The Ladder to Heaven
As God fuels every atom, breathes our breath and beats our hearts, He fills every soul with His life and His love. The following story was written as an attempt to honor a woman who unconditionally shared His love by selflessly dedicating her life to her family. It captures the sequence of events leading to and after her passing but more so; it served as a catharsis to ease the hurt of losing a beloved human being, my mother.
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The era that produced the “greatest generation” also promoted two of the most insidious vices, tobacco and alcohol. Besides the aggrandizement from radio and magazine ads, the silver screen overflowed with movie stars who glamorized the lighting and smoking of cigarettes as well as pouring a drink. Mom never drank but her addiction to smoking began early. It came disguised as the absolute coolest thing to do, lured by a power stronger than a thousand men, social pressure. Once hooked, social conformities quickly disappeared but nicotine continued to provide Mom with something she needed and for which there was no substitute… a sense of peace. Balancing family life was evidently much more difficult than it appeared to be. Bedtime was the only time I can recall when Mom didn’t have a full flavored, unfiltered Pall Mall close at hand. She eventually managed to sacrifice the rich flavor and nicotine boost of the non-filter for a longer life of smoking filtered cigarettes.
When I was young, cigarette ads dominated all forms of media, especially TV. There were no warning labels or second thoughts. Smoking was cool and its ill effects were nowhere in sight. I began smoking just like my Mom and everyone else, needing to fit it. After several years of sneaking, stealing and borrowing Mom’s Pall Malls, and buying a pack here and there, I managed to quit at age 21. Once off the habit I mounted my soapbox and quickly began preaching to the person I cared most about, my Mom. However, there was little I could do against the power of her addiction. Hating the possibility of her becoming ill, I studied her inhalation technique to see just how deeply she sucked the poison into her body. Half a lung of smoke is certainly better than a full lung. I’ve seen many smokers suck the stuff clear down to their feet but Mom didn’t. I was relieved that her inhale was much shallower than most others, including my own when I thought I was addicted.
I tried telling her about the recent evidence against smoking but her response was always the same, “I enjoy smoking.” She further declared, ”Smoking is one of the few pleasures I have in life.” In other words — “leave me alone.” But how could that be? Was her life really that bad? Apparently it was and it made me selfishly wonder… What am I? — chopped liver? There she was with an entire family of adoring children. I chalked it off as an over exaggeration. After years of relentless coercion from my dad (after he quit), some coaxing from her kids, especially me (after I quit) and several attempts on her own much later in life, Mom managed to quit at the age of 82 and amazingly enough, without the onset of the dreaded “C” word. However, after 65 years of relying on nicotine, quitting interrupted a fragile balance between her mind and body. Besides her respiratory and circulatory issues, her general health began to deteriorate.
Dad began his “Lucky Strike” habit at 13. Prompted by a friend and greased by a very popular marketing campaign, “Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War”, he smoked a pack a day. After many years experimenting with several popular brands he ended up the “Marlboro Man” smoking four packs a day. He shocked everyone on his 40th birthday by deciding, “no more cigarettes”. His wake up call came after seeing one of his nephews crippled by an addiction to a life-threatening drug. Dad felt hypocritical to pass judgment knowing full well that he had his own serious addiction to nicotine. He then coasted rather well through life until much later when a mild stroke catapulted him into a new awareness. That resulted in an immediate change of diet, exercise, and routine physicals. As years progressed he slowed his scotch drinking to a trickle and even began practicing meditation. Daily doses of Lipitor counteracted his high cholesterol and Prilosec controlled his acid reflux while Mom on the other hand, continued smoking and plugged along in her typical ‘old school’ manner of refusing mammograms, gynecological exams or any doctor’s care with the exception of her monthly corn removal at the chiropodist (foot doctor), as she liked to call them.
