I went to bed late last night finishing up another post, only to wake up at 4 AM this morning, and never really get back to sleep.
It didn't help that I was thinking about my mother, the news of her passing, and the inevitable thoughts, I suppose, that I missed her and was going to keep on missing her, wouldn't see her again in this life, and that I could have done a better job of keeping in touch.
So, I got up at just before 5:30 AM and came into my office so I could let my wife sleep without possibly being awakened by me trying not to weep and not being very successful at it.
She keeps asking me if I'm okay. Her own mother passed away several years ago, in the same year that both my grandmothers did, so she's concerned because she knows how it feels. She didn't do very well for quite a long time after that, and the memory of her mother is still enough to bring her to tears.
The Albrethsen Family—roughly 40 years and close to (for me, anyway) 140 pounds ago.
I don't know if I'm okay or not. I think I am. Maybe I'm not. It's not so much a numbness at this stage, as it's a swirl of different emotions that tend to hit all at once.
Disbelief. Grief. Relief. What's with the -iefs, anyway? Okay, there is some regret, so that doesn't end in ief. And I don't know if it's really full blown regret. I know what I could have done, and it's not really much more than I did, and I don't know if it would have really been that impactful on Mom.
Not with the way her mind was basically going. She didn't seem to know where she was or why, or that she might even be dying. She still knew who we all were, but she seemed stuck in time, or in her own reality.
As I was talking with my youngest sister yesterday, maybe that was a good thing for her, not really being aware. I was told she was put on antidepressants after going into the nursing home a year ago, so someone at least thought she was heading into dark territory. There is quite a bit about recovering from illness or injury that is wrapped up in attitude and desire, so maintaining a level of positivity would be good.
But something started stealing her mind. I don't know what the cause was, and so am not looking for something to blame. I just know that of it all, the physical decline was not the worst of this. It was seeing her mind go.
Mom is the family historian. She kept the stories straight, even if you were there and were absolutely sure you knew what happened. Nope. Mom always had some other bit of information, or some tweak to the story that you didn't know.
She, of course, knew about people you didn't even know, but supposedly crossed paths with in the ancient past. Usually a relative that had a name but little else to go by in your own memory.
She enjoyed doing family history, or genealogy. She would go to family reunions, and if she and Dad were traveling somewhere, they would probably stop and check on some kind of census record or hit a cemetery or two. This of course was before the age of the internet and her own health beginning to decline.
As I think of it, physically, the decline began well over a decade ago. She was using a walker back when my boys were in high school. She came to one of the football games, so that's been 10-15 years ago. She never ended up walking on her own again. She didn't want to do a lot of the therapy she was supposed to because of the pain she felt or some other reason. She wasn't much into exercising to begin with, as far as I know, which didn't help matters, I'm sure.
She hasn't made a home cooked meal in ages, but among the things I'm finding I miss the most about her are the memories of her homemade chicken and noodles, chicken and dumplings, pizza and hamburgers.
I'm also remembering the absolute glee (though she was generally serious faced when she was doing this, so you had to know her to see the signs), that she would tell my boys about one of my youthful exploits, which generally cast me in some unfortunate light. It was never in a mean way—I think she was trying to keep me from an over inflated sense of self, which admittedly, at times in my life I've had issues with.
Like me scarfing down a whole jar of home canned peaches and a half a loaf of freshly baked bread every afternoon after school, and then eating a full dinner after that. Now, logistically, it was impossible for me to do that every day—there wasn't enough peaches or bread, even if no one else in the family ever got a bite. But it did happen often enough (and maybe any time I could get away with it).
There was the time that I was fresh off my church mission after two years that my sister was driving us home from somewhere and apparently hit the chainlink fence that surrounds the house where my parents have lived for over 45 years. The way my mom tells it, I immediately marched into the house and ratted on her.
I don't remember that at all, and I don't think my younger sister does, either. I'll have to ask.
Just to be funny, I would call it revisionist history, but no one was going to believe me. Not especially the boys, who took their own delight in seeing their dad in some kind of awkward, or human state. It's not like I tried to be superman around them. I was mainly trying to instill in them some sense of responsibility, and since they were boys becoming teenagers, messing around and having fun was generally the top priority.
In retrospect, I could have had a lot more fun with their raising. Hindsight is 20/20 after all. Even so, they managed to turn out pretty good so far—yes, there are days I still have my doubts—and seem to be heading in a good direction.
It's interesting how much you reflect on your own life when thinking about someone who has died. It's amazing how quickly things can seem about you, when they're totally meant to be for them.
I don't know how it could be otherwise. So much of who my mother was became, after our family started, about her husband and children, and somehow ensuring that we had good meals to eat, clothes on our back, and a roof overhead even in the leanest of times. My father made okay money in the jobs he worked, but as I've looked back over the years, there never seemed to be a whole lot of disposable income beyond the bills.
