Death is an unknown to us, and for many, so is pain. The journey my mother and my family took is a lesson to us all: Protect what you have and defend what you know in your heart to be true. And most of all listen. Listen to the person loving you and living inside the body before you that seems lifeless. Listen to all they say.
It is the most important thing we can do on this Earth…listen to the suffering and the dying.
Give respect to their vitality and give them peace as their vitality leaves them One fragment at a time.
This is the story of my courageous mother and the words she helped me and a few select others to hear.
I hope it helps you or someone you love.
Don’t miss anything.
My mother opened her eyes and looked out the window for the first time in the days since she’d been asleep from the morphine. I was folding her blankets and said, it’s a beautiful day isn’t it? Would you like some breakfast?
She replied “yes.” That sounds nice,” smiling. I was ecstatic and told my sister of her sudden awareness as I mixed a pitcher full of her special yogurt, vitamins and chocolate blend.
By the time I reached her room again, with her breakfast, she was asleep. It had been the first time I had seen her awake, her old self again since the ordeal, in six months. Yet I had barely spoken to her, then had rushed out of the room. That was two weeks ago and she’s said nothing since. I wish I had stayed, not taken it all for granted. I wish I had stayed.
Now she is silent, except for a few feint cries of pain when the meds start to wear off. After surviving horrific life events, and her recent amazing travail, she is undone by frailty. My mother, well all of us, had hoped to capture a few more moments of happiness, peace, bliss….as she did just weeks before, enjoying the height of the rented wheelchair van, seeing the outdoors once more – Looking out that window in absolute wonder at ordinary things, street signs, telephone poles, cars, people mowing their lawns – things she had, just a few weeks prior, never hoped to see again. She had been comatose for three months from the toxic pain meds that were meant to make her “easier to bathe” in the hospital.
My mother lived and spoke like Buddha – she was always at peace, even with her sadnesses.
So I shall end each missive with one of her quotes.
This day, reliving these moments, by writing them, reminded me of one of the last things she said.
I was growing her wheat grass, to help her thrive. I had just come in from watering the plants, blissful from the morning dew resting gently on each individual frond. She smiled at me, and looking up above my head said ” Don’t let anyone take away the sparkles that G-d has given you. They’re in your hair, and they’re beautiful!”
Mom saw my aura, I believe, as she saw many things, and heard many thoughts in those days that no one else heard. She was in between two worlds.