Still Alive Here!

Recently, an old high school friend of mine (who is a sweetheart) texted me to find out if I was OK, because she hadn’t seen a post here at the blog in such a long time. And at our age, she said, you just never know…

But rest assured, I’m still alive and well and about to celebrate my 67th birthday. My husband and I left Virginia a few weeks ago to come up north and manage our Oyster Haven rental property on Lake Champlain.  We had a little family party with our three Virginia sons and their 14 kids before we headed to New York, and this was the view in our kitchen with the grandkids that day, enjoying ice cream after a trip to our neighborhood pool...

Great view, to be sure.  ❤️

And this is the view out the back yard at my husband’s childhood home by the lake, where we’ve been staying since we got back up north.  

Not too shabby!

Today, our five boys and their gangs (23 grandchildren in all!) start arriving for our week-long Pearl-a-palooza at Oyster Haven, which we blocked off for our family’s use. We look forward to this gathering all year!  We’re in the process of moving in there now.

I’ll be sharing some pictures of the views from our lakeside paradise, if I can find breaks in the chaos to do so!  We'll have 35 people sleeping in a 4-bedroom, 2-and-1/2 bathroom house (with two extra basement "bedrooms" set up as well).  Six sleeping areas for 35 people.  It's always interesting!

Thanks for stopping by this deserted old ghost-town of a blog of mine, dear readers.  I’ll try to take better care of it moving forward!

Throwback Thursday: My Forever Boyfriend

I really should blog about Easter…and I will, soon.  But you see, I was scrolling through the pictures on my phone recently (all 15,000) of them, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I came across this one. Whoah. Be still my heart!  Pass the smelling salts!

Who is this handsome young devil, you ask?  It's my boyfriend, that's who.  That is, my husband of going-on-45 years.

This nostalgia-inducing photo was shared with us a few years ago by one of my husband's Naval aviator friends from the early days of our marriage (he is the one on the left, cropped out of the picture!).  I'm not even sure I'd ever seen it before that, and I don't remember exactly where it was taken, or when; but I do know that my husband was probably in his mid-to-late-20's here.  When he was 30, he got out of the Navy and began working for one of the major US airlines.  And the mustache (which so many of the Navy fighter pilots in our circle sported during the 1980's) had to go for his new job.  So he's definitely younger than 30 in this picture.

I fell in love with this face (minus the mustache) when he and I became boyfriend-and-girlfriend the summer after our freshman year in high school.  We were both just 15, a couple of babies.  But I knew pretty soon after we began going steady that this guy was the one for me.  

He was.  He is.  And he always will be.  He's my forever boyfriend.

P.S.  This was fun.  And you know what?  I think I'm going to start sharing my favorite oldie-but-goodie pictures every Thursday here at the blog.  :)

RIP, Sweet Carolyn

Today we buried my mom.

She died on March 1 and her funeral was on March 22, but in upstate NY the ground is too hard and frozen at that time of year for burials.  So today, all five of us siblings and our spouses gathered together to see her laid to rest next to our dad.  My two brothers live close enough to make a day trip if necessary, and my two sisters live right here in the area.  My husband and I live the farthest away; we made the 10-hour drive up yesterday, and we'll be heading back to VA tomorrow.

Mom's Catholic funeral Mass on March 22 was a glorious thing.  Her grandsons were pallbearers; two of her granddaughters and two great-granddaughters brought up the gifts; my husband and I did the readings (I am rather shocked that I was able to get through mine without breaking down, but I managed to hold it together pretty well); one of my sisters led the prayers of the faithful; and after the Mass, before everyone left the church, one of my brothers (the oldest of Mom's five children) and my other sister (the youngest) took turns reading parts of a touching eulogy that had been written by my oldest brother.  The hymns sung were reverent, holy, and perfect; the homily given by the deacon (a childhood friend of my oldest brother) was perfect.  It was all perfect.  I should have blogged about it sooner.

