Journeys

Journeys


The wind rustled the flap of the awning that had been set up over the gravesite. I found my mind wandering as the priest read from his prayer book, finalizing the blessing of my Mother’s urn. She was being buried in a tiny country cemetery, next to my father, who had passed away years earlier.

As I looked around, I took in the landscape, drinking in its rural majesty. My gaze settled upon the magnificent view of Mount Mansfield, a mountain which overlooked the valley of the small town where I had spent my youth. I’d never truly appreciated its beauty as a child growing up in its shadow. Now though, it gave me comfort to know that this old friend would be watching over my parents’ final resting place….

I thought back. Had it only been two weeks ago that this had all begun? My mother had been ill for sometime with emphysema, but somehow she had always seemed to bounce back. This time, though, the accompanying congestive heart failure had exacted too much of a toll on her already frail body.

“There’s nothing more I can do, “said the doctor. With her strength gone and her body abandoning her, she quietly accepted what the doctor was telling her.

I had been caring for my mother in one capacity or another for five years, always trying to prepare myself for the eventuality of this moment, but never wanting to have to face it.

I placed a call to each of my eight brothers and sisters, beginning a pilgrimage for each that would change our lives forever.
“She’s going into hospice,” I said. “There’s not much time. You need to come right away.”

The nurses seemed to have a name for each stage of my mother’s dance with death. I only saw her slipping further away from me as each day moved into another. My mother had embarked on her final journey, one that my siblings and I were only to bear witness to.
Her first night in the hospice facility passed uneventfully. She rested comfortably throughout the night and was still able to communicate with us when she woke.

By late the next morning, however, she had taken a turn for the worse and was conscious for only very brief periods. Most of the family had arrived by that time. She was now only able to communicate by mouthing a few words at a time.
Then she had what in the hospice world is called a “rally”, a time when a person would seemingly gather all their strength and get better for a while. The nurses said this usually only lasted a short time, a half hour at the most. My mother’s lasted five hours. Struggling to communicate, she was determined to say good-bye to each of us, to impart on us one last bit of wisdom. Or in her own words, “to get the last word in.”

Yet, something else was happening as well. She was trying to tell us something, trying to describe something to us. Then, as clear as a bell she said:

“I see Him.”

I don’t know who she was talking about, God or my father. I’d like to believe it was both. Being raised a Catholic, I was taught to believe in God and heaven, and I did, but never with total faith. I’d always felt a certain hesitation, like I needed proof. Well, here it was. I don’t believe anyone can go through an experience like that and not believe there is an afterlife. My mother helped me find the faith I had been seeking throughout my life. This was her final gift to me.

She fell into a coma following her amazing afternoon. Her breathing became more and more labored, her breaths fewer and farther in between. Each time this happened I would think it was the end. But she would finally gasp and it would start all over again. This was to last another day, but still she hung on. It seemed she was waiting for something.

What she was waiting for was my younger brother. He and his wife had been vacationing in the mountains and didn’t get the message right away. He arrived the morning after she had gone into the coma. The nurses told him “talk to her, she’ll know you’re here.” “I’m here, Mom,” he whispered in her ear. All her children were finally accounted for.

She passed away two hours later.

We had been milling about, discussing travel arrangements for her funeral in our hometown, when my youngest sister said,
“I think we should just take over the old house and have everyone stay there.”

One of my other sisters, who was sitting next to my mother, noticed her smile and then she simply stopped breathing. So quietly. So peacefully. With all her loved ones gathered at her bedside. Can anyone ask for a better death? Her journey on earth had ended, her new one begun….


“Your mother was a wonderful woman,” someone told me.

“Thank you so much,” I said automatically.

I realized the ceremony had ended and people were starting to leave the cemetery. I dropped the rose I had been holding next to my mother’s urn and made my way back to the car. It was almost over.

Some of the ladies of the town, old friends of my mother’s, had organized a reception. I hoped it wouldn’t last long. It was a wonderful gesture, but I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up the small talk.

The hall where the reception was being held was only a short distance from the house where I had grown up. You could see it from the front door. Someone must have noticed us all stealing glances at it, for only a short time later a close friend of the family, who knew the current owners, told me they had gotten permission for us to go through the old house.

“All of us?” I said. “Do they know how many of us there are?” Between siblings, children and grandchildren there had to have been over thirty people.

“They know. And they don’t mind. You’d better go now, though, before they have time to think about it and change their minds.”
So off we went, a small army quietly marching down a country road. For my siblings and I, this was to be our journey; a journey to re-discover our youth.

You could hardly see the house from the road anymore. The trees and shrubs that our parents had lovingly planted so many years ago had become overgrown and unruly. It was such a shame. It seemed our home’s subsequent owners weren’t nearly as meticulous as our parents had been.

Entering through the front door was like passing through a time tunnel into the past. Nothing had changed. The linoleum was the same. The light fixtures were the same. The wallpaper. The only thing that had changed was us. We had become giants. The old country farmhouse that had once seemed so massive to nine small children had suddenly become tiny. How had we all fit in there? And with only two bathrooms. It seemed inconceivable to us that our parents could have raised us all in this now hopelessly inadequate space without completely losing their minds. No wonder they made us play outside so much.

Room by room we made our way through the house, sharing stories along the way. The living room where we all gathered to watch television. The grandchildren found it totally incomprehensible that we had only one TV in the house. The kitchen where we had our famous dish towel snapping contests. The laundry room that our Irish Setter was so afraid of. So many recollections waiting around every corner.

Climbing the narrow staircase to the second floor, I found myself in the bedroom I had shared for so many years with my older sister. I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me. Suddenly, I was no longer the middle-aged woman bearing the grief of my mother’s death. I was that strawberry blonde little girl again, tagging along after my big sister. Secure in the knowledge that I had parents who loved me and a place in the world that I could call my own. I don’t know how long I stood in that room, ages it seemed like. I was reluctant to let go of that little girl I had said good-bye to so long ago. I was afraid that once I walked out that door I’d never find her again. Yet, the adult in me won out and I knew it was time to return the present.

Back to my pain and responsibilities.

I never got a chance to thank the people who let us visit our old house. I feel badly about that. What an incredible gift to have given us. On a day when we were so acutely aware of our parent’s absence, they opened their home to us and gave us a way to remember happier times. A journey, if you will, back to our parents.

It has been some time now since my mother’s passing. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her, or feel her presence around me. She taught me many things throughout my life, but none as significant or dear to me as her final lesson. Your life is a constantly evolving journey, leading to that one final road. Follow the right path and you’ll find it.