Once into their eighth-decade the consequences of old age really began to snowball. Both developed new and significant signs of degeneration that required much more than a diet change, some exercise and a couple of pills. Beyond their typical elderly ailments such as arthritis, hemorrhoids, bone and muscle weakness, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, poor circulation, etc., existed more serious problems such as, prostate cancer, enlarged heart, sleep apnea, emphysema, a pulmonary embolism and water retention. Fortunately, through the miracle of modern medicine all were somewhat controllable, which allowed them to continue their winter hiatus from the cold north to a much warmer Floridian climate.
*
Visiting my parents on Long Island was much easier than getting to Florida, though we made a grand effort every winter. Newly retired from my day job, time to travel became much more available so the winter plans were to see the folks in Florida and from there fly to Costa Rica to see my wife’s sister who had recently built a home. However, complicating matters were the facial sensations my wife was feeling that indicated the possible return of a tumor, one everyone thought was gone forever. After receiving the MRI results, our plan to combine visits went out the window. Now thrown into the mix were several very imperative visits to New York City’s top neurosurgeons. After solidifying a treatment plan we left for Costa Rica with full intention to get to Florida soon after. A totally relaxing vacation was impossible but Costa Rica did serve as a great distraction for my wife and me. After returning, with a treatment scheduled for late February, we had plenty of time in between to get to Florida, so we thought.
*
Dad’s recent prostate cancer was treatable as was Mom’s pulmonary embolism but from that point neither returned to the level of health they once enjoyed just a few years prior. After suffering the blood clot during the summer of 2011, mom’s already compromised condition required more pills to help her counteract a plethora of new problems. Constantly fatigued, she desperately longed to return to her prior condition of just satisfactory health. Besides the multitude of respiratory difficulties, mental issues were beginning to fog Mom’s ability to think clearly and rationally. Never known to have any symptoms of anxiety or OCD, (probably controlled by her cigarette smoking and the reason she loved smoking so much) perhaps it was a fear of dementia that caused her to compulsively inquire and write down the names of places, actors and singers she couldn’t quite place. Besides driving herself crazy, she took everyone along for the ride but it never bothered me. I didn’t live nearby so I wasn’t as readily available but I was a phone call away. About once a week there was a call. She could have called several times a day and I would not have minded. I was happy to help. She was most often interested in lyrics to one of her favorite Sinatra tunes, Learnin’ the Blues. Among all the words in the song the one line that she could never remember was, “The cigarettes you light, one after another”, pretty crazy stuff.
To help Mom, Dad set her up with a computer. Most of what she needed to remember she could now easily find by typing a few key words. Thank God for “The Google” as she liked to call it. The writing of names, places and lyrics evolved into writing any word that she felt unsure of. Anywhere and everywhere there was space to write, Mom wrote. Drawers throughout the house were filled with her scribbled on scraps of paper. Some with words I never imagined my Mom would ever consider writing. This once stoic woman who avoided taking even an aspirin was now dependent on a daily pillbox full of medications to prop up both her physical and mental health.
Mom’s smoking and emphysema created oxygen deprivation. Complicating matters even further was the diagnosis of sleep apnea. Until the oxygen and apnea machines were installed, Mom slept most of her day away. My overwhelmed octogenarian father became her personal nurse, championing the task of administering and maintaining all medications by keeping meticulous records in his hand scribed ledger notebook. Worry and record keeping kept him extremely occupied but nothing could dissuade Dad’s plan, leaving his family up north to once again spend the cold winter months in the warmth of Florida. Mom would have much preferred to stay up close to her five children and their children but this devoted wife was never known to disappoint her husband.
Once in Florida my parents managed another rather uneventful, warm winter but it was not without the assistance of my sister and her husband who lived next door in a house they specifically purchased for the purpose of being close at hand.
It wasn’t long ago when Mom spent every available minute drawing, painting or crafting art objects. On every wall and every shelf of their Florida and Long Island home as well as in each of her children’s homes are beautiful examples of her work. The framed portrait of Henry Fonda that hangs in my family room reminds me daily of her vision and talent. At this point however, doctor’s appointments occupied most of their time while a little bowling, eating out, home puttering, shopping, and gambling supplied plenty activity to help my parents feel useful. One by one those interests waned as aging became more and more difficult.
