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Posted: June 26th, 2007 at 1:41am By: Janet Conner
I've been writing about my goodbye season for two months now, sharing how I'm saying goodbye to my mother, blessing her, praying with her, stepping inside her skin and recognizing her many gifts to me. But what about her? What about her goodbye season? After all, she's the one who's dying; she's the one who's facing the profound goodbye — the goodbye we all must make, but few are willing to discuss or even consider until it is upon us.
My mother has been traveling through her own goodbye season for 15 years now. It began in 1992, when she had to say goodbye to my father. They had been married for 54 years, and for most of those years he'd been sick with one digestive ailment or another — ulcers, diverticulitis, debilitating indigestion, pancreatitis — name a disorder of the digestive tract, and 10 to one, he had it. There had been so many surgical attempts to fix his plumbing that his chest resembled a railroad yard with catawampus scars going north, south, east and west. So when he died after surgery, on July 11, 1992, Mother was a bit dumbfounded. "But he always comes home," she said to no one in particular when my brothers and sisters brought her back to her house, "he always comes home." Only this time he didn't. Suddenly that house was very big and empty. Within a few years she would have to say goodbye to it, too.
Somewhere in those goodbye years, a ghost slipped in. It didn't announce itself like Daddy's digestive ills. When Dad had an attack, there was no doubt. He would topple over with pain and beg for help. Mom, however, never complained of failing memory. In retrospect, we can see the clues, but at the time we thought she was just being her normally reclusive self, exacerbated perhaps by the absence of Dad, but not unusual for her.
Eventually my brothers and sisters and I realized she needed help. The thought of her going up and down the rickety basement stairs to do laundry in what we not-so-jokingly called "the dungeon" gave us all fits. Finally, Jay R, the eldest — and the only of us children she would consult — was able to persuade her to move. We all came home to help her pack. In her sturdy, list-making, practical way, she packed a few boxes of books, papers, clothes and religious art, and sent the rest to the auction house or the St Vincent DePaul society. Thirty-eight years in one house was reduced to a few pieces of furniture and several boxes. If she said goodbye to her possessions, we didn't see her do it.
In her assisted-living apartment, her ghost multiplied. Where first there had been just the ghost of memory, there were now also the ghosts of sight and hearing. Her ability to walk succumbed to a new ghost of balance. But she did not relinquish her image of herself easily. Long after she could no longer see — or remember what she'd read if she could — she sat holding The Wall Street Journal upright before her face. If you tried to "help" by offering to take the paper away, she would clutch it harder and say, "I'm reading, I'll give this to you when I'm finished." I'm grateful that she doesn't remember the last day she "read" The Wall Street Journal. It would have broken her heart to consciously say goodbye to her life of reading and clipping newspaper articles for her next treatise on the health of the country and the church.
The ghosts now have dominion of my mother. She does not know any of her children or grandchildren. She does not know her history. Despite a lifetime of obsession with politics, she does not know who's president. She does not remember that she made the world's greatest macaroni and cheese. She does not remember her favorite flower. She does not know that she has been in her wheelchair for the last time. She does not know that Hospice is in charge and sends daily reports on her declining condition. She does not know that she has a fever and an appalling bedsore. The ghosts are strong.
But they are not totally in charge. My mother's soul is still alive and still seeking. Last Thursday morning, she lifted out of her deep fog for just a moment, looked her caregiver in the eye, and said, "Don't let me go alone." Her caregiver rushed to the phone to call my sister Mary. Mary called the rest of us and told us what Mom had said. We all choked up. Our mother, the most introverted person on the planet, had just told us that a) she knows she's dying, and b) she doesn't want to do it alone.
Mary rushed from Minneapolis to Mother's side in Marshfield, Wisc. On the way, she called each of us and said, "I'm going to tell Mother she's dying and that she can go." Yes, we said, do that. Our sister Claire had done it before for Dad, and he died within hours. So we waited by the phone for the inevitable call that Mother had died.
Only that's not what happened. When Mary got there, she introduced herself, as she always does, "Hi, Mom, this is Mary. You are my mother and I am your daughter." Mom turned to Mary and said, "That's a good combination." Mary smiled, "Yes, Mom, it is." Then Mary began her message: "Mom, you're dying. Your only job right now is to receive God's love." Mary had more in mind, but that's as far as she got. Mother turned her head away and, like Scarlett O'Hara before her, said, "I don't want to think about that."
Well, that threw Mary for a loop. But then Mary remembered the ghosts. Just wait, she thought. So a few minutes later, she tried again. "Mom, you are dying." This time Mom said, "I'm worried." "What are you worried about, Mom?" There was silence. "Are you worried about salvation?" Mom whispered, "Something like that." So Mary tried again, "Your only job right now is to receive God's love." Mary talked about the light and the angels, and grace. Mary read from Mother's missals. When she thought Mom was getting weary, Mary asked her, "Do you want me to keep praying?" "Yes, please." At the end of the day, Mom turned to Mary and said, "Thank you, dear, I am ready to die." The word "die" had actually crossed her lips. But Mom had a surprise for Mary. Even though she doesn't "know" that Mary is her baby daughter, Mother said, "And I'll be with you."
Now, that's a goodbye.
So Mom knows. Her soul knows. She knows she's dying. She is saying her goodbyes in her own way and her own time. The ghosts are not in charge. Hospice is not in charge. Mary is not in charge. My mother will say her last goodbye to her incarnation as Laurene Koenig Conner when she is ready.
Scarlett and my mother may not have wanted to think about it, but this last big goodbye will be said. It cannot be avoided. My mother will say it. I will say it. You will say it. Each and every one of us will say goodbye and take that one last breath.
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and author of the Spiritual Geography book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Janet would love to hear about your experiences with soul writing at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.
