A Spirit To The Sky
Day 1:
My FaceBook post began with Vanessa Carlton’s lyrics….“‘Cause you know I'd walk a thousand miles…If I could just see you tonight”
and 4 or 5 pictures of mom and I in the past year since our “stroke of luck”. This reference noted since she and I have both indicated, even with decreased cognitive/physical skills and loss of prideful independence, that her massive right hemisphere stroke gave us a reinvention of our relationship. For one year, I have cared and loved mom in a way that could not have been possible when she was of mind and able body. So, we like to think, we won this past year together.
Day 2:
I have been awake since 27 hours ago when I first journeyed to get to mom, exactly 1,000 miles door to door. Her last words to me was the morning before to ask what I had for breakfast in her new sing song greeting I’ve come to adore this year: “Hello, my baby doll….”. Those were the last words I heard from my mom before I trekked across the Northeast just slightly ahead of the 3rd nor’easter in 2 weeks to reach her.
Late night Day 2:
With every hour that passes, it is clear, that I’ve been gifted yet one more hour with the rise and fall of Mom’s chest, the warmth of her limp hand, and the surprisingly lulling wet respiratory breath that accompanies the welcome mat marking the end of human life. It is during these hours I steal a look at her and wonder what new “life” awaits her in eager anticipation for reunion with her own lost ones. But, it is also the same time I wonder my own origin and ultimate destination and just what is it I am to yet accomplish with my remaining Earth years?
Middle of night Day 2:
What took me most by surprise was not the 49th hour without sleep, but the 10 or so minutes of peaceful rest I stole while draped across Mom’s chest as I gripped her warm hand under the blankets, and the then very sudden drop of her rib cage and chest cavity in what would be one of her last breaths.
I looked up from my brief slip of slumber and locked eyes with my sister who came beside our mom too, holding the other hand now, as we both waited. We’ve never done this before, so we weren’t sure what to wait for, but it seemed the right thing to do at the time. Just to wait. To listen. To ever so silently speak our own private last words to the physical presence of our mom, only to know our future private thoughts and words would be spoken to only her spirit after these moments of the clock. While mom wasn’t in any discomfort, we, on the other hand, suffered greatly - all of the unspoken words, all of the memories, all of the stories we have not yet heard and those we longed to hear of again suddenly flooded our minds, quickly - until.
End of Day 2:
There was just one more last breath in. Then out. Then nothing left of the woman we witnessed with such vibrant fire and fight, who taught us to never give up the fight and the will, recognizing that same lesson was also drawn from her own mother, our grandmother. What had previous to this minute been the “those 3 Mix girls” is reformulated to “these 2 Mix girls”. We sat in the stillness and quiet, remaining connected as three through the embrace of mom’s warm hands for awhile longer.
The Transition:
After almost 3 decades of private practice and helping those work through their own stories of loss and grief, I have concrete proof (through my own independent study and research) that we all grieve differently and independently without any correlation otherwise.
It seemed right for me to make the intentional next step… I signed up for an unlimited 30 days at the yoga studio, now having attended two, sometimes three classes each day for weeks.
Beginning and ending each practice with that intention to honor and embrace my mom’s spirit and non-material gifts she has bequeathed me.
In letting go a little bit of “the loss of” mom, I bring my hands to prayer at heart center and bow for a heart that no longer beats with life, but one that will forever continue to beat with love.
“Namaste”