February 2014 - Page 3
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I changed my pattern of visiting every six months and came back this time after only three. Sadly, I missed my father’s passing by one week. Previously, I had visited Ironwood in the fall and spring, avoiding most (but not all) of that region’s prodigious snowfall. My timing for this trip was certainly less than perfect, as I found myself facing the brunt of the polar vortex! When I arrived in Minneapolis and went to the gate of my connecting flight, I learned that my flight had been cancelled. Mind you, this was January 2, while the first of January had seen more stringent requirements established for commercial pilots. For instance, they had to let 24 hours elapse after they consumed any alcohol. One can readily imagine that the pilot who was scheduled to fly our little nineteen-seater puddle jumper to Ironwood had managed to have a wonderful New Year’s Day, probably with a little football and some drinking. Well, Great Lakes Airlines is understaffed and could not locate a qualifying pilot the following day, ergo cancellation of flight. We were put up in a hotel and came back to try again in the morning. By this time, the winds were steadily rising. First we had a 90-minute delay of take-off while a substitute pilot was shipped in from somewhere. (Someone commented that both he and his co-pilot resembled teenagers, though highly likeable ones.) Then we took off, only to circle for nearly an hour above the tiny Ironwood airport without being able to land “safely or legally,” in the pilot’s words. That caught our attention, even though the relative smoothness of our ride gave all seven of us reckless ideas. One gentleman commented later that he could see his truck in the parking lot below. Crosswinds were gusting to 25-miles per hour, and speeds were increasing steadily. We went back to Minneapolis and reconnoitered. An hour after landing, four of us had pooled together to rent a car, and we headed up the highway. Roads were relatively clear, but the snow was blowing and the night became bitterly cold. My companions included three local residents: a male high school English teacher, a male geology instructor at a local community college, and an elderly woman who was herself the mother of a teacher. Our conversation for the five-hour drive was stimulating and it was also hugely relevant to my goal of relocating to Ironwood and finding a job as a teacher. It struck me as almost divinely engineered, this chance meeting of these people. Imagine this, too, that I had told the elderly lady when our flight was first cancelled that she and I had just become partners, and then we were two gals having a gala time and making the best of a frustrating situation (including a glass of wine with our voucher meal that evening). Each time I make a meaningful connection with a fellow traveler, I am struck at how we each seem to take away something of great value from the encounter. On my end, this lovely woman helped to prepare me for the next part of my journey. When I arrived at last at my parents’ home, Darrel and Mary greeted me warmly. Mom was sitting in her favorite sturdy chair, but waited until I came over and sat in front of her. She had no problem recognizing me as the one who often visits, and I think she had the right idea about who I was beyond that. I observed that she was having lapses in which she had to be coaxed one step at a time, and using her walker, in order to move, step by challenging step, to the next room. However, she also had spells of managing rather well on her own. Darrel and Mary stayed for the night, and then went back to their own place in the morning for a well-deserved break. This allowed me to have some special time alone with Mom. We spent the day quietly sitting together. She was able to navigate the moves to the bathroom well enough, and took a couple of naps. She ate very little. I was struck by the profound sadness in her eyes, although our conversations didn’t reveal her thoughts yet. It was difficult to interest her in anything. The next day, Mom seemed very sleepy. After Darrel and Mary left at about noon, she continued to sleep. I checked in periodically. I’m not a huge football fan, but the 49ers were due to face the Packers in sub-zero temperatures in a wild card playoff game, so I turned on the television in the next room to the pre-game show. Then I went to see how my mom was doing. Darrel had previously asked me whether I had discussed Dad’s passing yet with Mom, and I said that I had not been able to bring it up. He and Mary and I talked a bit about that, and Darrel shared some of the profound revelations that had come from his conversations with Mom since that sad day. I could see that he had listened with his heart, and answered from his soul; and he had helped Mom clear some of her most urgent accounts, you might say. None of us was willing yet to face the full implications of that process having begun. So, now I asked Mom how she was doing, as I wiggled into a spot next to