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Dad had many qualities but tolerance was never one of them and though he clearly understood the meaning of control he had little self-control. He eventually realized the problem that losing his patience only made him and others uncomfortable. The deeply rooted problem was very difficult for him to resolve. Once back on Long Island in May 2012 health issues ramped up quicker than ever requiring more and more patience. “Getting old is not for sissies” became my parent’s mantra. Mom’s mental and physical care became increasingly difficult compounding Dad’s personal struggle with tolerance. As Dad did his very best attempting to maintain status quo, my sister and her husband handily filled every possible gap providing all the physical and mental support they could muster. Residing two hours away in Connecticut made my physical assistance impossible and visitations difficult. This year, fearful that each visit could easily be our last, we made several more than usual.
For a woman such as my mother, so filled with love one would think that the three simple words “I love you” generously flowed from her lips to her children’s ears multiple times a day. Oddly, while growing up and much time thereafter I can’t ever recall hearing the assuring words but it certainly wasn’t because I wasn’t loved. Mom ran herself ragged servicing and accommodating her family. “I love you” was simply not a part of Mom’s vocabulary and more than likely, not a part of her parent’s vocabulary either. It was only during the last 10 years when Mom would sneak the words “love ya” at the end of a telephone conversation. They were never spoken face to face. Regardless of the missing words there was never any doubt that we were loved.
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Saying goodbye was never easy. “See you soon!” with generous hugs, smiles and kisses soon began to carry even greater shades of sadness. One particular departure yanked at my heartstrings and will forever be seared into my memory. Though mom always did her best to wear a smile. This smile was forced more than any other. Her embrace was much stronger and longer than usual. Other than when she got word of her father’s passing, mom never cried, at least not in the presence of others. I could tell during this parting, she was holding back. Her silent farewells spoke volumes beyond her customary, “I won’t say I love you because you know I love you, and I’m sad to see you go and hope to see you real soon.” They were more like, “You know I love you very, very much, my son, but something’s wrong. I’m afraid my time is running out. I hope this isn’t the last time I see you.” I got the strong impression that Mom was beginning to countdown her remaining days.
*
Dad’s inability to efficiently care for his wife of nearly 65 years complicated his own assortment of health and anxiety issues. Bouts of diarrhea and a lack of appetite wore him down physically and mentally, but, with the interminable assistance of my sister and her husband, everyone hung on and managed another winter migration. Due to their health complications I strongly hinted they stayed up north but there was no stopping Dad. Certainly, traveling up and down made Mom’s life more difficult. Mom would have much preferred to stay cool up north with her family while Dad really could not tolerate the cold. Florida is where he wanted to be and Florida was where they were going. As long as I could remember, Mom’s desires always took a back seat.
*
About 20 years ago, when the folks began migrating they packed the car with some essentials and drove down. It was always in late October before the first sign of frost and in time to vote. Many years later, as the drive became too difficult they purchased a car to remain up north. Flying became the preferred mode of travel. This very proud woman who wouldn’t consider using a walker, a cane or any support other than her own two corn ridden feet now needed a wheelchair. After some gentle arm-twisting she accepted the idea but only in and around the airport. Sitting in a plane for nearly three plus hours became a difficult hurdle. The days of going back and forth were over.
Everyone hinted about how great it would be if the parents would stay up north at least until Thanksgiving. We haven’t had a Thanksgiving together since they bought the Florida house but with Mom’s health under control, Dad once again was very anxious to get out of the cold. His stubbornness and naïveté led him to believe he could accommodate all of what Mom appeared to need, and besides, within a month or so, my sister and husband would be down soon enough a couple weeks or so before Christmas to spend the remaining winter months. This year, however, was unlike any other. Mom needed far more than Dad alone could handle. Knowing dad was too proud to ask for help or admit his mistake, my sister easily read between the lines and arrived in Florida in the nick of time. Overwhelmed by depression and illness, both parents were barely functioning. The household was a mess. Mom and Dad spent most of their time in their twin recliners, numb to the world around them. Dad admitted that he was at the end of his rope.
