Now That They Have All Gone Home...

It's different this time.

It’s been nine days since my pretty and pretty smart mom “went on ahead of me, passing me the matriarch baton. The last of our family and friends have gone home, some traveling quite a distance in their effort to be present with our family. My sisters and I had that cocoon of the “ministry of presence” for nearly two weeks. Cousins and friends came to offer strength, mom’s adoring step kids arrived to help, sisters came together, pushing aside silly childhood jealousies to be the “girls” mom had always hoped us to be. And we each played a role, roles that we have had since childhood, in helping our mom. One sister was the logistics queen taking care of tedious paperwork for a year or more, one sister, was the comfort of song and tender mercies queen, and me, ever the serious advocate, standing like a sentinel, making sure her final wishes were met and talking about her favorite subjects. Our brother, seriously physically challenged, called frequently just to make mom laugh, as he was always so good at that.

People came to help, to provide comfort and to just be available. It is a blessing that not everyone has and as someone “who knows” about these things, I was always aware that I was blessed, except during the pandemic. Losing my oldest son on March 14th, 2020, showed me what it is like for those who do not have a wide swath of family and friends, such as we have, during non-pandemic times; it is more lonely and painful when you do that walk alone, as many have throughout all time and eternity. And still I made it through, somehow.

I was sure growing up, as a young mom, as a middle-aged mom, as a grieving mom, as an old mom now, that I would not go on if she was not here. I know that is not true now. I am “going on” and the grief walk is much different this time. And that is for good reasons. I am a woman accustomed to grief. The loss of three young adult children has been my crucible in 2004, 2018 and 2020. I nearly went into the graves with all my children, but I didn’t. This time is different. This time it is the natural, hoped for, way things should be, kind of grief. It’s the kind of grief that causes smiles, laughter in the teary mist of pain and loss…and joy for having been her child. It is the grief of the aching heart that longs for one last phone call, one more visit, even though you know that the natural order of things “went right” this time. My tears and pain don’t feel the same as they have in the past. It’s different this time.

The difference was expressed eloquently by many friends who sent cards, emails, text messages and social media posts; they expressed the same thing: it’s different when it’s your mom. And man, they were so right. I suddenly felt the import and impact of being the oldest, the first and for not having her effervescent zest for life an ever-present guide. For a few days after, I felt, literally, scared, that I didn’t have mom here with me anymore. I felt just that “little”. Just the fact that she existed, still, for 87.5 years brought me comfort daily and now that was not true for my life anymore. Some of my friends expressed, how hard it is to let go of your mom, at any age. Sage words from them all.

Mom’s homegoing celebration was on Memorial Day, and that was as fitting as fitting could be given her pure adulterated Molly Pitcher patriotism. And oh, how mom tried to pass that on to me. She was pretty successful through childhood and young adulthood, until I lost my daughter Diana in 2004, and I began to delve into the belly of the beast of patient safety advocacy and the intersection of politics and health with MAME: Mothers Against Medical Error. The journey changed me. I could no longer be the Fox-addicted/Tea Party addled middle-aged mom anymore and I was not particularly quiet about it. Poor mom never got over saying, “But you used to be such a conservative!”. And I would say back, the conservative party left me and that any conservative I may have wanted to vote for, disappeared! She would call me a “Biden lover”, which was funny, because, while I felt for President Biden in so many ways, but mostly because he was a grieving father, I was not a Biden lover. I was and am still pretty hard to pin down politically and almost everyone gets me wrong, including my “pretty smart mom”.

This did cause about a decade of problems between us, and for my part in it, I am sorry and thankfully, mercifully, we were given the opportunity to put things right between us in the last years. Although I pretty much did all the capitulation, ever trying to be a “good daughter”. I think mom was sorry too, even though she never articulated that, but showed it in a sweeter spirit with me; a sort of, pat me on the head, “poor dear daughter, she doesn’t get it, but I love her anyway.”, spirit. And of course, I also thought, “poor dear mom, she doesn’t get it, but I love her anyway.” Silly us. We were better off just focusing on the love. This brings me to what we, her daughters did to honor her, despite our variety of beliefs. We wanted unity and serenity to be visible, heard and felt.

Normally, on Memorial Day for the last four years, I would be at Bushnell National Cemetery putting a flag on my beautiful boy’s grave, but this Memorial Day was mom’s day. We sisters crafted a full graveside service, since mom didn’t want a funeral. These kinds of things were things mom refused to discuss all our lives, so we had to wing it, putting together the service we thought she would love. We let mom lead us in how to do this and she did. In fact, our independent thinking mom, led us rightly these last two months, every single step of the way. She reminded us of her devotion to Teri Schiavo’s story in her earlier journalist days, and how she felt strongly about this case, which prompted us to fill in some of the blanks that we didn’t know about mom.

