by Dianna Good Sky | General
I’m in Italy.
Driving through mountains with absolutely no idea where I am. No GPS, nothing. I had finally gotten Katy settled after her positive COVID test and mandatory hotel quarantine in rural Italy, and I had spent the last few days exploring. No longer stressed about her missing her Semester-At-Sea. She had flown to Greece to catch up to them. And now I was trying to find my way back to my AirBnb and I really, really needed to find a bathroom. I mean, I’m at the point where I’m thinking, well, Italy’s just going to have to deal with me peeing on the side of this mountain road.
That’s when my phone rang.
It was Ashley, my niece. She said Dad was sick and they were sending him to Duluth. She wanted to put him on the phone. They had tried taking him off the ventilator, but they were going to have to put it back in, as he was struggling, and transferring him to St. Mary’s in Duluth. She said he wanted to talk to me but could barely talk, so don’t keep him on too long. I thanked her before I heard my Dad’s raspy voice on the other side.
Now, you have to understand something about my dad. Gene Goodsky was a tough guy. Period. He’d been through everything – Vietnam, PTSD, years of drinking, cultural genocide, you name it. This man was tough as nails. So when Ashley said he was sick enough to go to the big hospital in Duluth, I knew his cold, which had turned into pneumonia, had gotten worse.
She put him on the phone, and I told him exactly what I was doing – that I was literally about to pee on the side of an Italian mountain because I couldn’t find a bathroom anywhere. One of Dad’s favorite things to say to me is, “Where in the world are you now?” He didn’t say it this time as he could barely speak. So, I told him because I knew he wanted to know.
I heard his smile on the phone. I could tell he was tickled when I told him. Dad loved that his daughter from the tiny Reservation in Nett Lake was so adventurous. He had told me that many times.
Then he said, actually more like “Rasped” something that stopped me cold.
“I love you.”
And then he said it again. “I love you.”
And again. “I love you… I love you… I love you…”
He kept saying it, over and over.
Something Shifted
Standing there on that mountain road, I felt something shift in my chest. My dad was not a man who repeated himself. Ever. He said what he meant once, maybe twice if it was really important. But not like this. Not over and over like he was trying to memorize the sound of his own voice saying it.
I knew right then. Why would he keep saying it unless he was afraid he wouldn’t get to say it again?
I didn’t even ask if I should come home. I just knew.
“Dad, I’m leaving right now. I’m booking the first flight out. I’ll stop at home to grab some winter clothes (because it’s February in Minnesota), and I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
I had been through this before with my mom during the last months of her life. There’s this feeling you get – hard to explain, but you can’t miss it – when your place in the world suddenly becomes crystal clear. I recognized it immediately.
I needed to be there. And I wanted to be there.
Those were the last words he ever spoke to me. I don’t know if he talked to anyone else after we hung up, but that was it for us. “I love you” said over and over like a prayer or a goodbye I didn’t understand yet.
The ICU
When I got to Duluth and walked into that ICU room, the first thing that hit me wasn’t all the machines and tubes. It was how pale he was.
You have to understand, my dad was never pale. We used to joke about how dark he got in the summer – full-blooded Indian and proud of it. His skin always had this color and life to it, even in the dead of Minnesota winter.
But lying in that hospital bed, he was almost gray.
That’s when it really sank in. This wasn’t just a cold that got out of hand. This was serious.
He had tubes everywhere – the ventilator in his mouth, machines making all these steady beeping sounds I was trying not to focus on. For a minute, I just stood there because my brain was trying to catch up with what my eyes were seeing.
I sat down beside him and started talking right away. I needed him to hear my voice, to know I made it back.
Then I leaned in real close to his face and said, “Dad… I’m here. It’s me, Dianna. I’m here.”
His eyes opened and focused on me. I could see it immediately – he knew me. And I could tell he was so glad I was there. Not dramatic, not over the top, just this quiet relief and happiness. He always said he just likes knowing that his kids are close by, but in this case, I think he was glad I was home and not in Italy.
He started trying to move his arms, pulling against the restraints they had on him so he wouldn’t pull out the breathing tube. The nurses came in and adjusted his medications, and he drifted back to sleep.