I also never did blog about the absolutely awesome celebration of life we had for my mom right after that beautiful funeral Mass.  She would have loved it (did love it, I'm sure, from where she was watching).  We decorated every windowsill in the event room of my sister-in-law's brewery/restaurant/inn with framed photos from Mom's life, and a photo montage also played on a loop on the big-screen TV mounted high on the wall.  My younger brother (a very talented singer/guitar player, who in retirement has regular gigs in the Albany, NY area and is "somewhat famous in parts of Cohoes," as he likes to joke) stepped up to the mic and put on a little performance for us.  Some of the songs he chose were ones that my mom used to sing when we were kids, 60's folk songs by Ian and Silvia or Peter, Paul, and Mary (and if you're not in your 50's or 60's yet and you're reading this, you probably don't know who in the world I'm talking about).  He also played Hallelujah, always a winner.  And Sweet Caroline, changing it to "Sweet Carolyn" (and now you know my mom's first name).  There was a buffet of delicious hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, an open bar, and numerous friends and loved ones gathered together to honor the life of an amazing woman.  It really was quite spectacular.  Four of our five boys were able to make it (the one who lives in Nashville flew into DC to meet up with his three VA brothers so they could all carpool up together).  In all, 13 of my mother's 17 grandchildren were there, along with a few of her great-grandkids.  There were other family members with us, too--including one of our cousins and her husband, some of my in-laws, some of my siblings' in-laws--and lots of friends of ours and our mom's.  It was an Irish wake (after the funeral instead of before), a fitting tribute for a woman whose maiden name was Kelly.

I will never forget the joyfulness with which we celebrated our mother.  Since the funeral, I have not had a single day where I haven't cried, at least once, usually while praying our daily Rosary aloud but at other random times, too.  I was talking to one of my sons the other day about how throughout the year leading up to her death, my mother had constant health issues and was in and out of the ER.  Everyone was trying to figure out what was going on, to get answers and solutions, so that she could get her health back to where it had been. I kept thinking, however, that the hard truth was that she was 89, and perhaps at that age she was never going to get it back. I felt that we needed to be realistic.  So as I told my boy, I thought I was prepared for the worst. Silly me.

Because nothing ever really prepares you for losing your mother.  Nothing. 

Anyway, I'm going to do a belated sharing of photos from the grand Irish wake we had for our mom.

The music begins!

My talented brother.

Toasting our Mom and Dad with my Dad's precious bottle of cognac,
which we'd been saving for a special occasion.

The grandkids.

My baby sister and me.

All five of Mom's babies.

Family!

Here is a link to a short YouTube video snippet of my brother playing Sweet Carolyn.  It was the highlight of the celebration.  (Pretty much guaranteed to make you smile.)

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/bPG_MDZ_zxc

After the burial today, we stopped by the old brick mansion that was owned by our paternal grandmother (and in which we lived for about 1 and 1/2 years, in an upstairs apartment, until I was 10).  It has been mostly sitting empty over the past few decades and is in a sad state of disrepair, but it looks like someone is in the process of renovating it.

I'm so happy that I have these four siblings, and that we all like each other and get along.  That we make each other laugh--a lot!  That we share so many memories that no one else in the world has but us. I wonder if our boys remember us telling them when they were young that we might not be rich in money, but they were rich in brothers, and that was even better. What has become plainer to me than ever, since the loss of my mom (nine years after my dad's passing), is how very true that is. The best gift parents can give their children is siblings. If at all possible, of course (I know there are couples who desperately want more children than they can have).

I'm so glad that my brothers and sisters and I had each other to go through this painful right of passage with, and that we were able to give our mother the send-off she deserved.  RIP, Mom.

Spring Has Sprung in VA: Birds and Blooms—and RBF!

Here’s a the current state of affairs at Casa Pearl.

A little bird is building her nest in a fake flowering plant that we have hanging on our little side porch by the patio.  Real bird. Fake plant.  It all seems to be working out beautifully.

