We nearly make it to the cash register when Mom realizes she's forgotten the coupon for a Christmas turkey.
She cocks an eyebrow. "Oh c'mon. How do you think I met my husband?"
Nevertheless, reality hits with a bleak thud right after the New Year. Mom's cancer grows with a vengeance. She's hospitalized twice and returns home weakened and pale. Getting out of her recliner or bed is such an ordeal that my brothers and sisters each take turns staying home from school to care for her.
One day in fifth grade, Carry, who is 11, suddenly lowers her head onto her desk and begins to sob. Her kind teacher at Engleman Elementary gathers my little sister into her arms and ushers her out to the hallway.
During one of Mom's hospitalizations, I find seven-year-old Jeff in Mom and Dad's bed hugging Mom's pillow and weeping.
Deb and Mary, only teenagers, take over the cooking and the laundry. Terri and Tommy rub Mom's sore back, and Joe, Mick and Rick - my tall, handsome brothers - sit close to Mom talking softly and sometimes teasing her to make her laugh.
One night when Mom is struggling terribly, I crawl into bed with her to administer her medicine and massage her sore back. When at last she dozes fitfully, I wrap my arms around her. Maybe, I think, if I hold her tightly, I can keep her with us forever.
Pain jolts her awake, and she moans and sobs in agony. The pills don't work any more. Desperate, I half carry her to my little car and drive her to the hospital.
"Dad?" I call my father as soon as the nurses wheel Mom off. "I think you need to come home."
He walks through our door that very night. My brothers and sisters and I are weak with relief to see him. For the first time in his life, he doesn't worry about the dairy or what will happen if he's not behind his desk. Day in and day out, he sits with Mom, and we all take comfort in his bigger-than-life presence. Dad can fix anything, we tell ourselves. But he can't fix this.
Time stops still at our house. Mom fails noticeably every day. Easter Sunday arrives, and we barely remember to arrange baskets for the little kids. Early Monday morning, Dad calls the doctor himself and after a long time comes to us with red rimmed eyes. "It's time to tell Mom goodbye," he chokes.
It's the day after Easter, a beautiful afternoon in April. Birds sing gloriously outside the open windows. But we are mutely staring at the floor. My four little brothers and sisters crawl into Dad's lap clutching him and sobbing. My own hot tears drip onto the carpet, and I want to throw a brick at those freaking birds.
Aunt Patty and MaryLee, Dad's sister and cousin, both arrive from Colorado - two wonderful women who have loved us all our lives. At the hospital, we all file quietly into my mother's room. Father Harold Kurtenbach, our parish pastor, arrives at the same time we do and quietly consoles us.
"Patti?" Dad whispers to Mom who has been semi-conscious for the last several hours. "Look who's here!"
She opens her eyes in confusion to see Father Kurtenbach's kind face leaning above her.
"Do you know who I am, Patti?" he asks softly.
She blinks. "The Easter Bunny?"
Father Kurtenbach laughs and warmly clasps her hand. Struggling, she gazes up foggily until she recognizes him.
"Am I going to die?" she whispers.
She asks it like a little child. Dad and all of us are caught off guard. Not one time have we ever talked to Mom or each other about her impending death. It hurts me now to think how much Mom needed to talk about the end of her life.
"Are you afraid to die, Patti?" Father Kurtenbach says gently.
Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head. "No," she says. Her gaze fades, and she falls asleep.
It's the last time Mom ever speaks. After that, she lapses into an enduring unconsciousness. All around her bed are cards and flowers from neighbors and close friends. A magnificent Easter lily fills the room with one stubborn blossom that refuses to open. I stare dully at it. The Easter message of resurrection fails to rouse my hope while Mom lies pale and silent.
It grows late, and Dad orders the little kids home. Mom's good friend, Sue Wisnieski, assures us she will go with them and get them to bed. The rest of us stay. Wonderful Father Kurtenbach refuses to leave us. He chats softly with Dad and Aunt Patty and MaryLee.
