Scenes From the Death of My Mother

Sorry to bother you, finally got your number when I called your dad... she did a lot to herself but she's still your mom... her organs are shutting down... I don't know how to get ahold of your sister or your mom's dad but the way things are going they need to be notified... The pieces of a long, frantic text jump out at me. I understand from "organs shutting down" that my mother is going to die. I don't panic. I don't cry.

The nurse has a tone to her voice that's trying to be gentle. All the nurses and doctors the entire time tried to be gentle. They don't understand that we've already accepted this. They are't used to dealing with families like ours.

It's been two years since I've seen my mother in person. A woman that ruined my life, but gave me the best tools to save it. My father joins me at the hospital. I start to the elevators and he goes the opposite way. "Gift shop is right here, babydoll. I want to get your mom some Ike & Mike's, those are her favorite."

Dad and I have coffee in the waiting room and we talk, heart to heart. Now, after things have somewhat settled, I realize only he really understood how hard things were going to be on me. And him.

I think the doctor is frustrated. "Who is authorized to get information about her?"
"Well I'm her daughter, she's got another daughter Sam, her father Don is still alive, Heather is who has been taking care of her and would know more about her medically-"
"Yeah... usually one person is authorized and they pass around the information to everyone else."
I look the doc in the eye. "You're dealing with people that aren't very connected. It's a loose-knit family." He doesn't protest again. He likes me better after a few Grey's Anatomy jokes.

Just dad and I in the room with her. Talking to her, about her. We don't know if she can hear us, but she grunts and snorts sometimes, so I believe she can. I don't remember what was said at most points. It strikes me that my father and I are the two people in the world that loved her the most, and we're here. I feel good about that. I didn't tell my mother I loved her. I wait until dad leaves the room and whisper "I showed up. Just... y'know. I showed up." It's the last thing I say to her and I don't even know if she hears.

My sister calls the next day from the hospital. "We need to make decisions, mom didn't bother leaving an advance direct." Even if she woke up or healed somehow, she'd sustained the coma for far too long. Brain damage was a sure thing. We both already know that our mother would not want to be a vegetable, so it's not hard.

After that, I abdicate my responsibilities. My sister comes down, my aunts, et cetera. I don't answer their calls. I don't answer the hospital. I check out entirely. I still do not cry.

They transfer my mother to hospice to die peacefully. They move her from the main hospital to the one in my town(a coincidence; it's just where they had a bed). The same day my boyfriend's mother goes in the hospital in town, and is transferred to the main hospital to live. We keep my mother a secret so they don't worry, but his father keeps talking. On and on about how, the last time he was here, his mother died. I manage. I only come close to breaking once; "When a parent dies, it's like somebody snapped a rubber band, takes your legs right out from under you." I almost cry, so I drop my head to collect myself and stop it. He notices. "Hey, your dad's doing alright, ain't he?" I'm grateful for the out and recover quickly.

I still don't answer my phone. I still don't cry.

Sunday evening, around 10pm, I'm lying in bed. My phone is across the room on the charger. I miss a call and receive two voicemails. I already know what they say, so I don't let myself check them until morning.

Dad informs me that there won't be a service. They're going to cremate mom and put her with the "family plot." I do not think she would want that, so I consider taking the ashes. How much time do I have to make that decision? I text my friend at the funeral home.

Hey Bradley, how long does a cremation take?
About three days, two if we're not busy. We can even get it done in one, but that costs extra.Half an hour later: I believe I just found out why you asked me that.
...do you have my mom?
I think so. Carole. I'm so sorry.
It's alright. Just be kind to her.
Of course.He asks later if I'm coming in, curious if he'll run into me. After the robust description my sister has given, I've decided there's no need to pay my respects. It's a shell now anyway, and not an easy one to look at. He understands. I still need to thank him for his kindness. I still do not cry.

Monday I go have lunch with a friend at the college. I just wanted a nice moment, and I got it.

I'm packing my bedroom up for the move. I find a sweatshirt, still wrapped in the Christmas paper from a year ago. It's cream, with cardinals on it. She would've loved it, but I never visited her again. My roommate finds me fighting the urge to cry. I win.

My sister surprises me at work that afternoon. It's awkward. I don't know what to say to this person that I'm somehow bound to, but is nearly a stranger. Thankfully one of my coworkers comes in and relieves the tension.

Chatting with the two ladies is actually sort of fun. I hear a few stories from my childhood(mostly cute ones, a few less so). Is this what reunions are like?

"The doctors said she could hear what was going on, but she couldn't do anything about it, so I let her have it for two hours straight!" I suddenly realize this, more than anything else, sets my sister and I apart. She was too angry to let a dying woman have a moment of dignity.

"Yeah, you always were closer to your dad. You used to hang off the back of the couch and stare at the window, waiting for the cloud of dust. He always had a bag of mini-muffins for you."
"...Is that why the hell I love those things so much?!"

