Greetings from the Pool, where it's been raining quite a bit. Difficult for those with little ones, I know, but when dry August rolls around, we'll be grateful for these days.
Here at the pool, it's been cloudy at best. Mima passed into Eternal Life a month ago. Yes, she was ill. Yes, her quality of life had evaporated. Knowing this doesn't make her passing any easier. It was all so fast. One week she was laughing and talking, the next she was sleeping, barely eating, telling me someone was waving at me (I still, in my heart, like to think it was Eggbert). Two days later I got a call at work from Suzanne, the Nurse Practitioner at the Senior Prison (who, by the way, my mother loved and who took great care of her), telling me she and my mother decided it was time for Hospice. I agreed, and proceeded to sob through lunch in my darkened classroom, trying to get it together before the kids walked in. The next day, Wednesday, I met with Hospice to sign paperwork, and after school DH and Morticia went with me to the funeral home. While Suzanne said she didn't think death was imminent, I felt we needed to be ready. That night, Moink and I went to see her. I stroked her hair, kissed her cheek a hundred times at least, and told her what a great mom she was. She squeezed my hand, but couldn't talk. When we got home, I looked at DH and said, "Tonight or tomorrow, she's going."
Thursday morning, I got to work super early (I had awakened earlier than usual after a night of not sleeping well), and was getting things ready in case I would need a sub. One student, a sixth grader, entered my room just as my phone rang. "Mrs. K, I'm here to clean your tables!" Every time this tall, lanky young man walked past my room, he'd come in (not during classes, mind you!) and would propel himself around on the table top, 'cleaning my tables'. Harmless, and toward the end of the year sixth graders revert into young children again. They know they're the 'big kids', but are also inwardly nervous about taking that next step into middle school. So, as he's whirling around on the table, the Hospice nurse is telling me my mother had passed sometime in the wee hours of the morning. I was glad he was in the room - I held it together until I got to the office to tell the secretary and the principal - and off I went to prepare a goodbye for Mima. Some bits of humor, though - Mike from the funeral home called me, and when I answered, the first thing he said was, "It's not my fault." As Truvy from Steel Magnolias says, "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."
The end of the school year is busy - grades, cleaning up two classrooms, and meetings galore. Time for grieving just hadn't come. Until a Saturday two weeks ago. I was setting up the porch for summer - I had wanted to do this for Mother's Day, but that was the day before the funeral, so it didn't happen - when DH popped his head outside. "Hey, did you decide what to do with the Fontanini?"
Mima collected an Italian-made Nativity - not cheap, and quite beautiful. But, we already have one (Lenox, that we don't put out at Christmas because we have a cat who LOVES to knock over anything of value), and none of the kids were interested in it. However, I was having a difficult time letting it go. We've been getting things together to take to the church's flea market, and he'd asked me several weeks before what I wanted to do with her Nativity set, which has been in the garage for the last three years. In mid-sweep, sweating beyond glistening, I was faced with a split second decision. "Take it. Just take it so I don't have to think about it."
I didn't want it, and it would make someone happy, so giving it away wasn't the issue. It was the act of letting go of something that had been important to her. I sat down on the retaining wall and sobbed. Letting go hurts, but it's also cathartic. I was able to continue working on the porch, stopping now and again to cry a little more. DH helped when he got back, understanding how I was feeling without having to explain. I just love that man.
I miss her. There are times I think, "Oh, I have to remember to tell mom..." or, "When I see her on Sunday I have to..." Sundays are still hard. That was our day, when I could set aside my busy life and spend a few hours with her, and through the week I would gather tidbits to talk about. I still find myself doing that. So, in the morning, after my prayers, I still say, "Eggbert, I love you and miss you", but now have added, "and you too, Mom." Then, I proceed with messages to both of them, like asking Eggbert to kick his sister in the 'you-know-where' if needed, and telling Mom the thing or two I'd thought of that she might be interested in hearing. One thing I'm truly happy about is that in one way or another, I was able to personally thank each person who she especially liked, from John in Housekeeping to the nurses and aides who rallied for her, to the young social worker who patiently listened to Mom's woes from the bed. As much as Mima complained, she really did receive good care from good people.
A friend of mine once said she didn't know how I could still have faith in God after losing my son. I told her it wasn't God's fault he'd died, but if God made everything in our lives hunky-dorey all the time, people would have no reason for caution, and would certainly have no reason for going to God. After all, when do we implore God's attention? Mostly when we need help, or when we need to avoid some catastrophe in our lives. It would be like having sunshine every day. That only leads to drought, and who needs that? No, we need those rain showers, actual and metaphorical. It lets us look inward, take pause, let it go, find peace.
Sunshiny days help lift the spirit - and I'm hoping for our share at the Stress Pool this summer. But, since I still have a lot of letting go and grieving to do, I welcome the rain. The mantra for the next month or so is 'Let it Go, Let it Rain."
If you're in the vicinity, though, come on in, share a beverage, and share your stories of letting go. We all have them. Until next time, I wish you Peace.
