February 27/First Quarter Moon

Going 10% Slower. Mom and Time and the Phases of the Moon.

Mom and I learned to make homemade noodles from my Grandma, who learned from Great Grandma Inez, her mother-in-law.

We are halfway between the new moon and the full moon. Ever waxing is the reflection of light coming to us on earth. I had intended to mark the year since my first paid subscriber with this post, but that will be another letter started and then set aside for the present situation. I have come to trust the writing of these letters with the phases of the moon. It feels natural to weave in what is coming up, even as I am always slouching forward in the Gregorian calendar. This weaving together is 10% slower. That is a borrow from my teacher Nancy, who quoted a talk with Chas DiCapua that she attended at Common Ground. 10% is not that much slower, but slow enough to savor everything a bit more while it passes.

And it is passing. There is no doubt about that.

Mom remains in this world, tethered to a body that is no longer holding together against the friction of being bedridden. She has an open wound that is being cared for by the Hospice Nurses who come everyday. So grateful for these heroes along with the home health aids who support her care at home.

The Diannes, lifetime friends of my mom and all of us, reminded me, she never wants to leave a party. Just like her, we are the queens on a Minnesota Goodbye, following our guests to the front door where we stay with them while they pull on their coats. Right now she is in the vestibule with us and this is the slow goodbye, combined with the long goodbye of Alzheimers.

But her skin is breaking down and I hope she knows she has our permission to go if it is getting to painful to remain. We were told that this kind of open wound would kill her in 2 weeks. It’s been two weeks today.

I have been trying to console her with the message that we will be okay. Although maybe she can hear in my voice that I am not sure. We are not ready. We didn’t get enough of her. What if I can’t remember all the mom’s she has been to me? The one who advised, who was willing to talk about anything, the one who introduced me to books and gave me her favorite copies. The one who loved being outside and walking in nature. The one who baked pies and made homemade noodles and knew what the politicians were like in person.

I told her she has always taken excellent care of us and we have learned from her, we will continue to take care of each other when she is gone. As I said this, her eyes were closed and B(W)ill was standing on the opposite side of her hospital bed. She is so serene lying there in her bed, still so classy. Her eyes were closed, and she was propped by pillows all around, wearing her white nightgown. I told her, for both of our benefits, Bill’s and my own, that even when she is gone, she will always be with us.

She never seems to be hearing me when I stand beside her and hold her hand, but this time she nodded with a quick gulp of air. It was a clear response, yes, she will always be with us. I don’t usually feel like I connect when I go to see her. But her nod was timed with the words I produced, an affirmation. I looked to Bill to see if he thought it meant what I did. We both sighed a breathy laugh. The words had reached her.

I have been looking for signs. The hawk came while I was talking to Nina, our Death Doula, on the phone. I turned and caught sight of it mid-flight through the trees, landing on the oak at Paula’s house. The hawk came to say there was a message there, put a little more weight right here. The ravens, more ravens, landed in the street in front of my car on the way home from a walk with my sister, in front of her gym, after listening to her tape-recorded voice from long ago. A friend texted me with a dream she had, Mom out ice skating on the frozen late. The image of mom flying along — whatever vehicle of her choice, ice skates, skis, electric bicycle, convertible — free and exhilarated by the wind in her hair, is one I hold on to. In the dream there was a orange, wooly hat nearby, abandoned on the frozen lake. My friend knew it was Mom’s, but Mom doesn’t recognize it at first and skates past it a few times. Eventually it catches her eye and she stops. She knew it was hers but didn’t know what to do with it. When my friend picked up the hat to help her with it, mom began to cry.

She has loved this party and she is really sad to leave.

And Mom’s nod. Put more weight here. Hospice has taught us to look for the furrowing of her brow for evidence of pain. Her brow had smoothed in that moment.

I don’t really know that her nod was fully conscious. It was too fast, a reflex. But the reflex happened because there was some kind of hook in what I said. Something had caught and the gears were turning together for a moment.

Did they connect because it was something she needed to hear? Or did they connect because it articulated something she wanted to say to us but isn’t able?

I can’t know what is going on in there when she is there in her bed, reaching for the things only she sees. Time is passing 10% more slowly for all of us. But her dreams are happy, Rachel and Bill have been witness to them. Where in her half-sleep state she can speak. Grandma and Grandpa are there. In these moments, she asks for her grandchildren. She knows she has 3 daughters. I hope she is getting what she needs in her dream-state. For now the vestibule goodbye is all we have. Thanks to you for being in here with us.

Much love, Tina