Unless Mom was out and about she always answered the phone and I would always reply to her greeting with my stuffy British rendition, “Hello Mother”. It was one of the little games we played that set me apart from anyone who called. She immediately knew who it was and replied, “Hello Bobby” in her own faux British dialect. How that came about I have no idea but the game was over. Mom stopped answering the phone. Calls to and from Florida were mostly to my sister who informed me of the latest news. Either Mom wasn’t eating or drinking much at all or we had a good day today. “Mom’s eyes were clear and she’s sitting up.” It was evident that Mom was becoming more fragile by the minute. It became clear her time was running out. My wife and I quickly solidified our travel plan. Once they were arranged I called my parents. Dad answered and immediately transferred the receiver to Mom. As if my Mom were in perfect health he said, “It’s your favorite son, Bobby.” If anyone could lift Mom’s mood it was “Bobby” and everyone teased her for it. Since I never asked, I’ll never know if I truly was her favorite but she’d never admit to it. With a hint of sarcasm in her voice, along with a little smile she would say, “I don’t have any favorites.”
“Hello Mother, How are you feeling?” Mom was never the type to exaggerate and never claimed to be wonderful or great. Her life was never a bowl of cherries but regardless of how she really felt, Mom always replied, “Good — Good”. Reading between the lines, the length of time between the two words told everything. ‘Good’ essentially meant that Mom was okay, and I didn’t have to worry. This time, however, she was just okay, but her “okay” really didn’t sound “okay”, but again, that was Mom, never letting on.
“We’ll be down on Tuesday the 5th. Can’t wait to see you.”
“That’s nice,” she said with a very old person’s voice, a much weaker voice than I’ve ever heard from her.
“I’m looking forward to some of your nice marinara and pasta, oh yeah — and some mushrooms. Get ready to start cookin’, okay Mom?” Mom loved to cook, especially for her favorite. As a kid I was the only one who loved Mom’s mushrooms so every visit I was assured to have her mushrooms cooked just the way I like them.
“Okay” she murmured, squeezing out an ever so slight hint of her very familiar accompanying laughter.
“Or maybe we’ll go out to eat. How ‘bout Carrabra’s Mom? You like Carrabra’s, right?”
“Ah huh.” She tried so hard to sound normal but her weakened voice was breaking my heart.
“Okay Mom. I’ll see you real soon. I love you Mom.”
She squeaked out a “Good-bye” and my father took the phone. I wondered… Could it be? Were these her final days?
Communication with my sister informed me of the gravity of Mom’s declining health. She was always to the point and realistic. After a 70-year relationship with my Mom, Dad was in denial. Too emotional to call, my sister had her husband inform me that Mom had taken another step on the ladder to heaven. After telling me that Hospice delivered a hospital bed he didn’t have to say much more but I, like my Dad had difficulty accepting the depth of the situation. Perhaps sharing some of Dad’s denial, I remained optimistic, but in truth, Mom was entering her final days.
It was long established, after seeing so many relatives wither away in hospital beds that Mom was to spend her last days at home. Hospice supplied every comforting and indispensable service imaginable. They took Mom off of all of her regular medications including oxygen, and recommended that we give Mom absolutely anything she wanted… cannoli, chocolate cake, ice cream… anything at all, even a cigarette.
Hospice was extremely kind, considerate and caring, going far beyond the call of duty. They answered every question with love, understanding and sympathy. In the state of Florida, known for its elderly population, there is no better place to get all the practical experience they need and like a well-oiled machine, Hospice knew very well the progression leading to death but nothing they did gave the impression that Mom’s passing was routine. Hospice was a blessing for everyone.
It was obvious to everyone that God’s hand had everything to do with the timing of events. Until this point, my sister along with her husband had lovingly, diligently and courageously devoted months of their lives attempting to maintain some semblance of order amongst the deteriorating household. They are the true heroes/angels of this story. Again, as if God had something to do with it, Dad’s neighbor, who just so happened to be a retired registered nurse, handily did all the things that only a nurse would do. Dad in the meantime fought like a warrior to keep his strength and contribute all that he could. Though they kept us apprised of every developing detail, nothing they could say or do could prepare me for what I was about to experience.