I learned later that the level of sedation controlled how awake he seemed. During that week, I figured out when I could really talk to him and when I needed to just let him rest.
I guess because I’d come from out of state, they let me stay all day, every day. This was during COVID when hospitals were limiting visitors, and most families couldn’t even be together like this. But they understood I’d traveled a long way and they never once told me I had to leave. Either that or they knew just how bad it was, I realized much later. The staff were all very kind to us.
I developed a routine that week.
I’d get there early in the morning and stay until about ten or eleven at night. Then I’d go back to my hotel, sleep, wake up, do a little workout in the gym just to clear my head, and be back at the hospital before eight in the morning.
And then I’d sit beside him again.
Since he couldn’t speak, I did all the talking. And let me tell you, I’m sure he really enjoyed that part. Haha. Sometimes, I read to him, but it seemed I could always figure out something to say to him.
The second day he was awake, he was trying really hard to tell me something. I kept guessing and guessing until I finally figured it out – he was thirsty.
I was so proud of myself for understanding him that I ran out the door and into the nurses’ station and fairly loudly announced to everyone, “My dad wants a drink! He’s thirsty!”
Every nurse and doctor in that area looked at me with these soft, sympathetic faces. One nurse gently walked over and said, “Honey, your dad can’t have water.”
I’m standing there like, “Why not?”
And then it hit me. Because he has a ventilator tube in his mouth! Oh my gosh.
I felt like such an idiot, but the nurse was really sweet about it. She gave me this little sponge on a stick that I could dip in water and put on his lips. And frankly, because I realized we could now communicate, I was just happy we could. I knew it was important.
I started asking him questions.
“Are you comfortable?”
No.
He moved his hand – he wanted his arm released from the restraint. The nurses explained that if they unbound him, he absolutely could not touch the ventilator tube. Apparently, they had to restrain him because that’s what he did every time he became aware enough. So he nodded that he understood and promised he wouldn’t. They trusted him.
“Is that better?”
Yes.
“Can you hear me?”
Yes.
After a few practical questions, I asked him the one that mattered most to me.
“Am I the prettiest girl?” haha.
I could see the smile in his eyes. He nodded yes.
His birthday was February 5th, and by then I’d been there a few days.
My dad was famous.
I always tell people my dad was famous – not George Clooney famous, but loved famous. People all over the world knew him and cared about him, and they still do to this day.
That morning, birthday messages started coming in early. I told the staff that it was his birthday and he would be getting many birthday greetings and could they help him be awake so I could read them to him, they assured me they could, as long as he was comfortable. Of course.
I knew he would like them. I read every single one to him. Every text, every Facebook post, every voicemail. If someone called, I’d hold the phone right up to his ear so he could hear their voice himself. I didn’t skim anything or paraphrase. I read them word for word.
And I watched his face the whole time.
There were over six hundred birthday messages that day. Six hundred. And he listened to every one of them.
With each message I read, I could see his reaction. Sometimes his eyes would soften. Sometimes he’d nod. Sometimes he’d smile. He was really listening to every word.
I even made this goofy video for him using a rap song – which is funny because neither of us listens to rap music – but I just wanted to make him smile. When I showed it to him, his whole face lit up. He genuinely loved hearing everything that came in for him.
I remember thinking that day, this might be one of the best birthdays he’s ever had. Not because he was healthy – obviously he wasn’t – but because he got to hear, all in one day, how many people loved him.
And he knew it.
A Healing Song
During that week, my cousin Fran came with her son Conrad. Conrad brought his hand drum and wanted to sing a healing song for Dad. Right there in the ICU.
I’ll never forget watching that young man stand beside my father’s bed, beating that drum and singing. He could barely hold himself together. Neither could Fran. Neither could I. Even the nurses were moved, afterward telling me how beautiful it was.
I wonder sometimes if we all understood something we couldn’t say out loud. We call them healing songs because we think they’re supposed to heal the body. But maybe the real healing is for the hearts of the people who have to let someone go.
A few days after his birthday, the conversations with the doctors began to change.
Decisions
On the morning of February 8th, the doctor told me it had been seventeen days on the ventilator. She explained that even if he survived being taken off it, his life would never be what it was before. He’d probably need to live in a nursing home for the rest of his life.
