The Gift at an Ending, By DIANE MELTON, November 13, 2013 On a morose Sunday afternoon, my husband and I arrived at my mother’s apartment. Earlier that morning we had received “the call.” “This is it,” my sister said. “Mom’s in a coma.” The family had assembled in a somber vigil. When we got there after a couple hours’ drive, family members had dispersed for some well-deserved rest. My mother’s caretaker greeted us, her face reflecting the sad news. My husband, a doctor, picked up a pair of sterile gloves and started examing my mother. “She has the classic ‘O,” he said, observing the near perfect circle of her mouth, which let out an occasional sigh as she clung to life. Her eyes were tight slits. It meant a lot to me that my husband was at my mother’s bedside. I had spent the last few months on the drive along Route 84 from West Hartford, Conn., to her place in Westchester County. I treasured the moments in her gentle presence, knowing, as the hospice nurse had explained to my sisters and me, that she was “winding down.” But with a troublesome back, Alan couldn’t handle the trip more frequently. He massaged a salve onto her lips. “You need some lipstick,” he said matter-of-factly as he adjusted the oxygen tube and straightened her pillow. “And we’re going to have to get some Botox for these wrinkles.” Oh, no, I thought. He’s kidding around? What is he thinking? My mother’s in a coma. I never did understand my husband’s relationship with her: he had always kept up a shield, as if getting too close might rob him of some power, or perhaps grant me too much. But now he assumed a role that was different from his usual aloofness. I was tempted to tell him to stop, but kept my mouth shut. Slowly, surprisingly, my mother’s head turned toward his voice. She had always adored him. Did some part of her innermost being sense his presence? It couldn’t be. They said she was too far gone. “Have you heard this one?” my husband asked her: “Obama arrived at the Pearly Gates of Heaven. “How do I get in?’ he asked God, hoping to be admitted to the realm of the blessed. And God answered …” Pearly Gates? Not a political joke, not now, I thought, as my mother lay still, faraway. I was getting angry. Alan repositioned her on the sheets, checked for bedsores, encircled her limp wrist to take her pulse. I said nothing. I looked at my mother. Winding down. A curious phrase, as if she were an old timepiece. But the phrase was apt, considering my mother had the distinction of reaching the extraordinary age of 99. She had worked as an administrator at a local college and had always had an intellectual bent: a lover of Shakespeare, history, French and baseball. Until these last few days, she had mastery of her faculties. But she now looked so frail; a little bird whose body was at last failing. Then I noticed something that unsettled me. Her beautiful, ancient face turned toward my husband’s. “You know,” he went on, his eyes fixed on her, “you’re going to a better place.” He was talking as if she could hear him. None of her four daughters, myself included, had had the courage to speak to her openly about death. What if, by bringing it up, we hastened it? We wanted her to stay with us, but knew it was her time. Throughout her life, my mother had an abiding faith in God, in Sabbath rejuvenation, in the kindling of the Sabbath lights. Her religion and its traditions brought her great joy. I, on the other hand, tend to be agnostic. The idea of an afterlife was more than I could wrap my mind around. Still, in my mother’s last days here, I sensed she teeter-tottered between two worlds, not wanting to let go of the life she had cherished, yet struggling to depart to some other place. In an emphatic voice, Alan instructed my mother to shrug her shoulders if she could hear him. She seemed to manage the slightest movement of her slender frame. Did I imagine it? “Now let’s open those sapphire eyes of yours,” he said. At this point, we had been by her bedside for about 45 minutes. She strained to open her eyes, but couldn’t. Let her be, I was thinking. Then, slowly and with great effort, my mother opened her eyes. She focused. I looked at Alan. He had that I-knew-it-all-along look I recognized from 42 years of marriage. The hospice nurse called it a miracle. My mother’s caretaker let out a gasp. I peered into my mother’s eyes. They were glistening with recognition. “Hi, Mom,” I said, smiling at her. She lay there quietly. Although she couldn’t speak, she had an aura of serenity. I felt she was registering appreciation for still being here. We all had a final chance to thank her for the wisdom and love she had shown us. That was the last time we saw her alive. She died peacefully a day later. I appreciated the gift Alan had given us. It was nice to know that there were still things about my husband that could surprise me.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Nov 2013 14:29:06 +0000
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