*
When visiting Florida we intentionally arrived during daylight hours. Avoiding the dark allowed my Dad to comfortably drive to the Tampa airport with Mom as copilot. They’d always greet us at the terminal with huge smiles along with big hugs and kisses. This visit however was greeted with an indescribable sense of emptiness. No mom or dad. Time slowed to a halt then began to move backwards as every happy elderly face looked like my missing parents. The Floridian climate that for so many years warmed our soul now chilled my bones.
Once settled into our rented car with its GPS leading us north on the Suncoast Highway, my wife asked, “Are you ready for this?” After a moment of thought I asked myself the same question. “Am I ready for this?” How does one prepare for this? I’ve never had anyone I’ve loved so dearly my entire life so close to life’s end. My mother’s love was true love, unconditional. It was a question for which I had no answer. I hadn’t prepared myself for anything. I didn’t want to. As a son who dearly loved his mother, I had to be ready for whatever Mom was offering, nothing more — nothing less. I knew her condition was bad and worsening but I could not and did not imagine my Mom in any condition that would erase her gentle manner and loving smile. I had no idea what to expect upon my arrival so to allow the possibility of a miracle I kept an open mind. My only expectation was for Mom to recognize the presence of her favorite son.
As I entered the house my sister announced my arrival as if Mom was in her usual place standing in front of her stove. “Bobby’s here Mom, Bobby’s here,” From several steps away and around a corner my hopes remained high. I imagined my Mom in her floral print housecoat stirring a simmering pot of her famous spaghetti sauce. Upon hearing our voices Mom would immediately lay down her wooden spoon and delicately walk towards us with her beautiful smile and extended arms to greet us with a kiss and her big hug while rocking side to side. Mom loved cooking for her family, especially when they traveled from so far away. It was her way of saying “I LOVE YOU” out loud and for the world to hear. Sadly, the scent of a hospital setting quickly swallowed any notion of slow simmering sauce.
In place of her favorite easy chair where she spent the majority of her days and evenings watching TV, Mom occupied her recently installed hospital bed. The head of the bed was raised about 40 degrees. “Is she sleeping?” I asked, hoping she was since she didn’t react at all to my sister’s announcement. She lay silent, apparently closed off to all that was going on in the room around her. Her tilted head, face with a relaxed jaw and open mouth were carefully propped between two pillows. Her arms lay motionless at her side. I sat next to her bed wanting to touch her, perhaps hold her hand or stroke her forehead but I was afraid to disturb whatever peace she had settled into. But after seeing her sister Vita grab hold of her hand without any hesitation, I eventually did the same, in a more delicate manner. Doing so made no difference to Mom’s outward appearance. Her still warm hand was absent of movement. Was she listening to our conversations? Did she know I was in the room? A very faint “I’m twisted” squeezed from her parched lips. I was happy to hear her voice to know she was cognizant of her body, but I selfishly wondered if she knew I was in the room? Once again moments later, “I feel twisted.” Too weak to correct her situation I did my best to adjust the pillows to straighten her head and shoulders but the weight of her pain caused everything to spring back to the unadjusted twisted position. Was there anything else I could possibly do to help ease her discomfort? Here lies a woman who gave me everything she had. At this point her diet consisted of an hourly straw fill of water along with a cocktail of liquid morphine and anxiety medication. My sister’s husband Dave voluntarily administered all the medication like an army nurse — with great authority, not at all shy about waking her to swallow the pain relieving liquids. In his resounding operatic voice he livened up the solemn atmosphere by saying something on the lighter side of what everyone was feeling. “Okay Millie, put on your dancing shoes, here we go, get ready it’s down the hatch.” Dave had a habit of ending many of his sentences with a laugh.