My dad was fiercely independent. Always had been. I knew immediately what that meant to him.
Years before, he’d gathered all four of us kids together and told us that, and he decided our roles if something like this happened. My brother Curtis was supposed to make the medical decisions. I was the executor.
But sitting there in that room, I knew that he could decide for himself, and what a relief that was.
I had watched it the whole week. When they reduced the sedation, he was completely aware. He followed conversations; he reacted to what was happening around him. This wasn’t a man who was gone – this was a man trapped in a body that couldn’t talk.
So I told the doctor, “No. This decision needs to be his, not mine and not my siblings’.”
She agreed.
They reduced his sedation so he could participate, and she sat on the edge of his bed to talk to him. I was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, and I remember feeling as if I were watching something sacred and terrifying at the same time, also wishing I wasn’t alone with him, but I was fairly shocked when the Doc took the conversation in this direction. Lela was at Dads house getting it ready for when he came home, and both of my brothers were also in the Village. They were all over 100 miles away.
She spoke slowly, asking yes-or-no questions so he could nod his answers.
She explained how long he’d been on the ventilator. She explained what his body was now depending on. Then she explained what his life would probably be like if he stayed on it for much longer and managed to survive removing the ventilator – including the very real possibility of spending the rest of his life in a nursing home, even if he got better enough in the next 2 or 3 days.
I watched his face the whole time. You could tell. He did not want that for his life.
He listened, sort of in awe, then his face turned to anger, then to understanding, and finally to decision and a fierceness I truly remember seeing in my younger days.
Then she asked him: “Do you want us to take the ventilator out?”
He nodded yes.
“Do you understand that you may not survive if we remove it?”
He nodded yes.
“Are you making this decision fully aware of the consequences?”
He nodded yes again.
Then she told him he could decide when he wanted it done.
In full Dad fashion, he indicated he wanted it done right then and there.
I stood up and leaned over toward him but so that everyone could hear.
“Dad… not yet. Please wait. Let me call Lela and my brothers so they know what’s happening. Let’s give them a chance to be here, please.”
He looked straight at me – I could see that familiar stubbornness, a little bit of fire still in his eyes. I said “Please” again. His face softened and he nodded yes.
Holy cow, what a relief!
Then the Doc said he could decide at any moment. They would be ready for him any time of the day or night, whenever he wanted.
A Presence
I needed to call them. Before I made those calls, though, I needed to ask him some things. I was about to be responsible for everything after he was gone, and I wanted to do it the way he wanted.
So I asked him – who should guide his funeral, who needed to be there and in what roles, what to do with his belongings. All the practical stuff only he could answer. By then we had this yes-and-no communication down pretty good, and I wrote down everything while he answered.
Only after I had all that information did I start calling my family.
I stepped out of the room several times to make calls and just to breathe.
And every single time I went out toward the lobby, the elevator doors would open. No one would come out. No one would be waiting to get on. They’d just open, pause, and close again.
This kept happening all day long.
At first, I thought nothing of it. Then it happened again. And again. By evening, I was really aware of it and I started to “feel” things.
Even more so inside Dad’s room. The room felt heavy. It wasn’t scary or threatening, just full. Full in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it yourself. I felt it on my body, especially across my shoulders, like a presence pressing gently around us.
At one point, I called Rosemary Berens, Dad’s second wife, a drum keeper and a close friend of the family. I was letting her know what was happening, but honestly, I think I was also looking for some kind of permission or reassurance.
While I was sitting there on the phone with her, those elevator doors opened again. And then again. Three or four times while we were talking.
That’s when I finally said it out loud.
“Rosemary, the weirdest thing keeps happening. These elevator doors keep opening and there’s nobody there.”
She listened quietly and then said, very calmly, “They’re coming for him. They must be using the elevator.” We kind of laughed at that but honestly, I think we both FELT that.
It matched what I was already sensing – that he and I were not alone in his room. Not even close.
Dad is Ready
That evening it started snowing. A real Minnesota February snowstorm. Part of me was hoping we could wait until the next day, but when Dad woke up again, he was different. Agitated. He wasn’t willing to wait anymore.
He was ready.
So I made the calls and told everyone they needed to come immediately.