Bigfoot is thrilled to see the first real blooms in our perennial garden along the side of the house.  Trust me, he’s thrilled. That’s just his usual expression: RBF (Resting Bigfoot Face).

And the cherry blossoms are in full bloom on my favorite tree out front.  It's just SO lovely.

I love living here.  (We have a white picket fence, no less!  What's not to love?)  Where my husband and I come from in upstate NY, a recent storm dumped 8-12 inches of snow.  I prefer springtime in VA!

There is so much beauty all around us in this world, isn’t there?  The wonder of God’s creation, it takes my breath away sometimes.  (The sun is about to rise as I write this, with the sound of birds singing outside the window; and I imagine them flying in and out of the branches of my favorite tree.)

Little glimpses of what Heaven must be like: I see them all the time.  

Today, VA feels like Heaven.

Life Goes On...Incredibly

Tomorrow it will be exactly one month since my mother took her last breaths, with four of her five children gathered around her hospital bed, shortly after hearing the voice of her one missing son (her firstborn) on speaker phone.  All five of us were able to spend the week-and-a-half before she died with her almost constantly, reminiscing about our history as a family and telling her how much we loved her.  And she died peacefully, without pain, after 89 years of living a rather blessed life.

We all have to go; and that being the case, she had an extraordinarily beautiful death--one you might plan out for yourself, if given the option to do so.

I did the second reading at my mom's funeral, Corinthians 15:51-57.  I'm sure you know it, this part at least: "Death is swallowed up in victory.  Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?"  (Getting through that reading without breaking down entirely was a victory for me that day, I'll tell you.)

Yes, it was a beautiful passing from this earthly life, which is so very short compared to the eternal one into which Mom has entered.  But still, it does sting.  For those left behind, it stings indeed.

I think about my mom all the time.  About how she lived.  And how she died.

I mostly feel fine, staying dry-eyed more often than not and getting on with life...but in spite of all this "fineness," tears are always lurking, hidden right beneath the surface.  And the most random, unexpected catalysts can set them off when I least expect it.

I have great hope that my mother is in Heaven already, and my dad is there, too, so happy to be with his best girl again.  And that she's continuing to enjoy her great-grandmother role with the five tiny little Pearls none of us ever got to meet down here (what a comforting thought!).  But there's still that stinging sensation.

While my husband and I were up in NY for the funeral, on our way out of daily Mass one day we picked up two free copies of a book called 33 Days to Eucharistic Glory, a guide to Eucharistic Consecration. We are reading through a chapter each day, and we often discuss our thoughts about them afterward.  On the second day, the readings and reflections had to do with this question: Are you a pilgrim or a tourist?  This chapter was filled with reminders that this world is not our home, that we are just pilgrims passing through, on a spiritual journey to a sacred destination.  "If you go on vacation for a week, you don't consider the hotel you stay at to be your home.  You know it is a brief stay.  In the context of eternity, your life [on earth] is like that hotel stay.  Brief."  I try to remember this all the time, that life on earth is fleeting and it's the next life that will last forever.  But we do get caught up in what's going on in our lives here, don't we?  We forget all the time that this isn't all there is.  We forget all the time that the purpose of this life is to live it in such a way that it brings us back to God for all eternity.

I'm human, though.  And I do enjoy so many things about my ridiculously blessed life here on planet earth. I love my home here in VA.  I'm trying, as best I can, to make it a reflection of Heaven for my family.  To make it as beautiful, cozy, and inviting as it can be, so that they always feel happy to come and spend time with us here. 

Yesterday, I had glimpses of Heaven when two of our boys and their families came for a little after-Mass lunch gathering, and the nine kids they brought with them spent a few hours playing together (leaving our house a good bit less beautiful than it was when they got here--ha ha!).  

Seriously, though: nothing makes us happier than seeing the grandkids hanging out together in this basement playroom that my husband finished off for them about five years ago.