Next to her bed on the kitchen counter I noticed a small spray bottle, the type used for cleaning eyeglasses. I drained the liquid, rinsed the bottle several times and filled it with fresh water. Tasting the water, all evidence of soap was gone. Hospice removed the oxygen tubes that created sores below my Mom’s nostrils. At this point she breathed entirely through her mouth, making her lips, tongue and throat extremely dry. Her head in a cocked position and her drooping jaw, made my mist delivery very easy. As I carefully cupped her chin with my left hand I gently sprayed a light mist of water onto her tongue and into her mouth. Then lifting her jaw I told her to swallow and she did. I also moistened her lips with a swab made specifically for that purpose. Opening her eyes at that point to acknowledging me would have been beyond all I could hope for.
Close friends, relatives, my wife and myself sat and talked over and to my Mom as if she were listening intently to every word and for all we knew she might well have been. Mom’s favorite Italian and swing music played quietly in the background. Though she never played an instrument or sang on the public stage, her love of music was a big part of her life. A CD that she especially loved was the one I recorded for my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, about 13 years ago. I sang along and Mom appeared to move her feet to the rhythm. My sister noticing the movement asked, “Are you dancin’ Mom? You dancin’?” Mom very softly replied. “I’m tryin”. Everyone smiled as mom once again managed to squeeze out one of her signature laughs. As long as I could remember her feet were problematic. Walking and even standing at times was difficult but she always managed to dance, regardless of the pain she felt.
As the sun settled, the house slowly drained of all activity. Last to leave were my sister and her husband who lived next door. That night, I was assigned the duty of night watchman. One of my brothers who flew down from NY the day prior to my arrival had been on guard the night before. It meant sleeping on an air mattress that was set up directly next to my Mom’s bed. It had been many, many years since we shared a sleeping space and I was honored to do it, revisiting a time long gone by. As night watchman, my job was to keep an eye on Mom to make sure she remained comfortable. It was a big job, but the extra dose of medication that worked so perfectly the night before reassured me that the same dose would (hopefully) carry her through another night. At any sign of discomfort I could call either my sister next door or the retired nurse also next door, on the opposite side. Their phone numbers were easily accessible in large print taped to the refrigerator door.
Since the time I arrived and throughout the day I wondered whether or not Mom was aware I was there. She never mentioned my name or attempted to shape the syllables that formed my name but I couldn’t bother her with… “What’s my name?” She did however dance to my song as I sang along and that was good enough.
All the lights were turned off with the exception of the dim ambient light in the center of the nearby kitchen ceiling. It was just enough to feel the night’s darkness and to feel secure in my new job. Mom lay facing the TV and I in the opposite direction. To see her entire form all I needed to do was open my eyes. During the course of the night I checked on her no less than ten different times, once after each dozing. She never moved or made any sound other than her inhales and exhales governed by the pattern of her sleep apnea. I didn’t expect to sleep at all that night but managed to doze in and out with some rather strange dreams, none very memorable except for one. In a dream, I saw my Mother. She was sitting up directly adjacent to me on the foot of her hospital bed leaning against the kitchen peninsula with her face glowing under the kitchen light. It was as if we reversed roles. She was the night watchman assigned to watch me sleep. No words were spoken. Looking directly at me, dressed in her floral housecoat, smiling her beautiful smile, Mom was back. Free of all pain or discomfort. I wanted to hear her say, “Don’t worry Bobby, I know you’re here with me”.
Morning came and the day quickly filled up with visitors. As people gathered in the living room and dining area my wife was closest and happened to hear her weak but resolute voice express a need to pee. Unable to walk or use a bathroom for days, it was odd that a catheter hadn’t already been in place especially since several hospice nurses came and went. They explained that since she wasn’t eating or drinking, there was little need for anything more than a Depends. When Doctor Mac arrived to take Mom’s vitals he explained that it wouldn’t be much longer. Pinpointing a time wasn’t possible but he surmised anywhere from a couple of hours to at the most, a couple of days. During the doctor’s examination he also noticed that Mom’s midriff was firm so he ordered the long needed catheter. My mother was a very dignified lady and would no sooner wet the bed than fly to the moon. Her inability to use the bathroom, feed herself, wash or clean herself was extremely difficult and humiliating for her. She was not in a condition she would want anyone to see her in under any circumstance.
