Going Through Things
Bengie’s gone.
Mother’s death was hauntingly beautiful, with two sons and a beloved granddaughter by her side. Meadowlark Hospice ensured that her final hours would be peaceful and painless.
Until the last, Mother was alert and oriented.
My brother Jim had hurriedly flown in from Portland to be by her side. Recognizing him, Mother smiled a lazy smile and gently chided him: “I told you that you didn’t have to come.”
Rrrrright. As if dying was nothing to get excited about. Everyone gets around to it eventually. The graceful and elegant woman on her deathbed seemed to be suggesting that the process of dying was no more significant than taking an afternoon nap.
Jim, the proverbial black sheep of the family, laughed when Mother said that. “When was the last time I actually did what you told me to do?” And with that, we all laughed. It’s amazing what you can find to laugh about when your 100 year-old Mother is breathing her last.
One day later, side by side, Jim and I anxiously hovered close to our mother. Opening her eyes and seeing us together, she smiled a contented smile and spoke her final words before falling back asleep for the last time. “My two sons.”
Mother always said her children were what brought her the greatest joy in life. God knows why – none of us ever felt particularly deserving. All of us caused Mother a little angst and grief from time to time. And isn’t that something all children are predisposed to do?
Ever the optimist and positive thinker, Mother always forgave, forgot and let go. Her love was implicit and generous; she never once held anything back. She truly believed her children were “the bestest” kids on the planet.
It was the one lie we granted her – without objection.
And with that, Mother began a regimen of comforting, high-powered drugs which eased her labored breathing. All that was left was … waiting. Patiently and tearfully waiting.
A loved one’s death can be gut-wrenching … Mother’s was beautiful. She went out on her own terms, humbly and quietly with the dignity and class that defined her life.
We couldn’t ask for anything more.
Six weeks later, Jim and I acknowledge how fortunate we were to be by her side, constantly whispering in her ear our love and letting her know it was OK to let go. We are painfully aware that throughout the lamentable year 2020, so many have died alone. Without a loved one to hold their hand.
Now begins another momentous task – going through Mother’s things. The files and paperwork she left behind … checks, tax records and receipts … the clothes in her drawers and walk-in closet … pots and pans … toiletries in the bathrooms … food in the pantry … the photo albums and personal mementos of a woman who traveled the world multiple times.
It's not a job I would wish on anyone, but it’s something every surviving family member must do. There are accounts to close, final bills to pay and taxes to be filed. Figuring everything out is often difficult.
The process kicked into high gear this week with the return of my brother Jim, who drove out from his home in Washington, just across the Columbia River from Portland. Jim decided to drive this time to avoid crowded airports and passengers in claustrophobic spaces.
We need to blitz though Mother’s things without pondering too long about what we’re doing. The house must be cleaned out and prepared for a springtime sale. After which someone else will occupy Mother’s last house. Another close-knit family will perhaps gather around a dining room table to squabble and laugh over the terrible cards they’ve been dealt playing Pinochle or Kings On The Corner.
Everything breaks down into convenient categories – things we’ll keep; items to be auctioned off at a public sale; and things to be given to the Catholic charity store. Whatever is left will be unceremoniously dumped at the local landfill.
Everyone has things they hang onto that have no real value to anyone other than the person who never lets them go, for one reason or another. Mother gave away many things to friends in her final years, but there remains much to go through.
Genevieve was a humble lady, but she did indeed have a bit of the “fashionista” in her – we stuffed seven or eight large, plastic leaf bags with her clothes, dropping them off at the Catholic charities store on 6th St. That would make her happy.
The auctioneers will arrive soon to help us pack everything up for the auction. Before the week is over, the house once so full of life and love will be empty. The last item to be removed is a small cardboard box which rests alone on Mother’s favorite recliner. Soon, there won’t be any sign of the person who lived there. Who arose each morning with a smile, giving thanks to be alive one more day.
Mother’s gone, but her enduring love and memories remain.
Our older sister Faith is now at Mount Joseph nursing home, joining her husband Steve. The black sheep of the family will drive back to Washington.
And Mother’s perfect little angel? The much favored last child? That spoiled rotten rascal of the family who in his mother’s eyes could do no wrong?
He plans to stick around for a while.
He has more columns to write.
Note: Michael welcomes reader comments: Rmykl@yahoo.com