Family started driving through that storm – over a hundred miles for some of them – and it took nearly two hours for everyone to get there. The hospital staff brought us this big tray with coffee, tea, and food. They were so incredibly kind that night.
One by one, everyone spoke to him. The nurse adjusted his sedation so he could hear them and acknowledge each person.
My sister Lela, who’s a nurse and has always been good at handling the medical stuff, finally said, “Okay… it’s time.”
Even though I’d had the most time to prepare, I realized in that moment I wasn’t ready at all.
The nurse explained that when they took the ventilator out, he would have trouble breathing at first. She gently told him not to gulp for air, even though it would be a natural reaction. Dad nodded in understanding.
It
Was
Time.
I was standing near the foot of the bed when they started.
They removed the ventilator.
Immediately, his body reacted exactly like she said it would. He struggled for air, and then I saw something I had almost never seen in my father’s face.
Fear.
Real fear.
He looked directly at me.
I had seen my dad startled once when I was young – gunshots went off and he dove under a table – but this was different.
I’m not sure if things are right in the world when your daddy looks at you full of fear, and you know he is dying. There is nothing right about that at all, and that split-second realization moved me into action.
I quickly moved to his bedside near his face and leaned down beside him so he could hear me.
“Dad… you’re okay. We talked about this. You decided this. Everything is going to be okay. You’ve been there before, remember? Remember how you told me it was so full of love? You didn’t want to come back. It’s okay to go back. We’re all going to be just fine.You and Mom did a good job. Everything will be alright.”
As I spoke, I watched him calm down. His breathing slowed. His eyes stayed locked on mine and I stayed completely steady for him. I didn’t cry. I didn’t break down. How could I? It is absolutely amazing to me how quickly our minds move when in such a state. The amount of processing my mind went through in those final moments.
He kept looking at me until his eyes finally closed.
The machine went flat.
I heard the loud cry of my sister first and then each of us sobbing in our own way, handling this huge loss.. I stood up and went into the corner with my back against my dad in this bed, knowing full well he was no longer here but not wanting to face it. I was a little bit mad, I don’t even know why, then grief overwhelmed me and I crumbled.
The Lesson
It was February 9th, 2020. Four days after one of the best birthdays he’d ever had, his 80th on this earth.
When Ashley and I finally left that room, I said something to her that probably sounded strange. I said, “How lucky are we, Ashley? We got to be with both grandma and grandpa when they transitioned to the next world.”
But the most important moment of that whole week didn’t happen the night he died.
It happened a few days earlier.
I was sitting there talking to him one afternoon – he was awake and alert – and I don’t even remember what I started talking about. I was just remembering things, you know? Things from our life together.
And suddenly something clicked in my mind.
I said to him, “Dad… everything you ever taught us… it was about love, wasn’t it?”
He looked at me, fully awake and ready to hear more.
Then I started pulling up memories to explain what I was seeing.
“Like that time at the grocery store when you held the door for those two women and they just walked past you like you were invisible. I was so mad and asked why you didn’t say something to them. You said, ‘That’s their problem, not mine.'”
“And that time someone stole $2,500 from your house – money you needed to fix your truck – and even though you thought you knew who did it, you never confronted them. When I asked why, you said, ‘They don’t answer to me. They answer to above.'”
As I was saying these things out loud, I could hear it myself.
“It was love, wasn’t it?” I could see his face softening and relaxing.
“You weren’t teaching acceptance and tolerance. It was love. You weren’t teaching me not to judge; it was love! It was always about love. All of it was about love”
A tear rolled down his face.
He nodded yes.
And right then – not later when I was processing it, but right in that exact moment – I understood the scope of what he’d been trying to teach me my whole life.
I understood who he really was. It was a HUGE realization.
I realized that I didn’t understand his lessons while he was raising me,
I certainly didn’t want to listen to him when he was drinking.
I misunderstood some of his lessons when he was sober, but
I finally understood the full and complete lesson of life and living as he was dying.
It’s all about Love.
by Dianna Good Sky | Personal, Uncategorized
It is 6 days until Christmas. It is 2020, we are still in the middle of a Pandemic. My Mom died just before Christmas 11 years ago today.
