“When a baby is born, the angels weep and humans rejoice. When a loved one dies, humans weep, but the angels rejoice.”
Our Mother Jane died last week, in West Chester, Pennsylvania, on the coldest day of the year. Upon receiving Dad’s phone call (“You should come now,” he said), we left our home in Los Angeles hurriedly, and flew into Philly in an ice storm. The snow was so blinding we had to pull off the road and stay at a different hotel than we had booked for the night. We were praying out loud for Mom to hang on. We knew she was waiting for us…
As soon as we arrived at our mother’s nursing home, a hospice nurse named Venus greeted us outside Mom’s room. She sang us a song she had written called “Sunrise,” and we broke into tears. It was Valentine’s Day and the whole nursing home was decorated with bright pink and red helium balloons. There was a party and children were singing songs, entertaining the residents and nurses. When we entered Mom’s room, we sensed the presence of many angels and our Grandmother Nana, who we felt sure was helping. Our one-time athletic mother lay frail and helpless in the hospital bed, specter-like, her tiny body only 95 pounds, wispy white hair fading into the pillowcase. She looks like a painting, we thought. Her eyes were glazed over and she seemed not to recognize us. She was as the nurses say, “in her transition.” The walls of her small room were covered with her watercolors of Maine and Pennsylvania landscapes. She had loved art and nature and was an accomplished painter, as is our Dad.
We kept an emotional vigil at our mom’s bedside for three days. One of the nurses said she had waited for us to say goodbye. No matter how close you are with your mother, it is an excruciating thing to watch her die. We held her hand, spoke with her, sang to her, prayed for her, reassured her that she would be safe. She was unable to speak, and hadn’t spoken that whole day until she responded to Linda with a peaceful smile and a “Hello.” That was her last word.
Our mother had waged a brave battle with Alzheimer’s for almost ten years. It is a cruel disease that steals not only one’s memory but the ability to walk, think, speak, and eat. In spite of all these losses, Mom died with great dignity, and with many friends around her.
There were, as we expected, many omens prior to and during her passage into heaven.
On the way home from seeing her the first night, we found ourselves at a stoplight behind a car that had a sign on the back window. It said “MOM” in big black letters against a large blinking red light. The day of her passing, we noticed many red-headed finches flocking around our brother’s bird feeder. Mom was a famous redhead!
We joked that there was so much drama, because Mom had always been something of a “Drama Queen.” She had a larger-than-life personality and great wit in her day. Over the years the light had gone out, she had long ago stopped recognizing us, and her personality would become extremely violent, paranoid. All typical of Alzheimer’s. It ripped our hearts out to bear witness to her descent into insanity.
Our father had stepped into an almost heroic role of her caregiver. Even after she went into the nursing home, he visited for hours each afternoon, never missing a day. Our parents have known each other nearly 80 years, having met in kindergarten in the ‘30s. Dad held Mom’s hand gently, tears rolling down his face, as he comforted her, saying his last goodbyes.
On Friday night we stumbled into bed, exhausted. Terry awoke at 5:00 and caught a glimpse of a shadowy woman passing by quickly. “She’s gone,” she thought. She shared her vision with Linda. The phone rang two hours later - our brother and Dad were downstairs in the hotel lobby. Mom had passed away at 5:00 a.m. Finally free.
Judith Viorst wrote in her book Necessary Losses:
"As our mothers and fathers begin to age and sicken and die, we may begin rewriting these terms of endearment… we see how little power they ever had to love us perfectly. To understand us perfectly. To save us from sorrow and solitude – and from death. We see how little power they had…to build sturdy bridges across the gulfs which separate us. Letting go of our vain expectations as parents and children and spouses and friends, we learn to give thanks for even imperfect connections."
The night she died, we all met for dinner at our brother Flip’s house on nearby Church Street, where he lives with his companion Lucille. Gathering around his player grand piano, we belted out show tunes like our lives depended on it. Even Dad was smiling, his eyes shining.
Mom was right there with us… we could feel it.
Terry and Linda Jamison
The Psychic Twins