Like so many other Mother’s Days in the past eighteen years, I felt sad on Sunday. Don’t get me wrong – my husband and children made the day special, providing beautiful flowers, poignant cards, a book of exquisite poems by Ted Kooser , a precious little stuffed animal, and a lovely dinner out.
But I missed my mother. She died on Mother’s Day eighteen years ago. And although today, May 14, is the actual anniversary of her death, I especially miss her on Mother’s Day. In 1995, May 14 fell on Mother’s Day.
Please let me share an excerpt from The Last Violet: Mourning My Mother, Moving Beyond Regret:
May 14—I am grateful I have the presence of mind to get up early and pack everything I’ll need for the Big Spring Piano Recital and Graduation Recital this afternoon. I am thankful that I decide at the last minute to go help Jan bathe Mother before Les and I go to the church.
We set everything up; the first program goes beautifully. During the reception between the two concerts, Renée [my sister-in-law]comes to tell us that Mother’s condition is deteriorating rapidly. Her respirations are only three per minute. Although I have to desert the five precious girls who are giving their last recital, my only thought is to get to Mom in time.
Joy [the hospice nurse] had told us Friday that we were to keep her comfortable, giving her morphine as often as we noticed retraction. It would, as promised, relieve her sensation of suffocation and the struggling respiration. It is very efficient to give it in tiny amounts at short intervals. Karen [my daughter] prepares the medication; Nick [my physician brother] watches for retraction; I administer the doses. The rest of the family keeps watch.
It is hard to continue giving morphine, knowing that it might hasten her death, but we have pledged that she will not suffer. Sometimes her teeth are clenched shut and I agonize that I am forcing her.
From 4:00 in the afternoon until 11:58, my eyes never leave her face and I am taking her pulse as it gradually fades, then stops. Her eyes are open, but she isn’t looking at us— her gaze focuses beyond us, and it is clear that she sees that which we cannot.
And so, on this Mother’s Day, my beloved mother dies.
I gently close her mouth and hold her chin in place until it stays. I tuck the covers around her. She looks more peaceful than she has for eleven weeks—maybe more peaceful than she ever has.
We wait in silent good-bye, hearts breaking, until 2:35 a.m. when two men from the crematory come to take her body. They wrap her in a white sheet, twist the ends shut, and carry her out.
Dear God, I have no mother.