Christmas is my favorite Holiday so I should be happy right now! My whole family has taken precautions, and steps for safety, amid the pandemic, in order to be together here in this house. Their childhood home, which I recently bought back (I lost it 7 years ago, and that is a story for another time). I love that they are bringing their children here and we can all be together. I should be happy.
Over the last few days, I noticed that I was a bit emotional. This morning, however, when I woke up, my emotions got away from me very quickly and I have been weepy all day. What does weepy mean? Weepy means that every single time I turn around, my eyes are tearing up and I am feeling sad, tears simply start rolling down my cheeks and I can’t even tell you why. I don’t know why. Then I realized, as I was brushing my teeth actually, and doing my normal “I love you” mirror work (thank you Louise Hay), that it has been 11 years, today, that my mother died. Right in front of me.
I stood there in front of the mirror and cried, saying over and over
“I love you, Mama.
I love you, Mama.
I miss you, Mama.
I miss you so very much.
Thank you for everything you ever did for me. For all of us.
I know you loved all of us so much.
I know you’re still here watching over us but, just once, I’d like to feel your soft skin against mine.”
I finally got myself together enough to head right back into my bed and lay still for a while. While laying there, I went back to that day, this terrible day, 11 years ago.
I need to make a correction; she died in front of as many of us (who loved her so very much) that could fit in her tiny bedroom, The bedroom where she had slowly wasted away for the previous three months.
My mom had been sick for a long time. She first contracted acute pancreatitis in 1977, the year her first grandchild, Francis, was born. She didn’t tell any of us, except to say that she had to be more careful about what she ate. As time went on, we started to understand more of what this meant. I say we, I mean my brother and sister and her husband, my stepfather Floyd. And of course, Ashley, the granddaughter that she and Floyd raised, and all her grandchildren knew.
We all knew that she would get sick, that it was painful; she couldn’t do certain things; she also had to wear soft clothing around her waist. We knew these things. What we didn’t know was how shocking it would be when the Doctor sent her home, saying there was nothing more they could do, in the fall of 2009.
We were not ready for this.
I flew in from Japan to do my part, not because anyone made me but I didn’t believe it and I just knew that if I helped her eat better, she could get better. I have to laugh at my naivety at this point, but, truly, I believe that we can only handle what we are ready for. There is no way I was ready to believe my mom would be departing this world soon. Not if I had anything to say, or do, about it. We went to work and had her upstairs bedroom made into HER room, complete with a bathroom. We knew that the stairs would be an issue and we wanted to make her as comfortable as possible. She was on a hospital bed in the living room while this modification was being made, quite cognizant, and quite able to still kick my ass in card games. Mom was a brilliant lady. We had great fun playing games when she could.
This wasn’t an easy time. She still fought me over things like butter in her oatmeal. She wanted her oatmeal the way she loved it: brown sugar and butter and milk. I wanted her to use a sugar alternative and no butter. I will never forget her stubborn face telling me she wouldn’t eat that shit. So, I’d have to go back into the kitchen and make it her way. The only way I could get her to eat was if I made things her way. That cracks me up right now but I will tell you, it was extremely frustrating at the time. You know, because I thought healthy food would cure her and all.
I also wanted her to stop smoking. I mean, seriously! Besides for her health, it was also because I was sleeping on the pull out couch in the living room where her hospital bed was. If she woke up in the night and wanted to smoke (which she did, Every. Single. Night), I would grumpily get up and put my bed away just so we could go outside in the Minnesota fall nights. Oh, Mom! How I treasure, now, those starry nights and quiet conversation! Finally, my sister Lela, helped me understand that she needed to do whatever it was that helped her feel better and I gave up that fight.
I gave her leg massages daily and it was my pleasure and my honor. Although, cutting her toenails was not my favorite part, but it had to be done. Caring for your ill loved one involves many things you really never thought you’d be doing.
The family was there for her too, I am sharing my part in this, just to be clear here. I was not alone helping with mom. I would announce loudly that it was someone else’s turn whenever I felt the need, and of course, they would step right in. We all took turns helping her.
The bedroom was almost ready and I was starting to accept the inevitable. I sat with my mom on the edge of the hospital bed and told her I would grant her any wish she wanted. What did she want? Did she want to take a trip? I would take her anywhere. London? Paris? New York? We had already been to these places together but I wanted her to know how serious I was about giving her what I realized would be a final wish.
