62 days

 62 days. 

Just 62 days ago a life of 83 years long, gently slipped away.  Not with clanging cymbals, not with fanfare, not needing us to make the difficult and final decisions pending, just a gentle slipping away, connected to many machines, doing many different things. 

Dear Mom,

When the hospital called and asked me to come as quickly as possible, I knew.  When the nurse said they couldn't discuss it over the phone and that I should drive carefully, I knew.  Loadshedding robbed us of getting there a few hours earlier, since in loadshedding your house becomes that bastion of zero signal. They couldn't reach me. But they assured me that it would have still been the same news. There would not have been time to speak to you. 

Goodbye. I said it. The evening before. You know that I had arrived 8 days earlier, just 8 days, knowing in my heart and mind that this would be the last visit that you would be part of. I had asked the hospital if I could visit after 8pm on that first night, straight from the airport.  And something incredible happened.  After not communicating except in mumbles for several days, you opened your eyes, said "oh my goodness, oh my goodness, look how beautiful you look.  Stand at the door so I can see. I love your dress and now I have this stupid outfit on.  Look at your nails so pretty, and mine look terrible".  I know those words by heart.  You were there mom, as always wanting us to be like you always were, well groomed.  You closed your eyes and I sat with you for long.  I didn't know then that those would be the last lucid words you spoke to me, in fact literally the last words you actually spoke. I came armed with my Rosary and a small bottle of Anointing oil that I had bought on my trip to the Holy Land. I prayed and you rested.  

I had that ritual with you for the next 7 days as well.  I prayed the Rosary and you listened.  I know you heard me.  When the doctor finally made the decision to connect you to the feeding bag, I knew that time was ticking faster.  I asked Fr Daniel to come and perform the Last Rites, it was an overwhelming moment.  

The day before you slipped away, my beautiful friends from the Women's Association back home in Gordons Bay, prayed the Divine Mercy for you at 3pm.  Although I missed the 3pm, I decided that day to skip the traditional Rosary and do the Divine Mercy.  When I finished, you reached out both your arms to me. I knew. As dramatic and theatrical as that sounds, I knew. 

Do you remember me whispering that we would look after dad (traumatically in another ward in the hospital), that we knew how long you had suffered and it's okay to let go. We love you and we will be okay. When I kissed you I hoped that I was right. Yes, you read correctly, I hoped that I was right.  I hoped that you would be released from the pain, your body which had said "no more" and was failing you, the quality of life you no longer had.  I didn't want that to continue.  

Mom do you know how peaceful I felt when I left the hospital? And even though when I arrived after their call (knowing full well what was waiting), even though I fell into a black hole of sobbing for a long time both in the sister's office and at your bedside, I knew that letting you go the night before was the best thing I could have done for myself. Even though I was waiting for Bee and Jess to get there in land speed record time, even though I had asked the nurses to call me when they walked into the ward as I did not want Jess and Bee to race into the room unprepared for what they would see, even when they called me to say they were there and I had to come into the passage and tell them, even when we went downstairs and I had to explain to a not completely lucid dad, what had happened, even then - my heartache was governed by being the eldest, being the strongest, being the one whose other half was 1600km away. 

Arranging the undertakers over the phone felt surreal, but the peace still enveloped me.  Years of working at the church had geared me towards knowing what, where and how. 

When the very respectful men fetched you, my little sister had already fallen to pieces. I sent her to sit downstairs with her hubby and waited to walk a little of the way with you in the passage. Your Jessie was there, holding my hand, 3 generations of strong women, down the passage we went. 

The worst calls in my life were to Eugene and Nic.  Eugene felt a million miles away and desperately worried about me. Your grandson adored you more than can be comprehended.  And Jess thought her granny was greater than the sun. Calling your brothers and sisters felt like a mountain and one call to my dear niece, set the ball rolling as she took over the task for me, along with an aunt. 

And then? Then it was just a blur of calls, messages, arrangements, Jess' birthday 6 days after you left us and mine then 7 days after that sad day, which also became your funeral day. Before our birthdays was too quick to arrange and after our birthdays felt like too far away, so I decided on my birthday was perfect.  You brought me into the world on that day 57 years before, and I said goodbye to you on that day 57 years later. On Jess' birthday we went to her and Dyll's home and had a little braai and birthday celebration.  On my birthday the next day, the eve of the funeral, the kids made me pizza and as a family us 7 celebrated.  You would have insisted that we celebrate our birthdays. Everyone had someone, and my heart ached that Eugene could only fly in at 7am and out again at 7pm on the funeral day.  No-one comprehends how it was to be the only one in the family without my "other" around in the house. But such is the life of a home full of pets. 

Did it run smoothly those days between you leaving us, the funeral and the after? No. Bee and I were dealing with an abnormal situation, feeling like 2 orphans.  You were gone and dad was seriously ill in hospital.  He was mostly unable to help us with the arrangements, the vast amount of decisions, the choosing of so many funeral things, the writing, the sourcing of dozens of photos. Who will do what. When will it be done.  Should this pic be large or small, do we use this one or that one? The interactions with family, the having to handle it all. And in-between we had to go up and down to the hospital to deal with our other trauma there. We eventually discovered that not speaking to each other unless necessary and about the funeral, just simply became the best space in which we each could navigate the storm around us.  We are not unusual.  Two friends who recently lost their moms told me the exact same story about their siblings, or some of them. Even in the aftermath of the funeral, they are still often at loggerheads.  Grief does that. It creeps in at different speeds.  But we will survive mom, we always do. We go through waves of very close and somewhat strained. This is not a normal situation that we find ourselves in. Dad is very ill.  It's a lot of heartache all at once. 

Mom remember in the movies we used to chuckle about fridges full of food when someone passes away? We were kindly supplied with lasagna's, pies, quiches, pizzas, pastas, salads - we could have fed an army in the time that we never felt like eating. Bee and I each have a beautiful gifted orchard that we took to our homes. I know how you loved an orchard. Imagine me mom, boarding a plane with a handbag, carry on luggage and a big white flowering orchard plant in a pot.  The air steward fetched it from me during takeoff and landing and it was stationed in the coffee trolley for those 2 times. When I had to go to the loo, the guy in the seat next to me held it.  I can feel you rolling your eyes. He also handed over several serviettes to a weepy me. When the plane took off it felt like I was leaving you behind. 

So this year has had 83 days so far.  I have spent 51 of them in two trips to Pretoria.  It seems like a lifetime away from Eugene, our home and the pets. I came home less than 2 days ago.  I need a week to decompress.  Dad came home to your home last week, he is confined to bed. It's a sad story. 

But this post is about you. 

Happy 62 pain free days mom. 

I miss you 

xx