Today is the anniversary of my mother's death. She died sometime between midnight and dawn on August 24, 2008.

I was in a cabin in Wisconsin where my cell phone rarely works.  The ring tone I selected for my parents woke me up and I was sure it was Mom calling to say Dad had a bad reaction to the Chemo. I was relieved to hear my father's voice, "Sharon?" He must have forgotten I was out of town.

“I can’t wake up your mother. I think she’s dead.”

I said I was sorry and would be there as soon as I could.  I reminded him I was out of town and he remembered.

My husband,George, held me up while I  sobbed, gasped, and tembled like the bad actors I mock on Lifetime movies. I hoped from her spirit place my mother saw this and understood how much I loved her.

I wanted to slip under covers and pretend this wasn't real, but there was no time. I woke my daughter so she could get the kids up. Fixed breakfast because a five year old and a one year old cannot travel 3 ½  hours without eating. Made coffee because I needed it. On the way home I cried silently so the children would not be scared, made phone calls to my son, my brothers, and a funeral home.

"Sharon? I can't wake your mother. I think she's dead." My father's voice repeated in my head. Even now I can close my eyes and request it. I hear how sadly he said my name. I should have known something was wrong.  

George dropped me off at their Assisted living apartment. The receptionist nodded as I walked past the sign-in without stopping. On the bulletin board by the stairs my mother’s death notice was posted. I watched myself walk up steps and down the hall and stand at their door.

My mother was in her reclining chair, fully dressed, hair clips in place, mouth open wide. Dad sat in his recliner next to her. It looked normal except the televsion was off. I wanted to close her mouth, but wasn't sure I could. A "Three Stooges" style fiasco came to mind. I know that's a weird thought to have, but it's in my DNA. It made me feel better to think of something funny even if I couldn't say it.

A woman was sitting in the corner. On the way home I called the facility to see if Dad had notified them and if it was true. She said “I'm sorry. Your mother has no pulse.  What funeral home will you use? Your Dad is waiting for you to decide.” 

“You left him alone with my mother's dead body????!!!! Can’t you sit with him until I get there?” I wasn't as polite as I had been trained, but was more courteous than I wanted to be.  She promised to send someone, but the woman in the corner wasn't from the faciltiy. She was my cousin, Dorothy, who lived an hour away but I hadn’t thought to call. My father sent an email. "I found Janice this morning and can't wake her up. Sharon is out of town, but on her way."  Dorothy normally doesn’t look at her email on a Sunday morning. But that morning she did. 

My father's rock solid rational mind was sporadic. He had called my brothers and sent emails, but wouldn’t leave the room when the funeral men arrived, believing my mother could wake up when they put her in the bag. They didn’t zip it completely until they were out of his sight.

Mom had left simple instructions for her funeral. "Closed casket, except for family. Gifts to charity in lieu of flowers." At the family visitation Dad stood by the coffin talking to her, then sat down close by. As the funeral directors came to close the casket he struggled to get up. "One more time." Later he said, "I know it makes no sense, but I believed she would wake up." 

"If she knew how hard this was going to be for me she wouldn’t have done this." Mom told him a few weeks before she was praying to die first. I didn’t tell him was that it was my hope too.

Dad was in stage 4 of chronic lymphantic leukemia and the treatments were becoming more painful with horrific side effects. He endured them for her. I worried about what I would do to help mom when he died. My dad's side of the family uses humor to cope.  Mom did not. What my dad and brothers found hilarious made no sense to her. The only thing that made her laugh was Erma Bombeck's books and once that was discovered she got them for Mother's Day, birthdays and Christmas. When they moved out of their home into the a two-room apartment I kept the books.  I envisioned reading them to her after dad passed.

The month before mom died I had been in a sweat lodge on the Ojibwa reservation. I intended to ask for healing for my parents, but in a sweat the deeper truth emerges and my request was for a peaceful death.  The sweat lodge leader suggested we return to the site the next day to take a piece of the rocks, tobacco and cedar and keep in a pouch as remembrance of the sweat. I did that, but lost track of the pouch. On the day of mom’s funeral the pouch showed up on the kitchen table. Until then I forgot what I had prayed for.

No adult in the house had found the pouch. I think my year old grandson was directed to put it there. He saw great grandma at the cabin the night she died, and at Target when my daughter shopped for funeral clothes. That day he was on the floor laughing and said "gamma tickling me".

This morning I went to mom’s grave stone and emptied the contents of the pouch. It isn’t just mom’s grave now. Dad died 27 days later. During those 27 days…almost a moon cycle…we talked and cried and shared more than we ever had. 

Today was not as sad as I had imagined.

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Below is the unedited version. The post above was edited because I cannot read anything I write without wanting it to be better.