 

And I didn't get a picture of this, but while the kids were playing downstairs and outside, our daughter-in-law Braveheart snuck away for some quiet time alone in our living room.  Our grown kids often retreat to this room and fall asleep on the couch, right in the middle of noisy family parties.  Our house is a bit too "open concept" for this space that we call the "Rosary Room" to be a true getaway; but it is just separate enough to make you feel like you've escaped the chaos.

When I'm in there, I feel a little closer to Heaven.  Maybe our kids do, too.

I can't remember crying yesterday.  I think I was distracted by getting all the food ready for our visitors, and then filling cups with chocolate milk and ice water, running upstairs to get computer paper from the office for the little artists to draw on, cleaning up spills, snuggling with five-year-old girls who are not only cousins but besties, and...well, you get the picture: it was a busy day, in the best possible way.  And by 9:00, I was falling asleep in my chair, so we went to bed much earlier than we usually do. 

That's the key, I guess: to keep living life to the fullest, but as a pilgrim and not a tourist, always remembering that the home I've made for my family here (however cozy it might be) is not my real home. My mother has completed the pilgrimage, but I'm still on the journey to that real home. I hope I get there.

And if I do, and I hear, "Hi, Pussycat," I'll know she's there already and she's been waiting for me.

The Complexities of Grief

My mother has left this world.  For a better one, to be sure…but even knowing that, it is so very sad and so very strange, surreal even, to believe that she is no longer in this one, where I can see her, touch her, speak to her.  Losing your mother makes you feel untethered. After all, she is your first home.  It just feels wrong to live in a world that doesn’t have her in it.

But my mother’s death has affected me in ways I could not have foreseen.  My father died in 2016, and over the years since then, the grief I felt at his passing has lost its sharp edges.  I can think of him these days with fondness and peace, and only every once in a while do my memories bring tears. Now, however, it’s all come back to me: there's that stabbing pain again; but this time around it has an even greater force, because my mom was my last surviving parent.  I fear the grieving process will be much longer and more complex this time around.

I knew that at 89, Mom didn’t have too many years left. Even so, I didn’t like to dwell on the possibility of losing her.  But the unthinkable has become a harsh reality.  

Grief is a funny, unpredictable thing.  It’s sneaks up on you and catches you unawares.  It strikes at times when it doesn’t seem to make sense, and then stays hidden when it seems it should be brought into the light.

This morning when we got to church for Mass, a few of our fellow daily Mass friends asked how I was doing, and I was able to answer them dry-eyed.  I headed over to our usual pew, worried that I might seem cold to them, too “doing okay” for a person who’s just lost her mom.  But minutes after kneeling to pray and then settling in my seat, my eyes suddenly welled up with tears, brought on by a random memory.  

I cried copious tears during the week and a half that I spent with my mother during her last days on earth—but usually when alone, or with just my husband present.  And I cry often these days when my husband and I say our daily Rosaries aloud together.  (I’m a private griever, perhaps?  Could that be it?)

After the initial trauma of that awful time in the hospital was past and she’d been gone about a week or so, I found that I was crying a good bit less often throughout the day, and I worried that only a very hard heart could “get over” a mother’s death so soon.  Ha!  As if.

Each day, it seems, I am hit out of the blue at odd times with an image or a memory that brings tears to my eyes: when I think of how happy my mom always, always was when my husband and I arrived for a visit, for instance—and the extreme delight she took in our sons (and even more so, in their children, her beloved great-grandchildren)…when I remember the way she reached her hand out, from her hospital bed (on one of the days before she became unresponsive), and grabbed mine, letting me know that she wanted me to lean in for a kiss…when I think of how one night as we were leaving the hospital, I said goodbye but then went back in to give her another kiss and tell her, “I’m glad you’re my mom,” and in her weak, quiet voice, she replied that she was glad, too.  (It would be one of our last conversations, because not too long after that, she could no longer move or talk.)  I tear up when I realize that when we are up in NY for the summer (where we go every year, to escape the VA heat and manage our Oyster Haven VRBO house), I won't be seeing her, bringing dinners for her, going for girls'-day-out lunches or shopping trips with her and my two sisters. Sometimes, all it takes to get me crying is looking at an image of Our Lord or Our Blessed Mother.  It’s a very fragile time for my emotions, even though I’m sure it often appears to the world as if I’m a rock, extremely stoic and handling my mom’s passing with more than the usual amount of equanimity.

