Two Lessons
It has been three months since I have written for Leslye’s Labyrinth as I have found it difficult to sit and move to the place within from which my words flow. As I sit here now attempting to do so, I feel my heartbeat accelerate. As I glance at the electronic calendar, I notice the significance of this date. Maybe that compels me to write now.
After living most of my adult life in Atlanta, exactly 71 months ago, I moved home to be my mother’s caregiver. While I had struggled in making the decision, I experienced peace in realizing it was mine to do. After putting most of my belongings into storage, I packed the car for the 200-mile drive home.
It was impossible for me to have imagined the graces and gifts of the past six years. I came to know my mother in a different way as she revealed facets of herself to me that I never knew existed. Assuming the role of caregiver, I came to discover and trust my own voice. Evenso, nothing could have prepared me to witness the decline of the one who birthed me into this world. My only regret is having been late in understanding her degree of pain after she became immobile.
My caregiving role has ended as Mama was received into God’s loving and eternal embrace. As so many other conditions, dementia is cruel. I remember a few years ago lying in bed with her while holding on to her arm as if my willful effort could counter the curse of this illness in time. Her body completed its work and she vacated the premises almost six weeks ago. Her last breath was taken here in the house Daddy built 55 years ago and the home they created. Next week, we will reach the tenth anniversary of his last breath in the same room. My brother saying, “She is not here” to confirm her passing is seared into my memory as is the image of the funeral home staff removing her body that evening.
Living in a county and state where only 29 percent and 37 percent of adults respectively have been vaccinated for Covid-19, my siblings and I did not want to contribute to the pandemic with large gatherings.. We used the parish’s chapel instead of the main sanctuary for a Mass of Christian Burial, invited a few vaccinated and masked family and friends, and published the obituary after the interment.
I often find myself reflecting on times in my childhood when Mama tried to prepare me for this inevitable time. Having lost her mother at the age of 18, she knew well the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death. I dreaded those conversations and am grateful to have had her well into my adulthood. Now that we are here, I have been surprised by how well I think I am doing in my grief, and realize it is an unpredictable process.
The month of September began with my spending a few days at a nearby retreat house. The change of scenery was a balm as it gave me time away from doing – time to rest. When my father passed, my lesson was to learn to trust God more than I had trusted Daddy. Recently, I have wondered what my lesson is now. It is to know that I am loved. While neither lesson is new to me, each is heard differently now because of my lived experience and a subsequent deepened capacity to understand.
My parents loved my siblings and me dearly. This love thrives beyond physical mortality. So much of who I am this day is influenced by them. They were my first teachers, my first role models. How fitting that their final lessons will carry me through the remainder of my days. Trust God more. Know I am loved. May it be so.