My brothers and sisters and I sit quietly. Once in a while, when Mom grows agitated, I brush her hair. It always quiets her. But now, she becomes unusually restless, and the adults in the room are instantly attentive. Mom shudders with a deep breath, and suddenly we are all on our feet surrounding her bed. I have never watched anybody die. That the first person I will watch leave this world is my sweet mother takes my breath away.
A nurse slips into the room and makes a quick assessment. "There's nothing else we can do," she tells Dad.
Mom's breathing grows shallow. Suddenly, she releases a tremendous gasp and seems to stop breathing. We think she is gone until her eyes fly open and she looks for Dad. He reaches over to close her eyes, but she instantly opens them again and stares intently at him. Dad takes Mom's hand, and the two of them gaze at each other for a long, long time until Mom gasps again. Finally she closes her eyes for the last time and is gone.
"Goodbye, Patti," Dad sighs raggedly. "I love you."
My brothers and sisters and I reach for each other and hold on for dear life, hardly able to absorb the events of these past hours. We cry and cry around my mother's bed.
Father Kurtenbach gently makes the Sign of the Cross on Mom's head then quietly comforts Dad who still holds her hand. At last, he and Aunt Patty and MaryLee gather us together towards the door of the hospital room.
"Go," Father instructs us. "I'll stay with her."
With great effort, we pull ourselves together, and as Dad leads, we file out of the room one at a time. But before I step into the hall, I look back at the still form of my mother. Father Kurtenbach prays softly over her body.
And on the table beside her bed, the last Easter lily has finally bloomed.
"Oh, nuts," she groans. The two of us have been standing in line forever. Skagway is packed to the gills with holiday shoppers. We're tired and cranky. Then Mom spies a frail, elderly gentleman two aisles away clutching a precious turkey coupon in one hand and wielding a cannister of oxygen in the other.
She whispers to me. "If you're very, very nice to that old man, I bet he'd give you his coupon."
 |
| Preparing the Christmas turkey - Mom's last Christmas. |
I stare at her. "You've got to be kidding."
She cocks an eyebrow. "Oh c'mon. How do you think I met my husband?"
We laugh so hard we cry. Mom leans on me, and I lean on the grocery cart, our knees weak with laughter. Nearby shoppers smile in sympathy.
It feels good to laugh.
Almost two years after her diagnosis, Mom's cancer spreads to her spine. It's a devastating blow. And the timing couldn't be worse. Dad's business has transferred him to Omaha to save the sinking Robert's Dairy. Because of Mom's illness, there's no question of moving Mom and my little brothers and sisters. Dad commutes back and forth from Omaha to Grand Island. He leaves at 4 a.m. Monday morning for Omaha, lives in a motel all week, then drives back to Grand Island Friday evening.
Just graduated from college and employed by my old high school, Central Catholic, I am grateful to be home and near Mom and my siblings.
This Christmas, we are a family in denial. None of us, not even Dad, will speak aloud of our fear that Mom may leave us soon. Instead, we joyfully decorate the tree and observe every tradition just as if this Christmas is like any other. After Mass, we tumble into the living room around the tree. Since I'm the oldest, I read aloud the wondrous story of the Nativity from the Bible, and we sing "Silent Night" then "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" because it's Terri, Carry, Tommy and Jeff's favorite. The eyes of the little kids shine with excitement. Mom is determined that this should be a happy Christmas.
Nevertheless, reality hits with a bleak thud right after the New Year. Mom's cancer grows with a vengeance. She's hospitalized twice and returns home weakened and pale. Getting out of her recliner or bed is such an ordeal that my brothers and sisters each take turns staying home from school to care for her.
 |
| Terri, Tommy and Carry |
During one of Mom's hospitalizations, I find seven-year-old Jeff in Mom and Dad's bed hugging Mom's pillow and weeping.
Deb and Mary, only teenagers, take over the cooking and the laundry. Terri and Tommy rub Mom's sore back, and Joe, Mick and Rick - my tall, handsome brothers - sit close to Mom talking softly and sometimes teasing her to make her laugh.
One night when Mom is struggling terribly, I crawl into bed with her to administer her medicine and massage her sore back. When at last she dozes fitfully, I wrap my arms around her. Maybe, I think, if I hold her tightly, I can keep her with us forever.