I’m trying not to worry about how strange my brand of grief seems to be.  It is what it is, I guess.  One of my dear loyal readers, Madeline, left this comment on my last post: “Be gentle with yourself—there’s no right or wrong way to process a death.”

Those are words that I needed to hear right now, as I navigate through this confusing maze that is the grieving process.  Thank you, my friend.

(Please dear readers, pray for the repose of the soul of my spunky, funny, one-of-kind mother.  She was the bee's knees, she really was.)

My Mother Has Passed Away, May She Rest In Peace

Please pray for the repose of the soul of my mother, who died peacefully on March 1 at the age of 89.  She passed into eternal life with four of her five children gathered around her hospital bed, just minutes after she heard our absent brother's voice on speaker phone.

After many illnesses over the past year that landed her in and out of the ER (including a stroke in December or January, which went largely unnoticed because it didn't incapacitate her; followed my a number of mini-strokes or seizures afterward, also misdiagnosed because they were so mild), she was hospitalized in mid-February. After tests, and about a week in the hospital, it was determined that it was time for palliative care because there was no more that they could do for her.  Within days of her hospitalization, she could no longer eat more than a few bites of soft food or drink more than a few sips from a straw, and even then, she had to be reminded to swallow.  And then she could no longer even do that.  She was as weak as a kitten in many ways; her digestive system began to shut down.  She couldn't move, speak, or open her eyes.  But the one kidney she still had was functioning and her heart was still beating strong.

It doesn't surprise me at all that her heart was still strong.  My mother was all heart, and a fighter, a woman of fierce determination and legendary energy.  It was so hard to see her brought to such a weakened state. But let me start from the beginning.

My husband and I had been in the Nashville area for two weeks, meeting the newest of our 23 grandchildren (born on January 30).  We had just returned home on February 17.  We knew that my mom had gone to the hospital and had been there a few days, but we were planning to rest up for about a week at home in VA before we headed north to see her.  Even though she was pushing 90, we had every confidence that she would pull through and go back to her new mini-apartment at an assisted living home, where she'd moved in December (after living with my youngest sister and her husband for seven years, until she required a higher level of care and could no longer be left alone in the house for even a short time).  Mom always pulled through; we'd already been through two stretches where it looked like we would lose her: once in 2008; and again in 2016, right around the time my dad died.  But she bounced back both times, living up to her "Energizer Bunny" nickname.  We liked to joke that she had nine lives, and truly, she had regained her health and vitality at times when no one thought she ever could.  In 2008, she got down to about 89 pounds and had to have a feeding tube.  In 2017, she needed almost round-the-clock aides at my sister's house, because she couldn't even get out of bed on her own anymore.  But just last summer, in July 2024, she looked like this:

My baby sister (Mom's caretaker for 7 years), Mom, and me.

So we thought this most recent setback might be the same sort of thing.  I fully expected that by the time we got up there, she would be settled back at the assisted living home and that's where we would be visiting her.

But this time was different.  The news from up north was grim.  Make sure you get a priest in to see her, I told my baby sister.  And my husband and I decided to cut our time at home short and get up there to see my mother as soon as we could. We left early on Wednesday, February 19, and while we were on the road, my sister texted me a video she'd taken of Mom receiving Last Rites and Holy Communion that morning. In this video, her face was infused with the innocence of a small child, and she mouthed all the prayers along with the priest.  That was the one thing I wanted to see happen--for my mom to receive those sacraments before she died--and watching the video made me cry happy tears.  It was so beautiful.

