Thursday, August 22, 2013

Like Seeing Green for the First Time


The last week before my mother died, she acted so differently.

I was taking her for rides daily. With the windows down and the wind blowing in, from her passenger seat she'd stare at the sky and ask, "Have you ever seen such a blue sky? So pure and clear." When we drove past the many farmers' fields in my small town, she'd tell me to look, "See that green? The grass is a green like I've never seen." One day when the temperatures were in the 90's, I started to roll the car window up so I could put the air conditioning on for her, she asked me to leave the windows down, because "The air is so fresh like water on my face."

One of her favorite things to do had become for me to take her on a rustic road where wild lilies grew. She'd ask me to pull over and pick "just one" and she'd hold it, staring at its center, saying over and over in Spanish, "What a beautiful flower. Have you ever seen such  glory?"

With my children at the lake, she'd marvel at the clouds and loved sitting and staring at shapes. Excited, she'd point and call to my son, Xavier, "That one looks like a little rabbit!" She had stopped talking in English to the children about two weeks before then, and it was all Spanish now. When I spoke to her, I'd catch her staring at my face like she had never seen me before, the way she would look at the paintings at the art museum where she would take us when we were little. My heart fell when it occurred to me that possibly, she was beginning to not recognize us anymore, but her answers back to my questions were quick, witty, and right on track, and she knew it was me she was talking to. 

The day before she passed away, I remember being surprised to the point of laughing out loud, when I told her one of our shared, secret pleasures: gossip on a thorn in my side woman. My mother had been semi-conscious for several days, and I leaned in, telling her the latest antics on this less than kind person, when in the quiet of the room where you heard nothing but the small fan whirring, cooling her face, she burst out with a "Ha!" At that moment, I had never felt more grateful, more honored, more proud, to have the gift of humor. 

She laughed, like laughter had become her oxygen. Our youngest, Auggie, would dance for her, wiggling with his butt facing her, and shouting "Activities!" and she'd almost choke from the sputtering joy. It became so important for her to hold my hand while I drove. Equally important, she had to touch my children's faces every day that she saw them.

She acted like she's never acted before, serene, tranquil. She took notice of everything, it was as if her prayer that day had been, Be aware. Be Aware.

One day while driving, as she said so softly to herself in Spanish, "The green of that grass... look how green, like emeralds," I remember my stomach clenching, as I realized it. I looked at her while she stared out of her window, and I remember thinking, in disbelief at how soon it was going to be, she knows she's going to die. Because she hung on to everything as if she knew she'd never see it again. But it wasn't desperation, it was wonder. I opened my mouth to ask her, but I was too scared.

It's so sad, with all I've had to do, I haven't had time to reflect on the days before her death.

I kept a notebook of this time with her because I knew I had to -- the air felt lit, magical, and no doubt I was in the thick of something rare. One morning, with eyes closed, she pointed to something behind her. At 4 a.m., the day before she passed away, she reached for my face while I was reading to her, and though her eyes were closed, her hand found my chin, and she held it, making a croaking sound. I will never not remember it.

She tried without success to open her mouth and say something to my children the day they came to say good-bye; as weak as she was, she willed herself to put her shaking hands together in prayer and made a whimpering sound. I saw the corners of her mouth turn down, in sadness, and it broke me. She didn't want to leave them. I keep saying over and over, She doesn't want to leave them.

When my mother and I were alone during those last days, I lay next to her and stroked her hand, telling her, "Mama, the books the nurses gave me here say you can hear me. I'm so sorry for your life. I'm sorry for the childhood you had. I'm sorry your husband killed himself and you were left alone in a new country, with six children, one of them just born. I'm so sorry you came to the United States where your life has always been too hard for you. I'm so sorry, mama. I love you, and thank you for taking care of us, for being so good to my children, for saving me from post partum depression. You had newborn Alec crying in your arms, and me crying on your shoulder. You came to see me every day when I didn't know how I was going to make it through the next hour with that first baby. Remember? You saved me, mama, from the most terrifying time in my life. You saved me. Thank you, mama."

And when I finished, there was silence, except for her dry tears being the only sound.
 
Her last days were complex, and simple, and astounding.

The end of the indestructible woman that my mother was.

When we called her church of over forty years and told them of her death, you could hear their reaction from across the room, "Leonor? Oh, no!"

I wanted to say, "I KNOW. None of us can believe it."

Who can believe it.