Pain jolts her awake, and she moans and sobs in agony. The pills don't work any more. Desperate, I half carry her to my little car and drive her to the hospital.
"Dad?" I call my father as soon as the nurses wheel Mom off. "I think you need to come home."
He walks through our door that very night. My brothers and sisters and I are weak with relief to see him. For the first time in his life, he doesn't worry about the dairy or what will happen if he's not behind his desk. Day in and day out, he sits with Mom, and we all take comfort in his bigger-than-life presence. Dad can fix anything, we tell ourselves. But he can't fix this.
Time stops still at our house. Mom fails noticeably every day. Easter Sunday arrives, and we barely remember to arrange baskets for the little kids. Early Monday morning, Dad calls the doctor himself and after a long time comes to us with red rimmed eyes. "It's time to tell Mom goodbye," he chokes.
It's the day after Easter, a beautiful afternoon in April. Birds sing gloriously outside the open windows. But we are mutely staring at the floor. My four little brothers and sisters crawl into Dad's lap clutching him and sobbing. My own hot tears drip onto the carpet, and I want to throw a brick at those freaking birds.
Aunt Patty and MaryLee, Dad's sister and cousin, both arrive from Colorado - two wonderful women who have loved us all our lives. At the hospital, we all file quietly into my mother's room. Father Harold Kurtenbach, our parish pastor, arrives at the same time we do and quietly consoles us.
"Patti?" Dad whispers to Mom who has been semi-conscious for the last several hours. "Look who's here!"
She opens her eyes in confusion to see Father Kurtenbach's kind face leaning above her.
"Do you know who I am, Patti?" he asks softly.
She blinks. "The Easter Bunny?"
Father Kurtenbach laughs and warmly clasps her hand. Struggling, she gazes up foggily until she recognizes him.
"Am I going to die?" she whispers.
She asks it like a little child. Dad and all of us are caught off guard. Not one time have we ever talked to Mom or each other about her impending death. It hurts me now to think how much Mom needed to talk about the end of her life.
"Are you afraid to die, Patti?" Father Kurtenbach says gently.
Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head. "No," she says. Her gaze fades, and she falls asleep.
It's the last time Mom ever speaks. After that, she lapses into an enduring unconsciousness. All around her bed are cards and flowers from neighbors and close friends. A magnificent Easter lily fills the room with one stubborn blossom that refuses to open. I stare dully at it. The Easter message of resurrection fails to rouse my hope while Mom lies pale and silent.
It grows late, and Dad orders the little kids home. Mom's good friend, Sue Wisnieski, assures us she will go with them and get them to bed. The rest of us stay. Wonderful Father Kurtenbach refuses to leave us. He chats softly with Dad and Aunt Patty and MaryLee.
My brothers and sisters and I sit quietly. Once in a while, when Mom grows agitated, I brush her hair. It always quiets her. But now, she becomes unusually restless, and the adults in the room are instantly attentive. Mom shudders with a deep breath, and suddenly we are all on our feet surrounding her bed. I have never watched anybody die. That the first person I will watch leave this world is my sweet mother takes my breath away.
A nurse slips into the room and makes a quick assessment. "There's nothing else we can do," she tells Dad.
Mom's breathing grows shallow. Suddenly, she releases a tremendous gasp and seems to stop breathing. We think she is gone until her eyes fly open and she looks for Dad. He reaches over to close her eyes, but she instantly opens them again and stares intently at him. Dad takes Mom's hand, and the two of them gaze at each other for a long, long time until Mom gasps again. Finally she closes her eyes for the last time and is gone.
"Goodbye, Patti," Dad sighs raggedly. "I love you."
 |
| Last photo of Mom. |
Father Kurtenbach gently makes the Sign of the Cross on Mom's head then quietly comforts Dad who still holds her hand. At last, he and Aunt Patty and MaryLee gather us together towards the door of the hospital room.
"Go," Father instructs us. "I'll stay with her."
With great effort, we pull ourselves together, and as Dad leads, we file out of the room one at a time. But before I step into the hall, I look back at the still form of my mother. Father Kurtenbach prays softly over her body.
And on the table beside her bed, the last Easter lily has finally bloomed.
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