A long day’s journey into night…

When we were growing up, my mom used to recite for us, by memory, the tale of the “Little Small Red Hen” which tells the harrowing story of the hen’s encounter with a villainous wolf, and ends with:

But the Hen lived happily, just as before,
In her dear little house by the wood,
Walking picketty-pecketty,
Working as hard as she could,
"I've had a great many troubles,
I hope they won't happen again.
Anything for a quiet life,"
said the Little Small Red Hen.

My dear little small mom has indeed had a great many troubles, starting with a terrible 1982 car accident that nearly took her life and left her hobbled up. During her recovery she developed a bi-polar disorder, which has caused difficult circumstances in the years since.  My dad died in 2002 and shortly thereafter–living alone–Mom took a terrible head-first tumble down the basement steps in the middle of the night and had another long, hard recovery from that. She remarried in 2007 and had five blissful and loving months with her second husband, Rev. Peoples, but then one morning he had a heart attack and died, leaving her alone again. Her world got smaller, she stopped cooking, her driving worsened, and the four of us worried about her living alone, but she steadfastly refused to leave her dear little house and garden in New Wilmington.  Then in 2017 she became gravely ill and had to be rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. She has never been quite the same since. She moved into a senior-care facility and settled as best she could into a little assisted-living apartment. Sally, Billy, and Chris work so diligently to take care of her from 35 minutes away and Mindy is so sweet and thoughtful with lots of cards and gifts and visits.

Mom’s health and memory have declined precipitously this summer and, by last week, she was back in the hospital. I’ve been sitting here with her for six days now: we listen to Gaither homecoming songs on my laptop (yesterday she sang along with Sandi Patty!) and I try to get her talking to keep her with us.  When I asked her to name her beloved grandchildren, she couldn’t reel in a single name from the fog that has settled over her. I tried to coax her into saying her siblings’ names and she eventually got Kay, and then Bruce. Thankfully she still remembers the names of her four kids, and when the doctor came in yesterday she motioned to me and said: “See that guy over there? He’s mine.” 

Raising Mindy, Sally, Billy, and me was the great joy of her life, and she did it beautifully.  I don’t remember her sitting by my crib; feeding me in my high chair; holding my sippy cup; and trying to make sense out of my gibberish, but I know that she did so lovingly. Now, sixty years later, I find myself doing all of those for her. I can barely get her to eat anything these days.  Yesterday there were sweet potatoes for lunch, which she used to love, and which I’ve always hated. She turned up her nose and wouldn’t take a bite. “You made ME try sweet potatoes, so you darn well are going to taste these!” I declared, and we both laughed and she took a tiny nibble.

She fretted all day about wanting to go home, and finding Aunt Mae (who died decades ago,) and grew increasingly frustrated by her inability to find the words she needs. Now I watch her sleeping peacefully, bathed in the afternoon sun, and I feel as if she is slipping away from us both physically and mentally, but then, she has scared us before and somehow bounced back. There’s no easy way to say goodbye to a parent, I know only that I hope her great many troubles are nearly over. I love you, Mom.