I still don't. It's the abruptness of death, no matter how slow it is in coming, that leaves me bewildered. Even as I sit, sorting through the packed boxes of her things as evidence around me that she is gone, I shake my head hoping something falls into place, that allows the permanency of this condition, to sink in.
* * *

46 comments:

  1. You're a good daughter. I am so sorry for the loss of your mom. Reading this put a lump in my throat. The idea of keeping a notebook with you is perfect.

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  2. ((hugs)) your mother sounds like an amazing woman. She too has a gift of words.

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  3. I believe she did know what was to come and was savoring her last days in a way she never had before. A way that, I feel, says she had made peace with it and was welcoming her last days with open heart, mind and soul.

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  4. I am in a puddle again.
    For your loss, for your memories, for your mother.
    Much love, my friend.

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  5. Your words are like water on my flushed face. You are so present, so real, I feel like if I reach out a little, I might touch you.

    You gave her such a tremendous gift, Alexandra. You helped her have a good death. You midwifed her.

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  6. Oh, that moment with your mother. Oh, that moment for you both.

    Still covering you in love.

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  7. i am glad you got those last days...and maybe that is a bit of grace, that we know when and can experience wind like water on our faces....

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  8. You and your mother were such gifts to each other. And, now, your words are a gift to us.

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  9. You will never, ever regret being able to spend those last days with her. What a gift for you both.

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  10. What an amazing woman. I think it's incredible how she drank in all the details of the world around her before she left. Thank you for sharing those intimate memories with us.

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  11. Alexandra,
    She knew and she soaked in every second of it, with her faithful companion...you. You eased her into it. You gave her strength to let go; to live every moment and appreciate it. So many of us waste it. Your relationship with your mother is something beautiful and rare; you were both blessed in your appreciation and reverence for one another. There are so many of us who don't realize it until it is too late. The grace and love with which you enveloped your mother in,she felt it. You are an amazing woman Alexandra and I am proud to say that I know you because like that Lily on the side of the road, you are the most beautiful of flowers. Now,I will resume my blubbering. COvering you in love, light and prayers lifted all the way up to the angels. XO, my friend

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  12. I'm reading this at work with tears streaming down my face. This was beautiful... your mom deserved a daughter like you. xoxo

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  13. It must be dusty in here, I seem to have something in my eyes. Hard to read.

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  14. My sweet friend, you have told me your PPD story, and your mama was your savior. She helped you make it through. Her tenacity and determination is reflected in you. Your stories of her life and her death remind me that the simplest joys in life are truly nature, touch and being with our loved ones. Continuing to pray for you and your entire family.

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  15. A mother is a huge loss, whether estranged or close, it's monumental to who we become. I am so sorry for your monumental loss.

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  16. Another beautiful post. You out do yourself every time. When I was helping my mother care for my grandmother last year I noticed that she started doing the same thing, really noticing things that she normally wouldn't have commented on before. She must've known she was experiencing her last days. I walk by the building she used to live in daily and it's still strange to me that she's no longer there. It's strange not to go inside to visit her. I still point it out to my husband every time we go past it and say, "That's where my grandmother used to live." I know he knows that already but I still like to say it to someone.

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    1. Dear Lovelyn: your comment captures it all perfectly. So strange. And we repeat it over and over, because it is so unbelievable, that life changes, but still goes on.

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  17. Oh, Alexandra, what a beautiful post and what a beautiful, strong woman your mother truly was. How blessed you were to spend those last days with her - an amazing reminder of how easy it is to take the simplest things for granted. Today I look at the sky and the grass with appreciating eyes, thanks to your mom. Hugs to you! xoxo

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  18. This made me cry and also breathe. It's really beautiful and you honor your mother's memory with your words.

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  19. I am in tears. For your mother, for you and for the tears that will still come.
    I am so glad you had this extraordinary time with her. xoxo

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  20. Walking through the grief of losing someone is lonely -- as it is for the person walking through death...but you made that walk less lonely for your mom; and your memories of that walk with her will make your walk through grief less lonely.

    Still thinking of, and praying for you.

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  21. Alexandra this touched me so deeply. What a privilege it is to be with our loved ones before they die. My grandmother died last September. She was 99 years old and I was there when she took her last breath and for that I will be eternally grateful. She looked so beautiful and passed so peacefully which she deserved. I still miss her, but at the same time she left a permanent presence inside of my body, so it doesn't really feel like she's completely gone. Kisses to you.

