Mom

How do I write a blog post about Mom? One that conveys any sense of her kindness and thoughtfulness? Her eagerness to make the world a better place, not just for her family and the people she knew, but for everyone, everywhere? Her intelligence, knowledge, and depth? Her humor? Her stories? Her interest in everyone she met, and the way she remembered the things that were important to them? Her brilliance as a cook and baker and the graceful, seemingly effortless way she had of making everyday meals and events special? Her modesty and incredible selflessness?

I can't, really. I can just say that she was amazing, as a woman, a mother, a wife, a daughter, and a grandmother. I was so blessed to be her daughter.

She had such confidence in the people she loved (When I was in high school and wrote a short story that she thought was good enough to be published, the magazine she chose to send it in to was "The New Yorker"! When they didn't snap it up she just told me to keep writing!). Even when we couldn't live up to her high expectations, her example of kindness and faith in people was always an inspiration.

She loved books and music, gardens and birds, long walks, and good meals. She and my dad were married in 1964 (September 5), and their marriage was the sort of happy partnership -- complementary gifts and dispositions supporting a loving mutual regard -- that people have in mind when they venture into the matrimonial state. They read together, gardened together, hiked together...

Mom suffered increasingly over the past few years with a form of Frontotemporal dementia which robbed her of the ability to speak, read, or write. She was progressively losing the ability to eat, walk, and so on, and things were already pretty dire when, in early November, she was diagnosed, out of the blue, with an advanced metastasized lung cancer. The doctors quickly determined that "treatment" would be ineffective and cause pointless suffering, and referred us to Hospice. We were very "lucky" in that Mom had written a very specific Advance Directive, expressing her wishes in such a situation. With the assistance of the wonderful team from Mountain Valley Hospice, Dad was able to care for Mom at home, as comfortable as possible and cherished to the end.

She cared for us and others with such devotion her whole life, and we did what we could, in her last days, to please her with the music she loved, and with tender, tasty foods to tempt her failing appetite. And we read to her. I actually had a whole list of old favorites I hoped to have time to read to her, but I only got a chance for a few. We read Understood Betsy, Letters from Father Christmas, Summer of the Monkeys, The Secret Garden, and Winnie-the-Pooh. Tuesday morning my dad called me to say that Mom was not looking at all well. I hurried over, and she wasn't. But she was still quite aware of us, and held my hand. We had a couple chapters left in The House at Pooh Corner, and so we finished them.

In case you don't remember, at the end of The House at Pooh Corner, Christopher Robin is on the brink of leaving his "nursery" days, and he is spending a last happy afternoon with Pooh, doing Nothing together.

"Then, suddenly again, Christopher Robin, who was still looking at the world, with his chin in his hands, called out "Pooh!"

"Yes?" said Pooh.

"When I'm - when --- Pooh!"

"Yes, Christopher Robin?"

"I'm not going to do Nothing any more."

"Never again?"

"Well, not so much. They don't let you."

Pooh waited for him to go on, but he was silent again. "Yes, Christopher Robin?" said Pooh helpfully.

"Pooh, when I'm - you know - when I'm not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?"

"Just me?"

Yes, Pooh."

"Will you be here too?"

"Yes, Pooh, I will be, really. I promise I will be, Pooh."

"That's good," said Pooh.

"Pooh, promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred."

Pooh thought for a little. "How old shall I be then?"

"Ninety-nine."

"Pooh nodded. "I promise," he said.

Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh's paw. "Pooh," said Christopher Robin earnestly, "if I - if I'm not quite --" he stopped and tried again - "Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won't you?"

"Understand what?"

"Oh, nothing." He laughed and jumped to his feet. "Come on!"

"Where?" said Pooh.

"Anywhere," said Christopher Robin.

* * *

So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."

That's an ending that chokes me up a bit in a normal reading, but this time...  But I read it and didn't sob. And I believe that she really will still be with us. And I know we won't ever forget about her. Ever.

Mom passed away on Tuesday night, at 10:20. I had been sitting in the living room with her, giving her medication every half hour to ease her breathing, and my dad was trying to rest a bit in his room, as we were planning to spell each other through the night. When the pattern of her breathing changed I got my dad, and we were both sitting with her, holding her hands and telling her how we loved her when she died. She went very peacefully.

That's it. She was brave and kind and generous and funny, and we loved her so, so very much.