My husband and I arrived at the hospital Wednesday afternoon, after a 10-hour trip from VA. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, we spent long days with Mom. She was still eating and drinking (although not more than about 300 calories a day) and still lucid, still talking happily to my children and grandchildren on FaceTime (albeit softly and with great difficulty).  On Wednesday night, she lit up when our toddler grandchild (son #3's youngest) kept saying, "Hi, Mimi!" and, "Miss you, Mimi!"  And when he asked, "Okay, Mimi?"  she answered, "I'm getting to be okay."  I believe she thought she was going to win this latest health battle, like she always did. And her sense of humor was intact.  In her airy, diminished voice, she told son #2 about how she'd been flirting with a male nurse, calling him cute.  When he told her he was happy to see that she hadn't changed, she joked, "I'll never stop flirting."  She was completely herself, in spite of all the injuries to her brain.  Still engaged, still knowing the names of each and every great-grandchild, still very much loving life.

During our long visit on Friday, February 21, my husband blessed my mom with holy water from Lourdes, which my older brother had brought for her.   And he put a brown scapular (an old one of mine) around her neck.

Friday night...my beautiful mother, teaching us all a lesson about humility
and detachment. I will never forget that last week-and-a half-with her.

Mom's room that night was filled with her children, with visiting and laughing, with my older brother and me spoon-feeding our mother like she did for us as babies.

Every doctor and nurse told us the same thing: Mom could have days, or weeks, or perhaps even more time. These sorts situations were hard to predict.  My husband and I thought we might have to prepare for a longer stay up north, so we left to go back to our home in VA on Saturday morning, planning to stay a week or so and then head back up to NY to be there however long was necessary.  But while we were on the trip south, we got word that my mother had declined radically and was no longer responsive.  My younger brother (the family rock star, who I half-jokingly refer to as her favorite) had come that day with his whole family and played his guitar and sang for her, and even that didn't evoke the smallest response.  She wasn’t opening her eyes anymore and looked like she was in a deep sleep.  If my mom couldn't rally even for her grandkids and great-grandkids, things were getting very serious. When we got that news, we decided to turn right around on Sunday, February 23 to head back north, because it looked like she could have very little time left.

As it turned out, she had only a week.  While we were in VA on Saturday, I got the first class relic of St. Therese of Lisieux that had belonged to my mother's mother and had come to me a number of years ago, so we were able to pin that on Mom's hospital gown when we got back.  I also got my Rosary-making supplies, and on the trip north in the car I made a mother's Rosary for her, with each of her five children's names spelled out in letter beads on it, one name in the middle of each decade.

My siblings (along with my husband and one of my sisters-in-law) and I all rallied and made sure that our mother was rarely alone--even often having at least one sibling staying overnight with her.  We spent many hours in that third floor room letting her know how much we loved her.  Also praying Rosaries and Divine Mercy Chaplets and the Catholic prayers for the dying, telling her how happy we were that she was our mom, but also that if she needed to go, we would be okay. (And reminiscing and laughing and getting a lot of comfort out of being together at this difficult time, gathered around our mom and having a sort of family party—something she loved so much.)  Even though she couldn't respond, we have every hope that she heard everything we were saying.  Eventually my two bothers and one sister-in-law had to head home (one brother lives five hours away from the hospital, the other two hours), but my two sisters, my husband, and I were still around, spending as much time as we could at Mom’s bedside. 