her, on the side of the bed. She smiled weakly. I was struck again by the extreme sadness in her eyes, and decided that it was time to find out what was on her mind. I was ready now. We covered many topics, with my mother conversing lucidly all the way to halftime. (It was an amazing second half, by the way.) One of the things Mom brought up was her concern about what had been done with my dad, and it was apparent that she had been present that awful morning, although she said, “I was watching, and I was smiling, but I was worried about what they were going to do with him.” I got the impression that she had needed a few days to figure out how to react, how to communicate her thoughts and feelings. She was interested in how the rest of us were handling Dad’s (Bob’s) passing. I suggested some kind of memorial. She was concerned that she wanted to do the right thing. I suggested that she could say how much she appreciated him and that he was a good man. She got a thoughtful expression and said, yes, for starters. At one point she said that maybe she could go to a hospital. She also said several times, without saying it outright, that she didn’t know about going on without him. We held hands, a strong “grasp,” as she said. “We have to go on,” she said. I cried and blew my nose and cried some more. I left her resting. She dozed off and on, and I checked in with her often. Eventually, I went upstairs to lie down, but I remained connected to her with a room monitor. I heard her call out, “Bob? Bob, are you there?” I rushed to her, asking her if she needed anything, could I help her with anything. She said no, not yet, and I told her that there was a loudspeaker in the room and I could hear her – so just speak up and I will come back. Interestingly, by the time I got back upstairs, she was moving into full swing. Some old part of our Nancy snapped to attention after I mentioned the microphone! In a strong, low-pitched voice, a personality emerged that I mentally dubbed “The Manager.” She was closing some more accounts, making executive decisions. None of it was context-specific, but she was examining materials, making purchasing decisions, and the like, all in a highly-competent, “I’ll brook no argument” style. I listened in with fascination, as the best part of who she was spread resplendently before me. She was a woman who had grown accustomed to making things happen, to organizing and running the show, to stepping up solo, and taking the lead. Here she was, making her final arrangements. As we grew to see in the next days, this was to be Nancy’s way of leaving us. As the hours passed, her speech became less coherent. At midnight, she said, “can someone help me?” I went to her and asked her if she wished to make a trip to the bathroom. She agreed, and the process was long and difficult. She drank a few sips of water. I put her back to bed, and she said a few more things. Her last coherent remark to me was that “things seem to be moving more quickly than I expected.” After that, she continued to sleep and occasionally mumbled. I continued to check in with her. By mid-morning, I became concerned at her lack of fluid intake. Darrel and Mary arrived, and my brother was deeply concerned by Mom’s increasing non-responsiveness. He called for an ambulance. As the paramedics moved Mom to the gurney, she was surprisingly calm, given her recent history of shrieking whenever we had to help her lift her legs. They got her all tucked in, and then – because of the extreme cold outside – one of the medics said, “Nancy, I’m going to cover your face a little here. My name is Curtis.” At this point she smiled at him and said, “Thank you, Curtis.” Wow! She was still aware of what was going on, and this suggested to all of us that she knew she was going to the hospital, and that she was at peace with it. Right up to the end, she was loving, and capable of speech that continued to include an array of vocabulary. At one point she had mentioned a mackinaw, and I asked her what that was, which she correctly explained. What a mind! Darrel had often said that a woman of her creativity and intelligence would still have a lot to offer, even as the illness took away more and more of what she could do. It seems especially miraculous that she retained her ability to communicate meaningfully, even into the late stages of her disease, along with the brain cancer which we learned of in her final days. We gathered around her a few hours before she left, assuring her that she would soon be joining Dad, and that we loved her. Mom managed to pass with great dignity and with no small amount of her characteristic determination. I can’t help but smile at the degree to which she infused her exit with her core self.
It wasn’t until later, as I began the slow process of assimilating these recent events and finding words for all that has happened, that I realized that she had also been closing her account with me. Thank you so much for that, Mom. Rest in peace, sweet lady. You were amazing.
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