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  22. Oh Alexandra - I'm so glad you got to soak in this difficult time too. I love you. xoxo

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  23. Wow, what a beautiful remembrance. It was pretty moving for me.
    Your name just popped up on a twitter email, and on a whim at lunchtime, I clicked over and read this.
    I just returned from a quick trip back to the deep south with my two kids to see my mom. Her mind is still razor sharp, but cancer is shutting the body down, and although none of us know, we suspect the time is getting close.
    There are so many things going on in my head concerning this, that I am sure I am just avoiding thinking about any of it.
    Reading this does help some though, and I thank you for it.

    Whit

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  24. Oh, God.

    I'm crying my eyes out. I don't know if I should ne sorry that you lost your mom or grateful that you had such a great mom. She'd in a better place now, and she did what we all should do: stop and smell the flowers.

    (((HUG)))

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  25. maybe that is a bit of grace you know that there in the last days we get a clarity to feel the wind on our face as water once more....smiles....

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  26. This is really beautiful. Thank you for writing it and sharing it.

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  27. So absolutely stunning. I can only hope to have my children at my side and see such beauty in my last days.

    xoxo

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  28. When my step-dad was dying he behaved in similar ways. I'm convinced that during those last days they honestly see the world differently. No longer distracted by the trivial tasks of the day to day, I feel like they see things in this pureness that the rest of us overlook. The greens ARE greener! My step dad was drifting between two worlds and you could see him leave us and then come back...the transition as his face registered which reality he was in...it was all so surreal. At one point he had asked for us to play a Bocelli cd on repeat. It was entirely in Italian (none of us speak Italian including my step dad), but there was one song he listened to over and over again. He told us to listen to the words. Lucky for us there was an English version. You've probably heard it before but it has a special meaning to me now and I think you'd enjoy it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjNfkbQr5zc

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    1. Thank you, MamaKat. I will listen to it. Now. Thank you.

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  29. This is SO beautiful that it reminded me of my ultimate goal of working in hospice.
    So sorry for your loss.

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    1. Cyndy: I hope you do. The way I could write about witnessing the incredible, respectful, loving care to me, my mother. The nurses were amazing, the aides were amazing, the entire staff... gave us care as if we were the only family in the world going through the end of life that week. AMAZING.

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  30. You mother was a beautiful woman. And near the end she was able to see the true beauty that surrounds us. And now she sees everything in that light.

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  31. Oh my god I love you, adore you. And your mother.

    Crying ... mostly at the beauty, though. The beauty with which you've written about death. Amazing.

    I love you xxxxxx

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  32. Thank you, edenland and middle child, and everyone here: I knew I had to write everything down in the notebook. I could feel it in the air. THANK YOU.

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  33. I really have no words...but I cherish your heart deeply. You make me pause, reconsider...my 97 year-old grandmother is coming to stay for a bit in a few weeks. It may be our last time together. I'm taking lots of pictures. Perhaps I will journal some too....

    xo

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    1. Chantel, I would love to see a post from your visit. Memories, pictures, stories, sacred moments. Thank you.

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  34. This is just stunning. I'm so grateful to you for sharing some of this pain and joy.

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  35. Such beautiful and sweet memories. I know you are so sad - I understand that. I was where you are twice and the feeling of 'is this really happening/did this really happen' went through my mind. How could it? How/ Why ??? It's just heart wrenching. My heart and love to you sweet-one.

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  36. You are in my thoughts daily and I'm holding you and your family in my heart as you continue to walk through the pain of losing your mother.

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  37. So beautiful. Thank you for sharing so openly this expression of pure love for your mother.

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  38. Just bawling over here, Alexandra. And picking up the phone to call my mother. And continuing to send love your way.

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  39. I can't thank you enough for sharing these sacred last days with us. You have been given so many gifts - this time, your ability to express your love, your mother herself - and I am in awe. xo

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  40. Oh gosh, Alexandra, I'm crying. This is the most stunning and powerful thing you've ever written. I don't have many words either, just emotions. 14 years ago my uncle died, and my cousins had said the same thing - that one night he just watched them, staring into their faces with a sadness, like he wanted to look at them one last time. My cousin said, "It was as if he knew he was saying good bye." He passed away in his sleep that night. The sentence where you said that you wanted to ask your mother but stopped because you were afraid is so, so powerful.

    Just feeling great aching with you and sending you love.

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