She thought quietly for a few minutes and looked up at Floyd and then at me and said: “I want to marry Floyd again”.
Floyd, in his ever-present humor, made some kind of joke and we all laughed but, I told her we would do that.
I didn’t discuss this with her but I knew why she wanted to do this.
She wanted to declare her love for him in a big way, with all of us present. I was thrilled with this wish! I couldn’t attend their wedding in 1987, and most of her grandchildren were not present then either. Plus, I could tell how much this meant to her.
I decided that this was going to be a fabulous wedding, in her home, with all of us present. My kids didn’t live in Minnesota. Francis and his kids came in from Virginia. So did Nikole and her children. Curtis was in Japan and so was my bonus baby, Katherine. As they made plans to come home, the plans for the wedding were moving forward.
We would print out selections for flowers, take them into her room that she’d been moved into, and she would select what she wanted. We did the same for the wedding cake. She chose it all.
She asked for red, silky pajamas for her wedding “dress”.
Ashley found her wedding topper. Things were rolling along swimmingly and her house was full. She knew what was going on. She knew that they all came and it was the last time she would see them. At times, she got a bit snarky about it because she said we were trying to hide that. No, we were still in denial and it was important for us to all be together Mom, because we all love you so very much.
We took this whole wedding so seriously, and Floyd is not the serious kind of guy. I had to pull him aside and tell him, with tears in my eyes, that he had to ask Mom to marry him all over again. You see, my mom is the love of Floyd’s life. There is NO WAY he was ready to say goodbye to her. His humor was the way he was dealing with this great loss, to be sure. But, I wanted their wedding to be perfect in every way, and that meant a proposal from him. He agreed to do it, almost losing his composure, but he held it together. He is a Marine after all. He asked her during a commercial while they were watching a football game together. I was proud of him for following through.
I went shopping for her wedding dress. Now, our family home on the Indian Reservation is up in the boonies of northern Minnesota. It was December. She wanted red silky pajamas. Yikes.
Finally, in my 3rd store, at the K-Mart, I turned into the women’s section to see, all by itself, one last pair of red silky pajamas, in her size. I immediately broke down in tears and crumpled right there on the K-Mart floor, clinging to those pajamas as if my life depended on them. I was so grateful to get exactly what she wanted. My mom had worked so hard all of her life, and her life had been a hard one, finding the pajamas she wanted as a wedding dress was the very least I could do.
I took them home to her and she loved them.
Finally, the big day arrived!
It was a Monday. All of us were crammed in her home. The Nett Lake Baptist minister, Kevin Lasley, came in to do the ceremony. If you’ve read my first book, you know that my grandma was a product of the Boarding Schools so all of her children were raised as Christian and because of the way the Indigenous Americans were treated there, my grandma thought it was best for her kids to be Christian.
Mom surprised all of us by telling us that she wanted to stand. She was less than 100 pounds at this point but she insisted. She stood for the whole ceremony. My sister Lela and her husband, Fred, stood up for Floyd and Mom. We forgot a very important detail, a camera. At some point, along the way, someone said “Hey! Who’s got a camera!” oops. Someone took out their flip phone and tried to take photos. I assure you, the picture of my mom, standing there, shakily yes but still standing there with Floyd next to the Christmas tree, is forever etched in my mind but we do wish we could have gotten pictures of this beautiful event.
This would be the last time my mom stood up.
We got mom back into her bed, she enjoyed some of the amazing wedding cake made by my daughter, and she was exhausted. But, we pulled it off! It was amazing.
That week, we saw things happening that signalled the end was very close. She had finally given up smoking a few weeks before (she couldn’t get up any longer to smoke) and her days were spent in and out of sleep. The wonderful Hospice folks helped us enormously through this time. We helped each other.
She also spoke frequently about seeing people who had passed before her. We weren’t sure what it meant but then she started refusing food. It was getting so close and we couldn’t tell if she was fighting to stay or if she had given over to the idea that her time had come. On Friday night, the 18th, we all decided that we each needed to tell her it was ok to go. We would be ok. We knew she needed to know that we would be ok. We knew she must be suffering, even if she wouldn’t admit that to us. We all took our turns letting her know that. It wasn’t easy but it had to be done. For her.
