My! How Time Flies

Dearest Mother,

Today marks 23 years since "I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away, to a home on God's celestial shore" served as your farewell and adieu to us here who still mourn. Watching you suffer, then rally, suffer and rally, over and over again nearly pushed your multigenerational family past the inconceivable. 

 I spent every moment I could with you, often relieving out-of-town-adult children, in-laws, grandchildren. and great-nieces and nephews who had come to pay their "last respects," all the while hoping you'd live.  

Goodbyes are never easy, especially when we don't know if it's a casual "See you soon!" or a final "God be with you until we meet again."  Even though you and I lived in the same city, we didn't live together.  Which meant every time the phone rang, my heart tried to push through my throat.  Yet, I had to answer it. Relatives had come and gone weekly, saddened by the deterioration of your health.

Hospice provided medical care.   On the day you transitioned, the physician wondered aloud "How she could be holding on so tenaciously." She gently explained, "We were sure she would've transitioned by now."  Sister Lucy and I looked blankly at the caregiver; we had no idea, either! Later, however,  I  took inventory.   All of your surviving sons and daughters and numerous close relatives had come to see you so frequently until the front entrance of my daughter's home looked like a revolving door.

Everyone that is, except your son Jimmy, my second oldest sibling. While he lived in Anchorage, Alaska, he'd recently accepted an assignment in some remote Alaskan outpost.  How in the world could I reach him?  Hmm.  But reach him, I did! I explained that I wanted him to call you while pretending he was standing by your hospice-issued bed.

"How would that work? Won't she know I'm not there," Jimmy questioned?

"She's semi-comatose and hasn't opened her eyes in several days," I explained. "I'll have Lucy stand by her head  and stroke her hair while I hold the phone to her ear."

"Well, if you think that'll work, we'll give it a try," Jimmy responded,

And that is what we did.  Jimmy talked to you for about five minutes.  You gave no indication that you'd heard him until you uttered, "I love you, too, Brother,"  your childhood nickname for him.  You neither opened your eyes nor spoke again.

Several hours later, Lucy and I sat at the dining room table where we could see you.  Lucy was doing one of her "Word Searches" and I was reading a novel.  Suddenly she looked toward you and asked, "Dorothie, is Mother still breathing?" We jumped up as one and rushed to your bed.  I touched your carotid artery (how I knew to do that, I still don't know), and felt no pulse.  Nothing. I looked at my watch, noted the time, and whispered, "She's gone.  Mother's gone."

"I'll fly away, oh Glory, I'll fly away when I die
Hallelujah by and by I'll fly away
When the shadows of this life have flown
I'll fly away
Like a bird from prison bars has flown
I'll fly away." 

Mother Dear, I love you.