Mom died a year ago today. August 24, 2008. I was out of town in a place where cell phone reception is rare. The 7:00 AM call came through...the first in a string of “miracles”. The ring tone I selected for them woke me up and I was sure it was Mom calling to say Dad was having a bad reaction to the Chemo. But it was Dad. In the space between “Sharon?” and the next two sentences I felt relief. He must have forgotten I was out of town. And then “I can’t wake up your mother. I think she’s dead.” I didn’t ask if he was sure or ask if he had called the nurse. I said I was sorry and would be there as soon as I could. . . I reminded him I was out of town and he remembered.

My husband,George, had woken up, listened and knew. He held me as I sobbed. It was one of those deep uncontrollable, surprising sobs that confirmed my genuine grief.  I was grateful for that natural reaction. From her spirit place she saw and knew that I really loved her.

I wanted to get back into bed and cry until I couldn't anymore, but there was no time. I needed to wake my daughter so she could get the kids up. Fix breakfast because a five year old and a one year old cannot travel 3 ½  hours without. Make coffee because it is the only strong drink I allow myself. On the way home I slept and woke and silently cried so the children would not be scared, made phone calls to my brothers and my son and a funeral home and held George’s hand when he offered it. I kept hearing my father’s two sentences. I still hear those sentences in the middle of the night or in the middle of traffic or in the middle of a thought.

George dropped me off at their Assisted living apartments. The staff gave silent sympathy as I walked past the sign-in without stopping. On the bulletin board by the stairs my mother’s death notice was already posted. I saw myself walking up steps and down the hall...forcing myself to take those steps when I really wanted to run away.

I walked in the apartment and saw my mother in her reclining chair, dressed, hair clips, mouth open wide. Dad was sitting in his recliner next to her. A woman was sitting with him. I first thought it was someone from the center because I had called to talk with the nurse to make sure Dad had notified them and to see if this was really true. She said “Your mother has no pulse. I'm sorry. What funeral home do you want to use? Since they didn’t select one your Dad is waiting for you.” He was sitting with her dead body in his apartment waiting for me. I wasn’t as polite as I had been trained. “You left him there alone????!!!! Can’t you sit with him until I get there?” The nurse said she would send someone. But it wasn’t someone from the center it was my cousin, Dorothy, who lived an hour away but I hadn’t thought to call. Dad sent her an email. The man who wanted nothing to do with computers, who had retired from the research lab when computers were coming, who was finally “tricked” into using an email machine by my brother, had sent an email out to my cousin about finding his wife dead and waiting for me to come. My cousin normally doesn’t look at her email on a Sunday morning. But that morning she did. (miracle #2).

She quietly left as I held Dad as best I could. I had never seen him so lost. His rational mind was sporadic. He had called my brothers and sent emails, but wouldn’t leave the room when the funeral men arrived, believing she may wake up when they put her in the bag. They didn’t zip it completely respecting his hope. Later I understood he needed that time with her. If he had been able to voice his wishes, she would have stayed there, in her chair. Three days later at the "family only" visitation he stood by the coffin for awhile then left the room to wait for the funeral, closed casket, as requested by mom. As the time neared he said "one more time" and he struggled to get up and walk as quickly as he could to the casket before it was closed.  When we left the cemetery he broke down again and admitted he knew it was crazy but he believed she would wake up.  "Now it's so final."

So many times he said "if she knew how hard this was going to be for me she wouldn’t have done this." She had told him a few weeks before she was praying to God to go first. What I didn’t tell him was that it was my hope too. She feared his death more than her own and had confided in me that she checked on Dad during the night to see if he was breathing, just like you do with babies and one night she was terrified that he had passed because he looked so bad after this round of intensified chemo.

We all thought dad would die first and I didn't know what I could d0 to help mom. Most of our family uses humor to cope.  Mom did not. Most of what we found funny made no sense to her. When they moved out of their home into the Assisted living apartment she gave me her collection of Erma Bombeck books. I kept them because they were the only thing I ever saw that guaranteed mom's laughter. I envisioned reading them to her after dad passed.

A little over a month before I had been in a sweat lodge on the Ojibwa reservation. I planned to ask for healing for my parents, but as often happens in a sweat the deeper truth emerges and my request was for a peaceful transition to the next world.  The sweat lodge leader had suggested we return to the site the next day to take a piece of the rocks, tobacco and cedar and keep in a pouch as remembrance of the sweat. I did that, but lost track of the pouch. On the day of mom’s funeral the pouch showed up on the kitchen table. I had not remembered until then what it was I had prayed for. No one in the house had found it and put it there. My guess is my year old grandson was directed to put it there. He kept talking about seeing great grandma around. That day he was laying down laughing and said "gamma tickling me"  (miracle #3). This morning I went to mom’s grave stone and emptied the contents of the pouch by the grave. It isn’t just mom’s grave now. Dad died 27 days later. During those 27 days…almost a moon cycle…we talked and cried and shared more than we ever had. Today doesn't seem as sad as I had imagined.