I don't think I could ever adequately describe how extraordinary the care my mother--and even all of her visiting family members--received was during those grueling last two weeks of her life.  It was worth it to have her at that exceptional teaching hospital in VT rather than the one closer to her home, even though it meant many ferry rides back and forth across the lake to visit with her.  The nursing staff brought a cart of coffees, fruit, and all kinds of snacks to the room.  One of the nurses who so lovingly cared for Mom during her last days remarked to my baby sister, "Y'all are making me want to have children.  It has been a pleasure serving your mother and your family."  We were told by other nurses that the constant gathering of family in our mother's room was not typical, and that many of their patients die alone.  Also that grown children of elderly patients often argue about their care, which we didn't do--thank God!  We were all on the same page: we just wanted to be with her and we wanted her to be comfortable.  Her pain was managed so well by the staff at this wonderful hospital that every time a doctor or nurse came in to check on her, they assured us that she looked comfortable.  We would know, they said, if she felt pain; but there was never even the slight furrowing of a brow or the hint of a grimace.  Mom did look at peace, and for that we were very grateful.

Mom got Last Rites a second time--I forget which day it was, because I wasn't there yet when it happened.  

On Friday, March 28, my youngest sister, my husband and I were at the hospital with Mom in the early afternoon.  (My other sister had been there through the night and had gone home to shower and get some sleep.)  We were getting conflicting opinions: it could be hours.  It could be days.  It could be weeks.  We decided to go home and sleep and come back in the morning. Her breathing seemed a tad more labored, but none of the staff who'd seen her that day had spoken of any new concerns.  But when she heard we were all going home, the nurse who'd been on duty with Mom that day said to my sister, "I think you should stay.  And you should call your other sister."  Suddenly, we had a feeling that it wouldn't be much longer.  So my other sister was called to come back, as well as the brother who lives two hours away (my older brother and his wife had had to travel out to Ohio to babysit for grandchildren and would not be able to come).  Once the four of us were all there, we decided that we would stay overnight with Mom.  I almost went home across the lake with my husband, because I worried the room would be too crowded, but he encouraged me to stay with my siblings and I will always be so thankful that he did that.  The nurses had already removed the second bed in the room to make space for Mom's many visitors; now they set up four recliner chairs for us and we had the most significant sleepover of our lives.

On the morning of Saturday, March 1, it became noticeable that my mother's breathing was much more labored.  

About three hours before my mom died, a lovely young nurse of Irish descent, who had the voice of an angel, sang Danny Boy to her while she turned her and administered her meds.  And then about an hour before she died, another nurse who'd taken care of her earlier in her stay stopped in to see her.  And In the softest of voices, while tenderly stroking my mother's cheek, this nurse leaned down and quietly encouraged Mom with these amazing words (which I've transcribed from a video my sister took, because I simply can't share something so private here in this space):  

"You and God, you've got some business.  You're working it all out, and you're taking care of that business.  And until that business is dealt with, I think you're going to stay right where you are. That's what I think.  But try to rest.  Relax. Your whole family is here, everybody that loves you is here.  And the person that loves you more than anyone is God, and He's wrapping His Holy Spirit around you, and He's going to wrap His Holy Spirit around all of your children.  They're going to be perfectly fine.  They're going to miss you, because they love you so much.  But they're going to be okay.  Because they know exactly where you're going.  You're going to go to Heaven, you're going to be with Jesus.  Just try to relax.  Think about all of that love--the love of your family, the love of the Lord, the love of Mother Mary and all the saints.  All right?  And we're all going to see you again.  Okay?" 

Then this nurse told Mom that she was going to pray for her in church the next day.  Let me be clear: this is a secular hospital, not a Catholic one.  But Catholic nurses kept finding their way to my mother's bedside.

When Mom's breathing really started to change, we thought of what several of the nurses had told us during those final days: that some dying patients seem to be waiting for everyone to leave, while others are waiting for someone to arrive.  Four of my mother's children were gathered around her bed that Saturday morning. The only one who wasn't there was her oldest son, who was out in Ohio.  So we got our brother on my sister's phone and put him on speaker, and he said his good-byes through tears.  Then about fifteen minutes later, with a tear rolling down one cheek, she died.

My mother had not been able to open her eyes for a whole week.  But right as she took her last breath, she opened them.  