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I've been writing about my goodbye season for two months now, sharing how I'm saying goodbye to my mother, blessing her, praying with her, stepping inside her skin and recognizing her many gifts to me. But what about her? What about her goodbye season? After all, she's the one who's dying; she's the one who's facing the profound goodbye — the goodbye we all must make, but few are willing to discuss or even consider until it is upon us.
My mother has been traveling through her own goodbye season for 15 years now. It began in 1992, when she had to say goodbye to my father. They had been married for 54 years, and for most of those years he'd been sick with one digestive ailment or another — ulcers, diverticulitis, debilitating indigestion, pancreatitis — name a disorder of the digestive tract, and 10 to one, he had it. There had been so many surgical attempts to fix his plumbing that his chest resembled a railroad yard with catawampus scars going north, south, east and west. So when he died after surgery, on July 11, 1992, Mother was a bit dumbfounded. "But he always comes home," she said to no one in particular when my brothers and sisters brought her back to her house, "he always comes home." Only this time he didn't. Suddenly that house was very big and empty. Within a few years she would have to say goodbye to it, too.
Somewhere in those goodbye years, a ghost slipped in. It didn't announce itself like Daddy's digestive ills. When Dad had an attack, there was no doubt. He would topple over with pain and beg for help. Mom, however, never complained of failing memory. In retrospect, we can see the clues, but at the time we thought she was just being her normally reclusive self, exacerbated perhaps by the absence of Dad, but not unusual for her.
Eventually my brothers and sisters and I realized she needed help. The thought of her going up and down the rickety basement stairs to do laundry in what we not-so-jokingly called "the dungeon" gave us all fits. Finally, Jay R, the eldest — and the only of us children she would consult — was able to persuade her to move. We all came home to help her pack. In her sturdy, list-making, practical way, she packed a few boxes of books, papers, clothes and religious art, and sent the rest to the auction house or the St Vincent DePaul society. Thirty-eight years in one house was reduced to a few pieces of furniture and several boxes. If she said goodbye to her possessions, we didn't see her do it.
In her assisted-living apartment, her ghost multiplied. Where first there had been just the ghost of memory, there were now also the ghosts of sight and hearing. Her ability to walk succumbed to a new ghost of balance. But she did not relinquish her image of herself easily. Long after she could no longer see — or remember what she'd read if she could — she sat holding The Wall Street Journal upright before her face. If you tried to "help" by offering to take the paper away, she would clutch it harder and say, "I'm reading, I'll give this to you when I'm finished." I'm grateful that she doesn't remember the last day she "read" The Wall Street Journal. It would have broken her heart to consciously say goodbye to her life of reading and clipping newspaper articles for her next treatise on the health of the country and the church.
The ghosts now have dominion of my mother. She does not know any of her children or grandchildren. She does not know her history. Despite a lifetime of obsession with politics, she does not know who's president. She does not remember that she made the world's greatest macaroni and cheese. She does not remember her favorite flower. She does not know that she has been in her wheelchair for the last time. She does not know that Hospice is in charge and sends daily reports on her declining condition. She does not know that she has a fever and an appalling bedsore. The ghosts are strong.
But they are not totally in charge. My mother's soul is still alive and still seeking. Last Thursday morning, she lifted out of her deep fog for just a moment, looked her caregiver in the eye, and said, "Don't let me go alone." Her caregiver rushed to the phone to call my sister Mary. Mary called the rest of us and told us what Mom had said. We all choked up. Our mother, the most introverted person on the planet, had just told us that a) she knows she's dying, and b) she doesn't want to do it alone.
Mary rushed from Minneapolis to Mother's side in Marshfield, Wisc. On the way, she called each of us and said, "I'm going to tell Mother she's dying and that she can go." Yes, we said, do that. Our sister Claire had done it before for Dad, and he died within hours. So we waited by the phone for the inevitable call that Mother had died.
Only that's not what happened. When Mary got there, she introduced herself, as she always does, "Hi, Mom, this is Mary. You are my mother and I am your daughter." Mom turned to Mary and said, "That's a good combination." Mary smiled, "Yes, Mom, it is." Then Mary began her message: "Mom, you're dying. Your only job right now is to receive God's love." Mary had more in mind, but that's as far as she got. Mother turned her head away and, like Scarlett O'Hara before her, said, "I don't want to think about that."
Well, that threw Mary for a loop. But then Mary remembered the ghosts. Just wait, she thought. So a few minutes later, she tried again. "Mom, you are dying." This time Mom said, "I'm worried." "What are you worried about, Mom?" There was silence. "Are you worried about salvation?" Mom whispered, "Something like that." So Mary tried again, "Your only job right now is to receive God's love." Mary talked about the light and the angels, and grace. Mary read from Mother's missals. When she thought Mom was getting weary, Mary asked her, "Do you want me to keep praying?" "Yes, please." At the end of the day, Mom turned to Mary and said, "Thank you, dear, I am ready to die." The word "die" had actually crossed her lips. But Mom had a surprise for Mary. Even though she doesn't "know" that Mary is her baby daughter, Mother said, "And I'll be with you."
Now, that's a goodbye.
So Mom knows. Her soul knows. She knows she's dying. She is saying her goodbyes in her own way and her own time. The ghosts are not in charge. Hospice is not in charge. Mary is not in charge. My mother will say her last goodbye to her incarnation as Laurene Koenig Conner when she is ready.
Scarlett and my mother may not have wanted to think about it, but this last big goodbye will be said. It cannot be avoided. My mother will say it. I will say it. You will say it. Each and every one of us will say goodbye and take that one last breath.
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and author of the Spiritual Geography book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Janet would love to hear about your experiences with soul writing at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.
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