She led us to let her go on her own terms, in her own way, in her time and that is what happened. It caused a delicate dance with ICU drs, hospice, the ALF, family. Ultimately, as her next of kin, I shared about mom’s very prolife beliefs that did not just extend to babies, but to our seniors and how they are valued, cared for and respected. We all, eventually, came to be on mom’s side, the one where she believed every breath of life had value and needed to be tended, valued and respected. And that is what happened. AND so much happened in that extended blessing reprieve of time with her; reconciliation, acceptance, laughter, tears, a visit with a priest (surprising us all!), admonitions to me to “stand up straight”, lasts visits and pictures with grands and great grands and great great grands. Grandchildren and great grandchildren were awed by their Gma J’s rallies, her “fight, fight, fight” fists in the air, her recitations of The Face on the Barroom Floor and so much more. They were witnesses. We all were witnesses. We would have been cheated of all that if, many had had their way. Rumors of her “passing in days or hours” kept being unfounded week after week, day after day, as our mom fully wanted to astonish everyone. And she was present and accounted for, with us, almost every minute.

On May 20th, the day mom and her Creator decided it was “time”, my sisters, Kelly, Kristine and I had been with mom in her room at the assisted living where she was under hospice care. Kelly stepped away to take a break, and two of us remained. I looked up from my comfortable rest in mom’s favorite recliner to hear songstress sister, Kris, sing “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” with words she profoundly changed to reflect mother/child love to our “sleeping” mother, who was between heaven and her children at that moment. My sister and I were both overcome by the power of the song and the changed words. When Kris, finished, she stepped out of the room to compose herself.

Alone with mom, I suddenly, without thought, sang America the Beautiful. Don’t know why, but I did. Then out came The Battle Hymn of the Republic and finally Amazing Grace, a song mom had sung with me a few days before, and I managed to finish all three songs, quietly, with a cracked voice. I know that to mom, heaven was a place where God, country, and family were all honored and represented, and it seemed so right that she should hear songs about some of the things she loved most. As almost everyone knows by now, hearing is the last thing to leave us, and we were very attentive to that. And when I say God, as I did, two sentences ago, the concept of God was a very private place in mom that she only shared by her actions of unconditional love for her wild children and grandchildren, and by her trying to be the best old lady she could be. That meant being the most excellent patriot, wife, mom, grandmom, family focused, bill paying, hardworking journalist she could be.

My sister came back into the room after I finished singing. We both took one of mom’s hands and within seconds she was no longer present with us, but present with a great cloud of witnesses, her Creator, her husband and my children and her beloved mother. My last words to her, were, “Well done good and faithful mom.”. After days and weeks of being “between”, mom freely, of her own accord, made her way home. And in the middle of our “heartquake”, friends and family came to us. The crafting of “Bonnie Blue’s” homegoing celebration began.

We started with an invocation, and her great granddaughter led us all in the Pledge of Allegiance. Kris gifted us with The First Time Ever I Saw Her Face, and we then led the guests to sing American the Beautiful, The Battle Hymn of the Republic and Amazing Grace. Personal reflections about mom were shared by many who were present. We cried. We laughed. Cousins Kris and Sabrina sang one of mom’s favorite crazy songs (she had a lot of them), Detour, and by golly, if the guests didn’t start clapping to the song. Detour! Clap! Clap! There’s a muddy road ahead! Clap! Clap! Detour! Mom had a few detours in her life but always got back on the right path. No wonder she loved that song.

We closed with scripture readings and hugs and wet faces, and as many as 30 of us headed for mom’s favorite Mexican restaurant. It was a celebration full of family and old friends, with many babies and children in attendance which lifted all our hearts. It was tender, true, loving, honoring and perfect. Since Memorial Day, I have felt her presence in so many ways. I hung on every word she ever spoke or wrote. She was the first person who ever loved me, and the first person I ever loved. I loved her from the first time ever I saw her face, till the last time ever I saw her face and for all eternity.

Postscript: In the last months one of our Christian apologists of a kind, Jon Pavlovitz, and others, would have had me, leave this beautiful treasure of a woman, behind, because of her beliefs and voting record. I am glad I didn’t obey him. I am allowing this experience to change me, again, in a well-used crucible, to become who I will ultimately be. I hope to be the best parts of my mom as I get closer to the great reunion.