Courage to Let Go
By Laurie M. Brown

Throughout our four-year battle against mom’s cancer, my family experienced many acts of kindness. Lifelong friends visited regularly, drove mom to appointments when one of her four kids couldn’t be with her on Cape Cod, and propped her up with funny stories during the darkest hours.  Neighbors made casseroles, nurses bent hospital rules, doctors encouraged prayer, and many a friend provided a shoulder to cry on while we sobbed uncontrollably over the confusion, stress, and impending loss of a remarkable and vibrant women.  

Looking back, it was the kindness of absolute strangers that influenced me most.  Here’s that story.
-Laurie

The New Normal
Cancer changes everything. The disease has a way of consuming not just its victims but also the livelihood of caretakers and friends. In spite of our's mom’s reluctance to be pro-active about her illness, the four of us jumped in feet first, setting aside our personal lives and making Lorraine’s mortality our mission.

Three years passed and we had blended cancer nicely into our tightly woven little lives on Cape Cod.  Activities were coordinated around doctor’s visits, unpredictable side affects, fatigue and depression, but they were carried out.  Finally, we were “living with cancer,” using phrases like “one more year” which then became “one more summer.” Please God, just one more summer.

Hospice Arrives
Sitting across from Jenny, the hospice coordinator, was like finding a long lost friend.  She knew us. She grieved for us.  She instantly provided strength, confidence and comfort. What didn’t occur to us at the time was that Jenny probably visited a handful of other families that day, all experiencing the same pain and confusion, yet she never let on.  We were her focus and nothing was more important that setting the tone for the journey we were about to take.

And what a long, strange trip it was.

Life goes on … and on
On one of the darker days, my three siblings and I sat with the hospice volunteer in my sister Kathie's family room, sharing our fears and searching for hope.  Mom, restricted to a hospital bed in the dining room—a makeshift bedroom—had spent the past 24 hours struggling to breathe. We were anxious and exhausted and worrying that the end had finally come.

Surprisingly, mom’s two lifelong best friends Peggy and June walk into the house, armed with presents and cake.  Today, April 26, 2007 was my birthday.  We had forgotten.

“Aunt June,” I cried.  “I’m so glad you are here.  Mom’s dying.  She hasn’t spoken or eaten.  It could be any moment.”  

“Not today my dear,” June said staunchly as she placed the birthday cake on the table and started to dig out plates and forks.  “Not today.”  She calls to mom from the kitchen, "Lorraine dear, Peggy and I are here to celebrate Begorrie's birthday.  Put your party hat on!"  It was a comfort to hear Aunt June call me by my childhood nickname.  I was home again.

Hospice volunteer Sue began to help June set up the party, pulling a rolling table together so that we could celebrate at Mom’s bedside. Huff, huff, huff, huuufffff.   Huff, huff, huff, huuuuuffffff. She continues to fight for air.   Linda, Scotty, Kathie and I—grown adults—stood like three-year-olds waiting to be told what to do.

“Listen to me,” directed June.  “Don’t you know your mother is not going to die on your birthday?  Heck, she knows perfectly well what today is.  She spent her life sacrificing for you kids and there’s no way she’ll allow you to live 50 more birthdays grieving her death.”

"June is right,” chimed Sue.  “Your mother is in control.  Enjoy these moments with her.  Make her happy.”

I finally got it.  It wasn’t about me, my inner child, or the loss I was trying to prepare myself for.  I still hadn’t learned to live every moment with my mother, even as she was fighting to share a few more hours with me.

5:00 PM, Tuesday, April 26
We have cake. We sing. I was 43 years old and adapting to yet another “new normal”—being in fellowship with my sisters, my brother, my mom’s best friends, a hospice volunteer and God, while bidding ‘au revoir’ to my favorite person in the world.  It was actually fun, especially when we sang one of mom’s favorite Frank Sinatra songs, “I Did It My Way.”  Of course.

Before leaving, Sue takes us a bit further into the mechanicals, reassuring us of the normalcy of it all, reminding us to allow mom to pace herself, that is she starting to accept things, and that she knows we are here with her.  “Talk to her, prayer with her,” she says, leading me to mom’s side.  “Do not be afraid to touch her.  Tell her you will be okay.”

8:00 AM, Wednesday, April 27
Everyone staggers into the kitchen for coffee after a restless night of counting mom’s breaths, timing the intervals.  Now, she is peaceful, almost golden.   We notice the warm breezes flowing from her bedroom window through the kitchen and into the family room, where six of her grandchildren are already engaged in a rip-roaring wrestling match.

“Hey now, keep it to a dull roar,” says Uncle Scotty, mimicking what my father always said during our many wrestling sessions as kids.  It reminds me that someone should call my father and give him an update.  He’s not been feeling well lately but has been supportive of us, from his home in south Jersey.

Trudy, today’s hospice volunteer has arrived.  She is a certified nurse.  Her confidence gives us peace as she settles right in.  “Let the kids play,” she says to us.  “Lorraine likes it.  I can tell.”  We smile.  Trudy and mom have a rapport already. 

“Make sure you go about your day as if it were average,” says Trudy.  “Put music on, talk to one another.  Do you joke around a lot?  Your family seems ‘lively.’”  We laugh.  She is intuitive.  Although we don’t feel like joking, there is an unexplainable lighter sense of things in the house.  We turn on Mom’s favorite performer, Neil Diamond.  “Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so good.” 

We know all the words and by singing them together, preparing breakfast, we are connecting with mom.  Making her happy. Scott takes the kids to play out front, riding bikes and catching fish in the pond.  Linda, Kathie and I clean up the kitchen.  Trudy performs a medical check on mom.  From the corner of my eye, I watch Trudy’s face for signs. 