Nothing is certain but death and taxes, and both will drain your bank account. Even an obituary costs money. I still haven't written it. I still have not cried.

We start cleaning out her apartment. I find a box of photos, most of which I'd never seen before. I was a cute freakin' kid. And there are hundreds of photos to boot. At one time, mom was very happy to have me. A lot of memories and emotions, swirling about. I get to know my nephew again, now as a teenager instead of the baby I took care of. He was less of a smartass then. Dad is there, my boyfriend joins me, my sister is there, and my nephew. I buy everyone pizza and grab some of my mother's lovely clothes, the ones I've always coveted. If there's a sunspot, this is it. I go home. I still refuse to cry. When it wells up inside me, I find a distraction. It's very easy not to cry. It's very hard not to cry.

Her favorite book was Jonathon Livingston Seagull; the gull that tried harder, flew faster and further and better than all the other seagulls, while they laughed and criticized. I've decided to spread her ashes from somewhere high, somewhere near the sea. I will not cry.

Heather took the cats; my sister is taking most of the furniture; my dad got her car out of need; all I've requested is the mother/daughter book I tried filling out with her(she was too high, too drunk, wouldn't couldn't focus) and the turquoise seagull pendant I gave her.

Carole Lee Dayton Crump died on November 4th, 2018. She lived fifty-eight very long years. Her life was filled with pain that she couldn't overcome, and she eventually drank herself to death. It's a sad story, but typical. I will not cry.

I knew her, I never knew her, I've run out of time to know her.

I will not cry.  I will not cry. I will not cry.

Not Quite a Dorian Grey Situation

Every year my town hosts "Paint the Town", where fifty-ish artists take to the streets and... well... paint the town. They set up easels wherever their artistic little hearts desire. The event goes for four days, with a two-hour session to be judged on Sunday morning.

Sunday morning also happens to be when I primarily lounge around my favorite coffee shop. I'd decided to do two things differently that day, as luck would have it. I wore a shirt that had been hanging in my closet since purchase, regarded as too bright and clingy; and rather than sitting inside, at my favorite table by the window, I decided to chance the temperature and sit out front.

I'd noticed the ladies setting up as I sipped my devil's brew and caught up on the area's least scintillating newspaper. There are a few spots in town that always get painted, the coffee shop being pretty high in the rankings. They painted for an hour or so until I was joined by Dory. We were chatting idly when the taller of this morning's two painters approached. "Pardon me, will you be there for about an hour?" Lady, I'm usually here for half the day. But I affirmed, and she went back to painting through the morning(respectfully letting me know when she was done my portion, freeing me to get a refill).

The session ended at 10:30, and I obviously asked to take a look at the finished product. It stopped me dead in my tracks.

There I was, depicted in splashes of paint. It took my breath away, it truly did. We chatted, and she gave me her card, asking that I send her the pictures I'd taken of the painting.

I finished my coffee and strolled over to where the painters were lined up, each with an art piece that looked all it's own. What a fantastic experience to see my town through the eyes of not just one, but fifty different artists! The painting didn't win any of the various prizes, but it was lovely all the same. After the judging, I moved with the crowd to the hosting gallery to see the other outcomes of this weekend. A woman we'd had painting in the inn had several lovely pieces, and another person painted the inn itself.

Looking at all of those paintings, and having time to mull things over, I've had a few thoughts. Wordsmith though I am, I can't find a way to go from one thought to another with flow, so a list will have to do.

1. An interesting part of Paint the Town is that it's usually taken very literally, by which I mean the paintings are predominantly landscapes. And even landscapes that include people don't feature them as primary fixtures. In this painting, I am very much the focus. Supporting evidence: she named it after me.

2. She told me I should wear red more often. Which I thought was funny, considering how close I came to not wearing that shirt at all.

3. What really strikes me is the way she's captured something that I wonder if others see; something that I'm surprised I'm self-aware enough to recognize. You see, I'm not looking down at my paper, or across the table to my conversational partner. I'm looking out at the street, watching the cars. I'm waiting.

4. Somehow, a total stranger captured me as I really, honestly feel. Waiting as a verb, noun, and adjective.


It was a surprisingly emotional experience, being painted. I don't know if anyone else would take it as one, but that's alright. And to answer the biggest question I'm sure the reader has at this point: Did I buy it?

...

HELL NOPE. It was my intention, but $475 is a little pricey for my income bracket. No, in the end, someone will purchase it, hang it, and never know the girl in the red.

A Wednesday Song

I Knew You Once-Dodie Clark

I knew you once
And it was nice
I knew your brain and your heart
All your insides
Oh I could tell
Just with a look
What you were thinking
That's all it took
You shared your secrets
And I shared mine
Silence was comfy
Without having to try
We swapped our smiles
Gifted advice
Yes, I knew you once
And it was nice