As hospice nurses prepared my mother for another “comfortable” day on her hospital bed, the time was opportune to leave the house with my wife and nephew to quickly return our rental car to the local office. By the time we returned, hospice was finishing up, reiterating the importance of keeping Mom comfortable. During the time we were gone a catheter was applied and to everyone’s astonishment, in no time the entire bag was full. It was hard to imagine that in addition to all of the difficulties that she had been facing, my innocent mother lay for days controlling her bladder. Mom’s refusing to wet her bed suggested to me that her consciousness was still connected to her body. I was also told that while we were gone, as one of the hospice nurses attempted to remove my mother’s upper dentures, which had not been removed for cleaning since she became incapacitated, she clamped down with the strength and reflex of a hungry alligator. The one thing that my Mom made extremely certain as long as she wore dentures, no one was ever going to see her without her teeth. This was so even on her deathbed. Other than her enjoying her cigarettes, there was nothing she was ever more adamant about. Even under high doses of medication, her reaction spoke volumes to her awareness. She was right there inside the present moment. It reassured me that she knew exactly who was sharing her last days with her.
Very good friends of my sister arrived, as did my Mom’s long time gambling partner, sister Vita. Quiet conversation abounded along with Mom’s favorite music. We played the ‘Mob Hits’ album, inspired by the “Godfather”, consisting of all of her favorite singers and songs. Someone brought over a tray of sandwiches, another some muffins. People ate and continued their conversations with each other and my Mom.
By day my role was to man the mist spray bottle, swab her lips and deliver doses of water, a job of which I was honored to accept. I lovingly administered the sequence as if Mom were my newborn baby, gently cupping her chin to prevent dripping then lifted it to help her close her mouth to swallow.
It was early afternoon and there was little change. Mom appeared to be quietly resting, hopefully inside of a beautiful dream. So much had already been said as friends and family were now scattered about the dining and living room looking at picture albums old and new. My wife stepped outside upon receiving a call on her cell from her mother in Connecticut. Alone in the den were Mom and I along with my sister’s son Raymond who had driven from New Orleans to offer his love and support. Time slowed to a halt. I didn’t want to interrupt what seemed to be a very peaceful state but her open mouth appeared painfully parched and any relief I could give eased my weary conscience. After misting her mouth I gently swabbed her lips with some fresh water. Mom smiled. While stroking her hair, reflecting on our life together I noticed a subtle shift in her complexion. I mentioned it to my nephew who was sitting nearby on the sofa. All the others were scattered about the house. Together we noticed her color shift and her chest had ceased all movement. Sleep apnea often caused her to stop breathing for prolonged periods but this was much longer than usual. Seconds turned into minutes. “I think she’s gone.” I said and asked, “Can you find her pulse?” Ray searched her left wrist but there was none to find. We searched each other’s eyes. More than enough time had passed for her to begin breathing if it was the apnea. Then as if suddenly rejoining us Mom’s entire body shuttered as if gasping for air but there was no breath to follow. With the sweep of God’s hand Mom’s soul returned to where it came. At 1:55 PM on Wednesday, February 6, 2013, Mom took her last earthly breath. I called out to my wife who was outside on her cell phone. She quickly ended her telephone conversation with her Mom as she and everyone silently gathered around my mother to realize the passing of a great woman.
Every last detail in the sequence of events leading to my mother’s passing was not by accident or coincidence. I was deeply honored to have spent her last days at her side. Witnessing the exact moment her soul departed her tired body was beyond all blessings. I couldn’t ask for more.
Within an hour a Hospice deacon arrived to pray with the family over what remained of this woman who never created a moment of discontent for anyone. Before dark, her body was taken to a morgue to then be transferred to Long Island where the funeral and burial would take place. Sadness loomed heavy but Mom was set free from her agony to dance once again, this time with angels.
