On Sunday, I hovered between frailty and despair, remembering that Sunday a year ago, I was flying with my sons to Colorado, praying constantly that she wouldn’t die before we all got there. I was eight days from losing my mother forever, but her departure felt imminent.
Last July, I embarked on a unwanted journey into the valley of death. It was both holy and agonizing. There’s a part of me that wants to retake this journey a year later, to re-experience her and my role in passing her into the next life. Instead, I feel numb. I have pictures, but I can’t look at them. I feel as if my finger is in the dike, and if I pull it out, the dam will break. But to stay here, holding still, is equally dangerous.
This week, I tip-toe through remembrance: sponging water onto her tongue, brushing Chapstick over her cracked lips. I recall sitting with her for a week, inadvertently matching my breathing to hers, watching the slow up-down of her chest, hearing the harsh intake of air. Again I watch her body struggle with mortality while her soul longs for eternity.
I remember my helplessness. I sit and read, and I talk a little, I play her favorite hymns. Would I do it any differently, if I had the chance? It’s a persistent, haunting question. Continue reading