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My Mother’s Final Days
I was glad I could be with her during her most difficult challenge
“ I don’t think I have much longer,” she said out of nowhere, with a note of detachment. It’s funny how those who are dying seem to know it.
I recall all those Ingmar Bergman movies I used to watch in college and feel I’m in one of them. Cries and Whispers comes to mind with all those black, white, and red themes focused on those final days of dying.
Mom and I were sitting on the bed in the den. Mother and Child, continuing with her itemization of bills and contacts, her legacy laid out in paperwork as we exchanged more bank information, phone numbers, and details. My mother was always very organized, even down to her own death.
“Here’s who you need to call to make arrangements after I’m gone,” she continued with an instructional tone. It wasn’t said with sympathy or sadness but with the air of a teacher, laced with practicality. “If you want to sell any of my things, things that you children don’t want, you could put an ad in the paper,” she added abstractly like she was commenting on a painting, pointing to the local Sun Lakes newsletter, which came out weekly.
We shared a moment, albeit it briefly, where a knowing look was exchanged. A few tears were shed, but they were brief. It was too…
