The Last Word

This morning, right before waking, I dreamt of my Mother. Since she died, she has only come to me once before and this has really upset me. Doesn’t she want to see me? Doesn’t she care how I am doing? I AM her Only Child.

At any rate, her rare visits *do* tell me something BIG is happening: something that requires her attention.

The first time she came was the first night in my house. She came to tell me that my backyard was too big for one person to manage (this was before I permanently crippled myself) and that what I really needed was a goat. And then she laughed and laughed and laughed. Like I had never seen her laugh in Life.

This morning, she silently stood by as I waited, all dressed up, to go to a Christmas party I never attended. Eerily mirroring my waking life. Her silence and his are eerily the same. Her sudden departures and his are eerily the same. Her unresponsiveness and his are exactly the same.

Upon reflection, it seems that there were tears in her eyes. Something I NEVER saw in Life.

Lately I’ve come to understand all of the things I was certain reflected my Mother’s disdain and hatred were resolutely misunderstood. On a cellular level.

The cherry on top of this sundae of pathological (and archetypal) misunderstanding (how’s that for a slain metaphor) is that she told me this herself.

On July 4, 2000, my mother entered the hospital around 4:30 in the morning, after my Father discovered her on the floor of their bathroom, unable to move.

Despite the oxygen, she required a tracheotomy to breathe. It was clear to no one but me that her second stay at St. Joseph’s Hospital (her first was when I was born) would be her last.

There was a LOT of arguing and finally the priest said that my Mother had to speak her wishes for herself. However, she could not as the trach was still in place. Her hands were too shaky and her writing illegible.

She kept making scissor-cutting motions with her fingers, however, no one but me understood what she was saying.

My thinking was the clearest, despite drowning in grief. However, due to the tears and the denial, I went unheard.

The decision was made to remove the trach so my Mother could speak. This was a risky proposition as (a) by this time, the trach had been in place for two weeks and her vocal chords might be too damaged; and (b) she was so weak that she might not survive the operation.

My Mother, all five feet of her, possessed the strongest will I have ever come into contact with in all of my lifetimes. Of course, she survived the operation.

Of course, she survived the operation in order to be able to tell us how pissed she was at everyone for not listening to her.

Of course, her vocal cords were too damaged to do so.

But her eyes said it all.

Another thing only I could see: her absolute anger over the ninnies she was forced to rely upon.

Another two weeks passed as I sat by her bed and prayed relentlessly.  Late one afternoon, as she dozed, I stared into her face, willing God to finally notice her suffering.

Suddenly, she sat straight up, turned, and looked me right in the eye.

“I love you.” she stated, matter-of-factly.

I was clear-eyed as I looked into her heart for the first time and saw all that it was.

Then she fell back onto the pillows and slipped into a coma.

Less than a day later, life support was unnecessary.


~*~*~*~*~
To summarize:  It took 9½ years, 37 therapists, a move out of state, a stroke, a crippling, my Beloved Daddy’s own dance with the Grim Reaper, a devastating separation, 592 poems and 47,368 margaritas to find the answer I had all along. I had the answer before I began the journey. I began the journey with the answer.

My Mother was right: I *am* a God-damned ninny. She wasn’t being cruel; she was simply stating a very obvious fact.