“How’s she doing?”  I ask.  “Her pulse is low Laurie.  She is calm.  Maybe you want to sit with her.  I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Frightened I plead with her, “Please stay.  I need you.”  Her aging eyes, her softly worn wrinkles, and her dark brown skin have done this so many times; she makes me feel comfortably vulnerable.

“You are not alone Laurie.  God is here, in this house.  Can’t you feel him?  He has come to take your blessed mother home.  She has done her job.  It is time for you to say ‘See you soon mom, I love you.’”

I believe her.  I believe God.  I just don’t believe in myself. 

11:00 AM, Wednesday
The sun shining through mom’s bedroom window virtually blinds us but no one wants to close them. We can hear the kids playing in the pond, giggling and shouting for the youngest, Emma, not to harm the fish. 

My sister-in-law Bobbi arrives with her two children, followed by Peggy and June. We gather at mom’s bedside, making small talk and telling funny stories.  Peggy and June talk to mom as if it’s back in 1965 and they are having a routine afternoon tea on Briarcliff Avenue, our first house in Maywood.  I feel as if I’ve left my body.

My mother lifts her hand and points to a crucifix hanging on the wall.  Peggy, a devout, contemporary Catholic, breaks the ice.  “Yes, Lorraine, that is Jesus.  He loves you and is calling you, dearest friend of mine.”

Bobbi, Kathie and I weep.  I put my face into my mother’s chest, not caring one bit about being awkward or proud or anything.  I want to hold her … forever.  I realize, we are all touching one another, firmly embracing one another’s hands, encircling mom in love and prayer.

Peggy continues, “Ya know Lorraine, so many people are waiting for you to be restored.  Tell my Bob I love him and will be with him again someday.  Your mother, father, and sister Karen are all waiting to sing “Danny Boy” with you.  Evelyn and Tim have prepared the way.”  I am thinking of how many family members have died in the past seven years.  It was a wipeout.  Now I want Peggy to stop.

Lifting my head, I can see a difference in mom’s face.  As if with each “point of no return,” her earthly body yields to the inevitable, and a peacefulness sets in.  Yesterday’s huffing subsides to a low, almost inaudible hum, then silent, short puffs of air, which barely escape her still pink lips.  Her eyes are bright and clear; staring upward, her mouth parted as if she has something to share, and her skin is aglow.  I think to myself, “She is following the gleam.”

…”and slowly brightening,
out of the glimmer,
and slowly moving again to a melody,
yearningly tender,
fell on the shadow,
no longer a shadow,
but clothed with the Gleam.”
                  -A. Tennyson

1:00 PM, Wednesday
No one is hungry for lunch but, to appease our steadfast Trudy, we prepare sandwiches.  Peggy and June emerge from the tea room with Trudy in tow.  “Listen kids,” says June.  “We will say our goodbyes to your mom now and then go.  You guys need to be alone with her this afternoon.”

Before we can respond, Mom, within earshot of the conversation, coughs then grunts repeatedly.  We run to her side.  She is clearly agitated.  

“Lorraine, it’s okay,” says Peggy.  We’re going to go now so you can be with the kids.”  She leans down, cheek to cheek with her friend of 50 years and whispers, “I love you.  Let God in now. The kids will be okay.”

Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Mom tries to lift her head and hands.  She won’t take no for an answer.  Trudy steps in and turns to Peggy and June.  “Actually, I think she wants the two of you to stay,” she says with a smile.  “She’s almost sounds, uh, ‘pissed off’ at you for leaving.”

We break into spontaneous and simultaneous laughter, thanking God for this angel called Trudy who knows us so well so quickly.  Of course, my mother never wanted anyone to leave the party and now certainly wasn’t the time to start.  She knew I—the middle daughter prone to drama—would need emotional support.  Kathie, her youngest—pregnant and expecting at any moment—would need physical support. Scott—who carries his burdens inside—would need to be put to work as a coping mechanism.  And Linda—the rock of Gibraltar—would lead the charge, never seeking consolation for herself.

We remain huddled in a circle of life, quietly stroking mom’s forehead, hands and arms; whispering “I love you” and “Do you hear the children playing?  That’s all because of you.”  We read the Bible …. we sing, we pray. 

1:55 PM
I take my eyes away from mom’s face momentarily to look around the room, trying to convince myself that this is real.  With an ear turned toward her face, I hear an audible exhale, strong and decisive.  I wait …  for the next breath … “Pull in now mom.”

It is done.

Coming to Light
Trudy begins to pray.  “Our Father who art in Heaven ...”  Our family prays together, for the first time in years.  I secretly pray that this becomes another new normal.  Praying together.

I clasp my mother’s still-warm hands in both of mine and put a grip on her equal to 43 years worth of love and affection, begging her to watch over me, praying for mercy for her soul, sobbing relentlessly that I will miss her, and thanking her for my life.

We pray repeatedly, until the Holy Spirit descends upon that makeshift bedroom and fills us with the power and knowledge that our mother has ascended into Heaven.  Peggy is so moved, she is shaken to the core.  “I feel it,” she boldly claims.  “She is with us, she is moving toward God’s hand.”  The room takes on an indescribable essence.  I can taste the air.

“I’ll be on my way now,” Trudy says reassurningly. I shake my head as if to beckon my senses back to reality.  "Please, not yet Trudy. There are things I don't know about," I cry.

Gracefully picking up her purse and jacket, she rests her hand on my arm.  “You don’t need me anymore Laurie,” she says.  “I was sent here to show you God’s strength, love and mercy.  I know you felt it.  You’ve witnessed a beautiful passing of a soul.  Now go out and share what you know.”

I believe her.  I want to be her at that moment.  Where was my faith?

Coming to light.