Simplicity

It’s funny what death will do. Some people find it necessary to push past the grief, ignore the pain that is staring at them, or numb themselves to the feelings that are welling up. To be honest, I cannot blame anyone for wanting to push pain aside. It is pain, after all. The Crown Royal begins to look more and more appetizing. Maybe it will quench this thirst that has not gone away since she was taken. The short glass with a shot or two. No ice to water it down. Nice. Neat. Strong. The buzz comes quickly as the sips come more frequently, and the sips turn into gulps. Yes, the tugging at my heart becomes less and less, and the pervasive sense of loss that stems from losing my mother has been numbed. But, there is no number of bottles that will erase either one.
The staying out with friends later and later feels good. The laughing and joking creates the needed distraction. There are no worries. Just the here and now. They would ask me how my students were behaving. We would ask one about his volunteer work. Another would be asked how his job hunting was going. Still, another would divulge stories of her clients trying to get financial support from the state. When the steaks arrived, it felt like coming downstairs on Christmas morning. Whether it were a medium rare porterhouse, well-done New York Strip, or a medium tempertured filet mignon, the group’s anticipation was replaced with glee. Before we attended to our individual plates, we would share side dishes around the table; creamed spinach, button mushrooms, au gratin potatoes – no asparagus, thank you. While we ate, there was an ease at the table. Maybe it was the relief of not talking about my grief. Perhaps the second and third rounds of drinks, and us slowly fattening ourselves made forgetting sad things easier. No advice given tonight. Dinner with friends provided the distraction that I needed.
That night was a time when I simply did not want to acknowledge my feelings. I had been doing so in my own way. Quite privately. Allowing the grief to take its course. This, I did alone. Around others, I held it together. I was very well composed. People would not know about the inner turmoil because the calm, outer façade was what I presented to the world. Some even thought that I was not grieving. At those dinners, I was not sad. I know that I am supposed to be sad. My mother had died. I know. I was there. I witnessed her last breath.
Am I sad? Absolutely, and I miss her dearly. I want to share what I am doing with my life, but I cannot call and tell her. I cannot take her to lunch like I used to when I had good news. Oh, to see that big smile when I tell her that I am thinking about getting my PhD. Of course, she would ask, “Thinking about it?” That was her. She was very subtle with her redirection, getting me to focus on the important, keeping me from resting on my laurels. This was her way with everyone about everything. Whatever she had to say and do was said and done with gentleness and kindness in mind.
I was driving her to the store, and mom retold a conversation that she had with her friend that upset her. While I cannot recall the conversation, I do remember mom saying, “That bitch needs to learn to keep her mouth shut!” My eyes grew wide in amazement. I glanced toward the passenger seat to be sure that that was my mother sitting there. Indeed, that was her, and she had just used a bad word for the tenth time in my lifetime.
“You should tell her how you feel. Getting that out would make you feel better. You would be less upset.” I glanced over again, and saw her jaw drop.
“I couldn’t do that.” As we drove on in silence, I could feel her turning the possibilities over in her mind. After a few moments, I knew that she had settled on keeping things as they were, for she could not hurt someone else’s feelings just for the sake of herself.

When I was a little kid, probably about one year old, she would show me flash cards of words. The pictures were on the backs of them. Apple, banana, and cat came easily. Then, we progressed to short sentences, and longer ones. I sat in rapt attention as she showed me card after card, then teaching me how to read from children’s books. I would sound the words out silently to myself as I read more and more. When I would read to her out loud, there was that smile that I would never get tired of. Her tutelage enabled me to read on my own by the time I was a year and a half. Her tutelage also allowed me to skip pre-k and kindergarten. I was five years old in the first grade. She was so proud of the grades on my report cards. I guess the smiles and hugs made me want to keep performing well. More A’s meant more love and attention from her, so, of course, I was at the top of my class.
When the cancer spread to her liver, and the ammonia that was created got to her brain, she was a very different person. The kindness and gentleness were still present, but she could not say what she wanted. While she would talk, she would pause. The struggle and then the frustration of not being able to conjure up the word that she wanted to say was made obvious by the tightening of her mouth, the clenching of her hand, and the looking away from me as if to continue the search; like rifling through files in a cabinet, finding and opening the folder containing the yearned for word, but only to find an empty folder. And then, there was the look of defeat as she let the empty folder – which became so many empty folders – fall to the floor. Knowing that the person that helped me become as intelligent as I am did not have access to her own intelligence left me crushed. She spoke less and less often. She grew weary of the struggle to think and to communicate. She would just smile at me sometimes. During the many visits to the hospital, she would still smile there. Every nurse and doctor remarked at how nice my mother was.
When she was placed under hospice care, she was bed ridden. Our conversations were short, but they were pleasant. I would tell her about my day, and how well my students were doing. She’d smile and say, “That’s good.” Much of the time was spent watching tv together. When she would drift off to sleep, I’d kiss her forehead and say that I would see her tomorrow.
One day, I went to the gym after work. I had just stepped onto the elliptical machine when the hospice nurse called. That had been typical of late, but this time was different. I explained that I was about to start my workout, but would be there to see my mother soon. Her response was, “You should come now. She doesn’t have much time left. A day at the most.”
The day before, I had to convince her to let the nurses give her the pain medication. She hated the taste of it. Today brought no more protestations about medicine. Her breaths were not even. One would come suddenly, then she was quiet. Sudden. Quiet. Sudden. Quiet. A syringe of medicine was put in her mouth to keep any pain at bay. The oxygen was placed into her nostrils to help her breathe more easily. The nurse left us alone. I sat beside her bed, reached under the covers, and grabbed her cold, frail hand. She did not grab back in response. With her head lolled to the side away from me and her mouth agape, I told her that I love her, and that I will miss her dearly.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to fight anymore. You can let go. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

I was adjusting her pillow so that her head was straight when my cousins came in. We hugged, and said quiet hellos. I returned to the head of her bed to give them space, and time with her. That sudden and quiet pattern was still going while the room was quiet, but the silences between each breath became longer and longer and longer. And then, there was quiet. There was peace. There was serenity. The struggle ended the day before my birthday.
One more shot before bed. Reminiscing about her doesn’t hurt as much anymore, even though it has only been a year. Now that I am fifty years old, I have realized that grief should not be pushed past, numbed, or ignored. It must be worked through. It must be processed. If not, wholeness will not come, and I know that she would want her son to be whole, to be happy, and to live life as it should be lived. Unburdened. Plus, I promised her that I would be okay, and I am. So, I lift this glass in your honor, mom. I miss you dearly, and I will always love you.

Craig Hall