Emotionally and physically drained, everyone managed to get a fairly decent night’s sleep. I struggled no more than usual and once again dreamt an assortment of crazy scenarios. The only dream I could remember in detail came in the form of a vision. It was very close to daybreak, about the same time as my previous night’s vision of my mother sitting up on her bed. In the vision was a black velvet display bust, like those one would find in a jewelry store exhibiting a pearl necklace. Displayed on the bust weren’t pearls, but some rather simple, white rosary beads. During the days following my mother’s passing I often prayed the Lord’s Prayer and some Hail Mary’s but not once had I thought about praying the rosary. How then did that image burn so indelibly in my subconscious? What was its message? I’m sure Mom had something to do with it but what was she trying to tell me? What did it mean? What was I to do with it? I mentioned the dream to my wife who also thought it to be quite interesting. During the course of the day the rosary vision drifted in and out of my consciousness. My Mom was a lover of Jesus and Mary but a devout Catholic she wasn’t. Nor was she even an average Catholic. The last time she held rosaries was probably when she made her First Holy Communion for a photo opportunity.
The following day we decided to get away from the house and go for a ride to Tarpon Springs, a Greek seaport known for sponge diving, Greek food and tourist shops. We had lunch and walked around searching for nothing in particular. After seeing most of the village we rested our bones in an area that had a variety of quaint shops surrounding it. On my mind was the purchase of a unique silver locket. My wife had wanted one for quite some time but we were unable to find one she liked. The jewelry stores we visited had nothing to offer. By this time the rosary dream was a distant memory. It was getting late and all of us were exhausted. After returning to where the group was sitting I noticed a shop hidden in an alcove called “Vegetable Ivory”. OK so what the heck is vegetable ivory? I knew my wife was as tired as I was but before heading home I was lured into the store and coerced her to join me. Upon entering we immediately separated as we usually do. My wife searched the earring rack in the front of the store while I was drawn to the rear where — — lo and behold… there they were. The white rosaries displayed on a black bust just as I pictured in my dream. After showing them to my wife and explaining how they were exactly like the ones in my previous night’s dream, we had to have them.
Call it coincidence, happenstance, chance — whatever you want. I call it Mom. She was telling me all is well; everything is in its perfect and rightful place. She was in heaven and my wife’s upcoming treatment was to be a Divinely mandated success. We are all lovingly provided for once we tear down our barriers and allow the source of all to freely flow to us and through us.
*
It was long decided that Mom and Dad would be buried next to each other at Calverton Veterans cemetery on Long Island, very close to their northern home. Mom passed on a Wednesday and her remains were flown north on the following day. I was scheduled to fly back on Saturday but in the midst of the blizzard of 2013 we postponed our flight until Sunday, which gave us some extra time to be with Dad before leaving him to be alone with his thoughts of sharing 71 years with my Mom.
*
I had been to the funerals of my Grandparents as well as several Aunts and Uncles. At each one I offered my most sincere condolences in the best possible manner but I really had no idea what it was like to lose someone so close. Hugs and words meant well but until my Mom’s passing I could only imagine how the immediate family was feeling. Now I knew. Once overflowing with love, now lay just an empty shell, washed ashore by the tides of time. Her mission, however, was complete. This once vibrant force of unconditional love was now a memory.
Mom’s love for music reflected deeply into my soul, so deeply it became my entire life’s passion and work. Music for Mom was much more than a catchy melody and syncopated rhythm, it was transcendental. I fully understood how its magic took her to far away places, filled with comfort and joy.
To close the funeral there was one last homily, my own and I could think of no better way to offer it than through a song. The song I chose to sing was one Mom sang many times throughout my life. My challenge was to get through the song without breaking down. Mom was always smiling and always laughing, regardless of her trials and tribulations. It was her nature and this was her message.
When you’re smiling, when you’re smiling,
The whole world smiles with you.
When you’re laughing, when you’re laughing,
The sun comes shining through.
But when you’re crying, you bring on the rain,
So stop your cryin’, Be happy again
Keep on smiling,
’cause when you’re smiling
The whole world smiles with you.
As the melody settled it filled everyone with quiet reflection. Amongst the silence I heard my Mother’s voice…. “Very nice Bobby — Very nice.”
In loving memory of my dear Mother, Carmela Lavalle.
