Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!
Keeping the light on for you,
Carol
We stand vigil around Mom’s hospital bed sporting matching yellow isolation gowns and masks. Our humorous spectacle as a banana bunch offers the dichotomy of levity and the gravity of life’s potential end. As family of humor seekers, laughter, as well as respect, has been part and parcel of our DNA through all our earthly trials, even death.
Exchanging glances, we watch Mom drift in and out of consciousness, each breath seemingly her last. On hospice care, she has predictably and intermittently rallied between periods of what appear near-demise. This particular evening is no exception, and suddenly rising again, wide-eyed and lucid, she adamantly states: “I’m going to Heaven at 7 o’clock.”
“Seven, huh?” we chide, as this has been one long rodeo. Fully oriented, she persists: “Yes, the taxi keeps coming around and missing me. This past loop, the driver said he’d be back at 7 o’clock.” Intrigued with this stage of life and experiencing the next installment of possibly meaningful “sightings,” I casually ask, “Who’s the driver, Mom?” She says she does not know who “he” is.
“Is it God?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so, but this past loop the cab door was slightly open, and when I reached for it, it slammed shut and wouldn’t let me in. That’s when the driver told me he’d be back at 7, so I’d like to say goodbye to a few folks if I could.” Surprised, we raise our eyebrows, exchange glances, and check the time: 6:40. With no time to waste and wanting to honor her wishes, we query her for names. No surprise, this social butterfly had many to contact.
Taking turns dialing a miscellany of friends and relatives on our cell phones, we listen with misty eyes and a few chuckles as Mom thanks each one for their love, support, laughs over the years, and reminds them that she is “going to heaven at 7.”
At 6:55, we decide to rein in Mom’s propensity for long conversations and explain politely to her and whoever she’s speaking with that we only had five minutes till departure. Far be it from any of us to make Mom late for her date with The Almighty. With her list of calls mostly completed, Mom again succumbs to lethargy. We watch again in silence as she rests, hopeful that this tidbit of closure may allow a more peaceful respite or passing. Mentally exhausted, the rest of us take our seats to resume “the watch.”
After a bit, my contemplative gaze shifts from my sleeping mother to my fatigued father. “What time do ya have?” I ask. “10 after” he says. “She’s still here,” I counter. “Uh huh,” Dad answers, a note of sarcasm in his tone. Another round of shaking heads and cathartic laughter fills the room. Duped again, all we really want is for Mom to be at peace with her Maker. The fact that she is still breathing tells us the cab has left her on the curb once again. Cruel punishment for someone ready to tarry farther and higher.
~~~~~
Mom’s earthly journey lasted several more months. She had no recollection of the errant taxi, but in that moment it was powerfully vivid for her. As an end-stage lung disease patient, her low oxygen levels helped conjure up some other mighty interesting visions – blazing fireworks, deceased loved ones, and the like. But coupled with Dad’s after-life experience years prior during a cardiac arrest, I firmly believe that while hypoxia may embellish events, heavenly connections indeed happen, and with more frequency than many will admit.
Mom’s eventual passing happened on a day and time devoid of any sevens. Dad happened to be reading the newspaper during a well-deserved rest as a hospice nurse hugged Mom, helping her forward in order to rub her bedridden back. Kissing her forehead, the nurse suddenly gasped, “She’s gone!” One of my brothers and I, both out of state at the time, felt bad for not being there. “How do ya think I feel?” Dad responded. “I was READIN’ THE PAPER!”
~~~~~
I miss my parents dearly, but for every tear I shed, there are just as many, if not more, laughs, for which I am eternally grateful. Both Mom and Dad continually reminded us that we would have a lot to guffaw about after they were gone, and that we should, as it would help ease the pain. They could not have been more correct.
Our own daughters already have plenty of humorous parental fodder; stories I hope will someday comfort them in their anxious moments as we age, inching toward that eternal crosswalk. And when we get there, I will also hail that same cab company; my only hope is that their service has improved by then.
Carol,
Your writings cause me to cry and laugh but are spot-on and only deepen the memories of our family’s adventures. While Dad is now gone as well (I have the scanned picture of Uncle Leroy to send you…another series of hoots), I think of them often and both smile and cry-we really had the best of parents! Thank you so much for another memory!
Love,
Cliff
Thank you, Cliff! I’m so glad you are enjoying reading these snapshots from our past!
Thanks for sharing! As a hospice nurse, I’ll have to watch for this cab 😉
Thank you, Becky! And remember, this cab is on its own schedule!
Beautiful
Thank you, Mimi!
Carol, what a beautiful and articulate expression of this difficult time of life. Our family, as yours, had several blessed with God’s gift of humor, which enriched and sustained us through the ups and downs of life. What are the odds, that I, an out of state cousin, would be present during your Dad’s heart attack. His later recounting of his experience has always stayed with me, and helped to strengthen my faith. Your Mom and I spoke on the phone, perhaps that night, I’m not sure, and she told me that she had seen my Mom, and that she needed to make a U turn and go back, that it wasn’t time yet. I have never doubted that that was true, always feeling that my mother was honored to be a messenger.
I echo Cliff’s sentiment, your writings make me laugh and cry, remember what is important, and realize the universal experiences which bind us all together.
So thankful for that gift of humor that our families share, and that has made so many great memories possible.
Linda, thank you so much! In the immortal words of Erma Bombeck: “He who laughs….lasts.”
Thank you for sharing you talents Carol – I thoroughly enjoy the opportunity to “listen in.”
Thank you, Kirstin! I’m so glad you are enjoying reading!