And yet, I never really felt deprived. That's because love was always present, and the absolute essentials were met. And every once in a while, on a birthday or Christmas, some wants would be sneaked in.
My mother, as my Dad reminded me yesterday, took care of the finances for most of their marriage. He would work, bring home the paycheck, and she would find a way to stretch it out each month. We did not live in extravagance, and compared to costs today, it was a pittance, but so would have been my dad's pay. It's all relative.
I only knew we didn't have things like other families did when kids at school would talk about some vacation or expensive toy they got. Otherwise, I was blissfully unaware of what wealth was and I think my sisters were, too. We never went wanting.
I know it took a toll on her. It had to, even though I was never really privy to the conversations she surely had with Dad after we children would go to bed. Through thick and thin, I have handled, and for a long time my wife, too, the finances, and I marvel at how we ever did it with the money I earned. God is good, is all I can say.
My mother was 80 years old, six years younger than her mother when she passed away 13 years ago. I've never done the math before but my grandmother couldn't have been much older than 20 when my mom was born. I was 23 when our first son was born. That seems young enough.
I think I was last of the immediate family to find out. It was my own fault. I'd turned off the ringer on my cell phone for some reason and didn't have it on when my sister called and left a message, saying I needed to call Dad. She almost told me why, but stopped herself.
When I saw the message, an hour had gone by. When I got on the phone with him, I was also being contacted by my daughter-in-law that dinner was ready, and by my boss via text, that he needed something. For hours, before that, no one was trying to get ahold of me. Funny how things like that will happen, and how of little significance eating and work can have in an instant.
When I talked to Dad, he admitted to feeling lost. We all knew she was in hospice, we all knew that meant the end was ever nearing, and that it wasn't likely she would last a year. It had been maybe six months since she was placed under hospice care, and it took me a while to realize that. Dad never really talked about it until I asked him. I guess that might be why he was feeling lost. Even with all the signs, and the knowledge, he wasn't ready for it yet.
I don't think any of us were, or can be. I was hoping to get down to see her some more. I guess she became unresponsive Thursday night sometime. My dad went to see her, and says she was definitely not awake. However, that had happened to one degree or another quite a few times, some of them ending in hospital stays, so he apparently went home thinking that was the case again. He then got a phone call at 5 AM yesterday that she had died a half an hour earlier.
I'm not entirely sure what the cause of death was. She had her back problem, diabetes, the infections that she had to be brought back from the brink a couple of times, advancing age, and as it turns out, a gall bladder that was no longer functioning but could not be removed because of everything else.
At this stage, as I write this and continue to work through the feelings, I'm no longer worried about her. She's in a far better place, without worry or want. Now, I'm concerned about my father, who even though he has been alone for over a year, he had Mom to visit as often as he could. Now he doesn't.
The sister that follows me in age was back living with them, but then ended up in a different rehabilitation facility because of her knees. So, she's not there and couldn't help my Dad even if she wanted to. She needs more help than he can give, which is why my mom was in the home, too.
He's had his own bouts with illnesses. He's kept going because he needed to for everyone else's sake, otherwise, he'd have one of them taking care of him more in all likelihood.
I'm not sure what to do about any of that. He obviously has first say about what he wants to do moving forward. As it is, I think it's one thing at a time, really. The funeral is tentatively set for next Saturday, though it could move depending on what the funeral home says. I guess my Dad will know on Monday. He's supposed to check out nearby cemeteries for a plot in the meantime, and I'm sure there's a ton of other things to attend to that I hope and expect there's someone to aid with that, especially since mom was under hospice care.
He's asked me to do the eulogy. Actually, he used the term obituary. I guess they are more or less one and the same, really. One is spoken and the other is written.
I need to collect some dates, and facts, and not go off my own feelings and recollections. I know how to do it. I spent 15 years of my life publishing smalltown newspapers. I need to find out if there's things she's written down or otherwise recorded about her life, or I'm going to need to talk with Dad and probably her sisters and brother.
I am her son. I should know a lot, right? I do know some things, but I don't as much as I should. She was the storyteller. I was in large part the listener. Unfortunately, my brain hasn't retained probably even a tenth of it. How she could is a testament to who she was. Kind, loving, concerned, smart and with a memory like a whip.
I'm sad she's gone. I'm glad she's not suffering and declining anymore, with no hope of ever going home. At some point, I'll accept the finality of it all, at least in mortality. I do believe we carry on after this life, so I do have a hope of seeing her again eventually, along with everyone else I've known.
That, too, is for another day. Right now, one step at at time is good enough.
There's a lot here. I'm kind of surprised. It took a while to just sit down and get going. When the words finally came, it started flowing, which is good. Even if it's a little more scattered and free form than I tend to do. Maybe I can move on a little now.
And maybe I can use some of this for the eulogy.
Image courtesy of Glen Anthony Albrethsen