Caregiving Journal 21

Yesterday I saw Mom's purse sitting next to her chair and I cried.  I saw her tiny white tennis shoes with the rhinestones on them and the neon pink laces in her bedroom and I cried.  When I gave the "most recent" picture of her to the funeral home man, I cried.  When they asked me if I would like them to make her look nice, in other words, close her eyes and her mouth, straighten her, comb her hair, I cried.  The day before, I didn't shed a tear.  It will be like this.

The day before, my dearest, oldest friend Kay came to see me.  She brought dinner big enough for 3 days, salad, dressing, bread and she brought her loving, comforting self.  She wanted to hold me while I cried but there were no tears on that day.  I was feeling the freedom of the end of care taking, the sun was shining, my good friend was here.  She held me anyway, for a long time and told me all the ways she loved me--she loved me as much as the moon loves the sky, she loved me as much as a baby loves its Mama, she loved me as much as a car loves its tires, she loved me as much as the sea loves blue and on and on, all the while stroking my cheek.  We talked like in the old days, on the couch, under a blanket or feet tangling together, of our men and our fears and our lies and our truths.  We talked about Mom and Kay told me what she remembered about the first time she met her and what her impressions were and how they changed over the years of knowing her.  I told her what the last hour of Mom's life was like and about the silly/crazy conversations we had before she died.  It was a lovely time with my friend, just like in the old days when we saw each other many times a week and talked and drank tea in her tiny home in Manette with the red flowered curtains and the yellow enamel pitcher on the table always filled with flowers.

Yesterday was not so much fun.  It was the funeral home day and though they took very good care of me and my Dad had made sure that everything would be paid for, it was still very emotional.  I liked both men who served me.  One was a little tentative and nervous.  He was new to Miller-Woodlawn.  The other one, Bob, was sweet and talkative and I learned a great deal about his family and his past in the 90 minutes I was there.  He is the salesman and usually would be helping to select a coffin, but none of that was necessary with me.  The cremation, the urn, the niche, were all paid for years ago.  He took me into the room where "keepsake" items could be bought and I selected something for my brother--a palm-sized silver heart that he can take with him wherever he ends up.  It will be inscribed Mom, like a tattoo, but it will contain about a teaspoon of her ashes.  I will also get a teaspoon of ashes that I will keep or sprinkle;  I'll decide on that sometime later.  I've been trying to think of where Mom would like some of her ashes to be and I haven't come up with anything.  Her favorite place was her chair in the living room.  I'm not even going to keep that chair, let alone put her ashes in it.  If it was my ashes, you could scatter them on just about any beach in the county--I love them all.  Or better, on the beach of Peso Lavadi on Paros in Greece.  Or in Scotland. Or in my garden.  I have so many favorite places.  I have some of my brother's ashes sprinkled around the hydrangea I took from his memorial service.  I wrote a piece about how it blooms with only one flower each year.

There's a scattering ashes story that a friend of mine tells that I can't write about here because it's too personal to her, but I think about it every time I contemplate ashes and what might be done with them.  You will wonder why it always makes me laugh.

After the funeral home I stopped to get my brother a quad latte and me an Americano, and two Dutch Chocolate Brownies from the Red Apple grocery store.  I wanted to check in and to tell him what I'd been doing.  I wanted to find out if he wanted to take part in the inurnment. He does, and he had received a call from the good-looking social worker, Anthony, who was putting housing paperwork in the mail to him.  Things are going forward. I asked Stanley if he believed he would hear from Mom--did he believe in that kind of after life communication and he said he did.  I keep remembering the sweet Dr. Vasquez and what he said about spirits and that he believed they communicated after death.  My mother will be in my dreams and I so look forward to seeing her again.  But what am I going to do with her purse and her shoes?