her because their parents and grandparents knew her and were taught and loved by her.  Her example lives on in all of us, and I know we are never alone or without her.

I don't want the harpist to stop, but eventually she does, and I thank her.  You can tell she loves what she does and that she has likely seen many people die.  But she knows why it's beautiful and spiritual.

Eventually both my sisters have to leave.  My oldest one leaves only minutes before Mom passes.  My sister-in-law has arrived.  I somehow find myself in the seat next to Mom.  I am stroking her hair and arm.  There are these little gurgling, gasping noises, but barely any breath at all, and I know the end is near.  I am happy she will be reunited with my dad and her parents and the loved ones that have gone before, and I am happy she will be whole in mind and spirit again; but I am sad to know I will soon be losing the best mom a guy ever could have had and that I will no longer be able to talk to her on the phone and hear her voice or hug and kiss her.  I know I will dreadfully miss her presence in my life.

Mom takes a breath, but does not exhale.  I know without knowing that it is her last.  I have never actually seen anyone die in the flesh before.  It is profound and spiritual.  It really is as if you can see the spirit leaving the body.  The color goes out of Mom's face and although there are still involuntary muscle twitches, I know she is gone.

I continue to stroke her hair.  I put my hand on her forehead and face because I know soon she will grow cold, and I want to hold on to her warmth as long as I can.  We all cry except my brother and cousin.  I go into work mode.  I tell the staff that she's gone; I call the funeral home (who we met with a couple of days before while Mom was dying) and the cemetery.  I schedule a meeting with the cemetery in just an hour or so.

We are given time to be with Mom, although we don't necessarily need it.  We've been with her the last week.  I find Jonah, who's been with Harold.  I let Harold have one last visit with Mom.  The funeral director comes and we go through some logistical stuff.

I give Mom one last kiss on the forehead and then the lips.  She is colder now, but I do not want to forget the way that kiss feels.  The funeral director moves the body and Jonah and I head off to the cemetery.  Fortunately Mom and Dad prepaid for their plots, vaults, and burials, so that has made it easier and less stressful.  It just so happens that every day I pass the cemetery where Mom will be buried because my friend we're staying with lives only a couple of blocks away.  Jonah and I look over the grave site.  We are charged an extra $250 because it will be a Saturday service.  Fortunately, we have all the money we were going to use to care for Mom; now she's using it to take care of us.

I have already pre-written Mom's obituary and funeral program, so I send those off.

Monday is spent doing activities unrelated to Mom.  Jonah is trying to distract me from my grief, God bless him, but all I can seem to think of is Mom.  Even when you think you're prepared for a loved ones death, you really aren't.  Everything reminds me of her ("I'll never be able to take her to this restaurant again;" "Mom would have loved this movie;" "normally I would have been calling Mom right now;" etc.).

I feel lost.  So much of these past few years has been devoted to Mom's care that now I feel like I've lost part of my purpose.  True, this will enable me to devote more energy to Jonah and my career and my own life, but I miss living for Mom.  I miss her.

Today was spent cleaning Mom's room at the assisted living facility, meeting with her lawyer about her estate, helping my brother-in-law with a photo presentation for the funeral, picking out a program cover, lashing out at Jonah when we was only trying to relieve my stress; and having dinner with my sister and brother-in-law.  Tomorrow will be spent getting Mom dressed, made up, and having her hair done and getting things ready for the viewing.

Saturday will be the funeral.  I'm giving a talk, and I wrote this blog entry to help me organize some of my thoughts.  After the funeral will be the burial and a small dinner.

Jonah and I may stay Sunday or go back home.  We definitely must leave by Monday because we both have to get back on Tuesday for work.  It's been a long week.

I wonder when I will come back to Utah.  My family is here, so I know I will be back, but not having Mom here will be weird.

I have absolutely no regrets about my relationship with Mom or my love for her, her love for me, or they way I treated her and cared for her.  That is a peaceful feeling indeed.  I miss Mom, but I know she's in a great place.

The day after she died, when I was feeling especially down, I saw this:

 

Today I saw a beautiful double rainbow.  I think those are Mom's way of saying, "Hey, I got here all right."

See you later, Mom.