Tending to Endings (fourteen)
Lately, it has been impossible for me to not think about last year this time. I imagine with a pandemic going on, many of us are more reflective. We likely have more alone time, for one, save those who are front-line workers or parents of young children in which case, thank you, thank you, thank you for showing up each day in these harrowing conditions.
I am pretty sure I am not the only one missing their mom at this time, too. Or missing someone who helped hold them steady who is no longer reachable by phone or zoom.
I alternate between feeling my mom’s absence profoundly, and then, maybe even simultaneously, feeling relieved that she didn’t have to experience this in her fragile state at the end of her life. All of us in my family were at our limit last spring. I cannot imagine adding a pandemic into the situation.
And it occurs to me that a year later, even with Covid-19 begging every minute of our collective attention, my mom’s death is here sitting in the room with me.
There was a time when I would’ve said I would rather honor my mom’s birthday rather than the day she died. And, well, yes, that sounds positive, and logical. In the long run, August 28 will be the day to celebrate all Jane Stavoe brought to this world.
But apparently that does not mean that when April 9 comes around, my heart or my bones will let the anniversary be ignored. I didn’t think about that part.
I know many readers have also gone through the death of someone very close and have more perspective than I do on anniversaries. For next week’s Tending to Endings, I’d like to include some collective wisdom. If you have a story or experience about a death anniversary, I would love to hear from you. I’ve included more details at the end of this post.
I don’t know yet what we will do if anything on April 9, but I know I will be thinking of my mom because I think of her every day. I think of when she was well and I could lean into her wisdom and strength because I can use all of it I can get right now. And I think of how she was at the end, too, having lost her bearings, her body fragile, and yet somehow still grateful and funny and determined to go out loving. I do not want to forget her ending. It has been one of my greatest lessons about love and strength and intimacy. My mom was always my teacher and always will be.
This time last year, my mom moved into a hospital bed in the condo full time. She was no longer able to eat or drink or spend time on the lanai, though the slider in her bedroom allowed a wide view of the ocean. Blue was always her favorite color, and I was grateful she was surrounded by sea and sky.
This time last year, we knew any hour might be Mom’s last. My sister Sandy had just spent her spring break by my mom’s side, and my youngest sister, Amy, was about to arrive. I wrote this in my journal:
I am in the guest room of the condo and I hear the click-click-clicking of Mom’s fancy walker coming from my parents’ room. For a second, I get excited, thinking my mom is up and about, heading towards my room. Then I realized that it is—of course—my dad pushing my mom’s walker. He is storing it in the hall out of the way.
There is a day when you are sad that your mom has to use a walker. And then there is a day when you consider the sound of your mom’s walker coming towards you something to be thrilled about. Last week she was able to use that walker, and today, she is not.
Enjoy all of it. I remind myself.
Or maybe, not enjoy exactly, but love. Love that tonight I can sit with my mom and hear her breathe. And that today when I told her I loved her she smiled and nodded. And that tonight my dad and I watched the sunset from the lanai and talked about how we are sad.
It’s quieter with Bill and Sandy gone; I can get pretty serious, and my sister is good at making me laugh. Today it is harder to not focus on the losses. But my mom is here. And I am here. And my dad is here. And Sandy and Bill are on a plane over the Pacific. And Amy is almost here. And so many friends and family are holding us in their hearts.
All of It is no small feat, and probably impossible. I didn’t love lots of things about my mom’s ending. But I am so very grateful for the long moments I sat listening to her breathe, loving her.
I hope you will consider sharing your experience with anniversaries, whether the death was last year or many years ago. These can be traditions, or stories, things that surprised you. Ways of honoring the day, or just surviving it. Maybe the anniversary didn’t bring the expected emotion, or maybe there are things you wish you’d done differently. I’m not looking for one particular thing, but rather a wide range of experiences (All of it!), which I think could be helpful to others.
A sentence or a few sentences or a few paragraphs are all fine. Email to Laura@laurastavoe.com. Please let me know if you want your name or initials used, or if you’d prefer anonymity. I don’t know how many I’ll get (I hope, a lot!) or how many I’ll be able to include, but I will respond to your email either way before the post runs next week.
So do not tarry! And please do not worry about saying it perfectly. (Trust me, I know how that goes.) I can help with editing if you would like, but I think your voice and honest thoughts will make them just right.
If you prefer, you can also leave your response in comments below; I may still use it in next week’s Tending to Endings so that more people will get to see it.
Thank you so much for being part of this community.
Much love and strength to you and yours,
Laura
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