At some point early in the evening, she needed to use the restroom. Now, mom had said at the beginning that she would never wear Depends and none of her children would be wiping her ass. So, we had installed a bidet in her bathroom and we always helped her go, in privacy. This night was no different, except that she was so weak after she went to the bathroom that I had to call my oldest, Francis, in to help her get into bed. My big boy with his strong arms ever so gently picked up his grandma and carefully put her back into her bed. The love (and care) he showed while doing this was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.
She was still in the red, silky pajamas. We kept trying to change her but she would adamantly refuse. We finally figured out that she had decided she wanted to die in them. All we could do was honor her wish. Until she “crashed” that is. She was a diabetic and her sugar went so low that she broke out in a sweat and drenched her pajamas. My sister and I joked about finally being able to get her out of those pajamas but that she was going to kick our butts when she became cognizant again.
We were all very restless that night. We all took short turns being with her on this night. She barely spoke, we knew the time was near. Ashley came out and told us she thought it was time. We all crowded into the room.
We all told her how much we loved her.
We watched her vein throbbing in her neck.
Until it didn’t.
My son cried out: “I’m not ready!”
I cried out: “no!”
The rest is a blur.
Until the gentleman came from the funeral home. He came alone.
He asked if someone could help carry my mom.
He had put her in a body bag. My son, who earlier, had ever so gently got her back into bed was the only one who could possibly help. It broke my heart, again, to watch him have to carry his grandma, this time in a body bag.
At the funeral, the same minister who did their wedding ceremony spoke about it. He spoke of feeling so much love in the house while he was there. He spoke about the legacy of love that she built, and left, in our family. I was happy, and I knew she was too, that this was her legacy, and it was noticeable outside of her family.
It has been 11 years. It took some time to get through the day without feeling a void. It took even longer to be able to celebrate Christmas as we buried her on the 23rd. I have learned so much since her passing. You see, she came to visit me a few years ago.
For some reason, I was especially tired on this particular day in 2016. I normally do not take naps but I was really really tired this day so I laid down. It was around 2 pm. Once asleep, I started dreaming about me and my kids going on a trip. We were in what looked like the presidential suite at the Homestead Resort. In my dream, I decided to lay down. I thought my eyes were closed but I saw her.
She came towards me and I immediately knew it was my mom. Except, instead of being sick and unhealthy, she was young and beautiful. Her hair was shoulder-length, even though she never had shoulder-length hair while on earth. It was dark and wavy. As she sat on my bed in my dream, I could “hear” her words though she didn’t speak out loud. It was as if I was reading her thoughts. She told me she loved me, and she missed me but that she was perfectly fine now. She was happy and she wanted me to tell everyone something. She asked me to tell everyone that everything really is going to be alright. She asked me specifically to tell my brother and sister, all the children. I told her (without speaking), that I would. I told her how happy I was to see her. And how beautiful she was! We had a great conversation, without speaking, and I could feel her warm touch on my leg where her hand rested.
Finally, she said she should go and she reminded me to tell everyone. As many as I could. Everything really will be alright.
She got up to leave and I realized that I was in my bedroom, and that is where she had been too. I wasn’t sure how this could happen but I did know with my dad’s near-death experience (read about it in my book, Warrior Spirit Rising), speaking without words was something that happened to him in his experience so it wasn’t that far fetched. Or was it? I didn’t care. I picked up the phone and immediately did as I was told. I told my family.
And now I am sharing it with you all. Why? Because my mom raised a good girl. One who listens to their mom, even if she had been gone from this world for years when the message came through.
Also, because even though I still miss her like crazy, especially during the Holidays, it is extremely comforting to me to know that she is, in fact, happy, and joyful and is there watching over all of us. Giving us love as she did in her earthly presence.
If you know someone grieving, most do silently, reach out to them. Just let them know that you are thinking about them. Tell them they are special. Tell them they make you smile.
Just.
Reach.
Out.
Nothing more is so important as to let people know you care.
I care for you. I hope you know that you are loved.
And
I hope you find comfort in these words.
I love you, Mama.
Thank you for everything.
