7am (Back at mom’s this morning)
Every inch of this house (in Marshfield) speaks my mother’s name. I feel her presence here in all her ways. I miss her. I don’t know how my dad can go on. This is an adult situation. Dying is not for children. Dying is not right. Its not prolife. Its senseless. Where I should hear and feel, there is silence. I keep expecting to hear your voice, Mom, and have you appear in the doorway. Angel figures and figurines are everywhere. Lotions of every sort. A wicker basket of towels. Family photos line the hall. Gold filigree wallpaper. Plaques speaking of dad’s outstanding service awards that, Mom, you helped coordinate. She had the phone numbers, the names, the driving directions.
Plastic flowers. Everywhere. Paintings of Jesus. Everywhere. Not the decor dad would choose. He has his John Wayne and his Louis Lamour in some places.
A tear rests in each cheek of my face. And dries there. Here in dad’s office thre are no kleenex. Though I know he’s wept here. He’s wept and will in every corner of this house.
Books on faith and healing. Not hers, but his. Searching every angel. There must be a way. A God-shaped loophole. He brought her back to dad (they were separated) surely not to take her away. Three shelves of these books beside his desk. Now behind him. Now is acceptance. Now we move on. Now we learn her new communications and we sit by her side.
10:45am (at the hospital)
Mom has on a colorful polar fleece hat to keep her warm. Her eyes are closed. Her chin on her chest. Her head to the right side. It is so good to be here with her. To hear her breathing. To feel her hands. To touch her face. I love her so and cherish this time. This day. Thank God.