My cousin sent me a text a few days ago to tell me her mother, my aunt, was in the hospital. She sent an update later. Her mother would be moved to compassionate care.
“We are not going to win this one.”
I immediately began searching my memories. When was the last time I’d seen my aunt? I realized it had been a few months.
My aunt had been in an assisted living facility. The pandemic lockdown had been brutal.
A small, tender mercy: my aunt had a ground-floor room, facing a garden. My cousin could sit outside and wave, see her mother’s face and let her mom see hers. My cousin would press the screen of her phone to the window and share images of her mom’s grandchildren and her newest great grandchild.
As things improved, we could have scheduled outside visits. A caretaker would escort my aunt, who used a wheeled walker to reach a white plastic chair under a white canopy. She was allowed two visitors for a 30-minute visit, usually once a week. We’d be on white chairs, separated by 10 feet, so we’d shout to be heard and understood. We became adept at snapping selfies while social distancing. My cousin continued to share screen photos of family: her nieces’ weddings, the great grandson’s adventures.
This past May, my cousin hosted a group birthday party for her mother and all her cherished, white-haired friends who hadn’t gathered for book club or celebrations for more than a year. It was a beautiful thing to see them circled around a table under an awning on the porch on a fine spring day. My aunt had a view of her best friends and all the vibrant flowers in her beloved gardens. Home again, home again. We sang Happy Birthday in unison to all the awesome women.
I scrolled through my phone photos and realized that was the last time I’d seen my aunt.
My life, and the images in my phone, shift to my mother at the end of May.
I accompanied my mother from Texas to Rhode Island as she brought the ashes of her husband of 62 years back to his childhood home. He died in August 2020. My sister, her youngest daughter, died in January 2021.
We hadn’t been able to hold memorial and funeral services. Our sorrow and grief lingered–suspended, in a fog.
For most of 2021, I had been planning two funerals: a memorial for my sister; for my father, a church funeral service with a burial with military honors at the local cemetery where our ancestors and family members are buried.
As I read my cousin’s text, I had the thought, again, that you never know when it’s the last time.
With my father and my sister, I had an awareness that death was close on their heels. I knew they were still with us–and leaving–as we all are, and one day will.
Still, when I left my father to board a plane home last summer, I didn’t know it would be the last time I would see my father’s face, animated, seeing me off for another flight.
I was taking an early flight. I was catching a ride at 4:30 a.m. Mom told me later that Dad had insisted that she wake him up–no matter what. He wanted to stay goodbye.
I think he knew it was goodbye. I didn’t.
I didn’t want to leave, and yet I did. I took a couple of photos of my mom and dad: Dad dressed, sitting in the wheelchair; Mom standing behind him, both framed by the entrance.
I didn’t know it was the last time I would hug my dad and have him hug me back. The last time I’d say I love you and wave from the driveway.
When I returned a few weeks later, he was still conscious though often asleep and slipping under for longer stretches of time. He could still hear us though his responses were garbled or muted.
With my sister, she stayed, rode her pain as long as she could. And then she slipped under–alive, breathing–and leaving us, too.
As I write this, I have tears slipping down my face.
I am a former war correspondent. I believe I learned early in my adult life to cherish the things that I treasure, to pay attention to and make time for the people I love and the beauty that surrounds me. Still, I had missed the signs that my dad was leaving, that my sister would soon leave.
I met another cousin at the airport when she arrived to join her siblings at her mother’s bedside. As we waited for her luggage, she told us that she remembered a moment 10 years ago when her mother had said “I’ve had fun. I’ve had a wonderful life.” My cousin laughed a tiny laugh at the memory. She said she was thinking “Slow your roll, Mom. You’re not going anywhere yet.”
It’s good to have that memory of her mom’s declaration of joy and gratitude for her life and all its blessings, though it preceded her death by a decade.
My cousin called me yesterday morning: Mom died. She’s at rest now.
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