I believe that my mother was seeing those people whom that nurse was talking to her about just an hour earlier: Jesus, and Mother Mary, and all the saints.  

As if this post doesn't already describe a passing from this earthly life that is so very beautiful, so filled with the love of God...I need to tell you about one other thing that happened, which we all believe was divine intervention.  I said above that on Saturday, February 22, my mother's condition changed drastically and she was no longer responsive, and it was determined that they could do no more for her than keep her comfortable.  At that point, we were faced with keeping her in the hospital on palliative care or taking her home to care for her in hospice.  The four oldest of us immediately thought that the transfer to the ambulance and the long ambulance ride across the lake to NY, etc. might kill her in her diminished state.  We also loved the kindness and efficiency of the hospital staff, who were always so gentle and patient with our mother, always said her name and spoke to her when they were taking care of her.  And we worried that we would not be able to keep her as pain-free as she'd been up to that point if we had to take her off the IV morphine (IV's are not allowed in hospice care, we were told).  My youngest sister, however, felt strongly that Mom should go back home to her house, where she'd lived before going to the assisted living home in December and where she still had a hospital bed in her old room.  The rest of us decided that even though we'd thought that our mother should stay where she was, our baby sister had been her main caretaker and health care advocate for so many years, and she deserved the make the final decision about where Mom would die.  We all agreed to have Mom go "home" and take care of her ourselves.

On February 24, the very morning when my youngest sister would be signing the papers to schedule the ambulance and the transfer and my mother's discharge from the hospital, her daughter sent her a text.  My niece was pregnant with her second child, nine years after the first, and she was scheduled for a C-section on March 4 unless the baby decided to come sooner.  She texted my sister to say that she was having contractions two minutes apart, but not to panic.  She said that she would text again later with updates after seeing the doctor.  But when the hospitalist arrived with the transfer paperwork shortly after the text, my sister said, "Hold on.  There's been a development."  My sister and her husband were the ones who were planning to drive down to MD to help out when the baby came; now, it looked like it might happen early, even that very day.  Maybe it was better if Mom stayed in the hospital, my sister thought, so she could be ready at any moment to make that trip south to meet her new granddaughter and know that Mom was in good hands.

The funny thing is, once the decision was made to keep Mom in VT at the hospital and all five of us siblings were in perfect agreement about her care, our niece never had another early contraction.  Not one.  Each day my sister would check in on her: no news.  Nothing happening.  Mom died on March 1, and my sister was in MD on March 3 as planned all along, so that she was in place to watch her older granddaughter while her daughter was in the hospital giving birth to her new granddaughter by C-section on March 4.  Amazing, isn't it?  Do you think God might have had a hand in how it all turned out?  I certainly do.

And talk about the circle of life!  My mom loved the role of "Mimi" to her 17 grandchildren, and she was so incredibly proud of being a great-grandmother to so, so many!   Shortly before her death, great-grandchild #35 (our youngest son's second daughter) came along; and shortly after her death great-grandchild #36 (my sister's second granddaughter, whose timing was practically miraculous) joined the family.  God is so good!  All the time!  And I know that Mimi is smiling down on all these young ones in the next generation, many of whom were fortunate enough to know her.

I will always miss my mother.  In life, she was one of those "larger than life," "life of the party" people. Dressed to the nines for every occasion in bright colors, with earrings and necklaces to match each outfit, Mom always looked like a million bucks.  She was a friend to everyone she met and was loved and admired by many. As she grew closer to death, I feel like she became a small child again.  Helpless and weak, with no possessions anymore (except the hospital gown on her back and the wedding rings we had to remove from her fingers), it was obvious that she'd left the world behind and all she cared about was the love of her family and of God.  It was tough to be there as she lay dying.  But it was a privilege as well, and the lessons I learned from that experience--about detachment, and acceptance, and childlike innocence, and trust in God--will be with me until the day I die.  

Twinning in 2021, when Mom was 85 years young.