The Work of Living. And Dying.

This is the text I received late last night from my eldest son-in-law. The text preceded about forty pictures he sent to me that he had taken with his cell phone during my mother's grave-side service and family luncheon. He said that now more than ever he is realizing the importance of taking lots of photos and expressed a bit of regret at not haven taken more of her. Taylor has been single-dad'ing it this last week while Natalie has been standing watch-guard over me. He works from home, as so many of us do these days, and I know that him trying to work and simultaneously care for their four children, and also attend to his grieving wife has been a sacrifice for their little family.

I have had the privilege of attending each of my grand-children's births. I know that this is such an intimate time for a couple welcoming a new life into their arms. I also know that the birthing process can be sometimes quick or sometimes drag out over the course of a few days. However it happens, it's work. Well......it's labor. And having gone through the process myself seven times, I know that having supportive, loving people attend you is critical to moving through the hours, and days of pain and even more to help you transition into a new phase of life with this tiny being.

Once my little brother Joel and I had spoken over the phone to confirm with each other what our mother's wishes were for medical treatment/intervention, I conveyed those to the hospital staff. The doctor and I looked straight into each others eyes. He spoke softly and yet the words he spoke seemed so very loud. I held Mama's hand and wondered if she could hear me carrying out her desires, or if the anti-anxiety medicine dripping slowly through the I.V. in her vein was making her sleepy enough to even hear us at all. The nurse came into the room, adjusted her pillows, and turned off the anti-biotic drip and the steroids that were futilely working on her infected lungs.

In child-birth there is often a space of time right before "transition". When the baby is finally moving through the birth canal. It's a time that the laboring mother can often rest and turn inward for a little while. Time to gain some needed strength before the hard work of pushing begins. The room quiets. A mixture of anticipation and relief is almost electrifying. The mother often appears to be sleeping, and then you see there is a shift in her countenance. The real work is about to begin. She breathes in slowly......holds.....moves through the pain....and rests again.

I look out the window. We are on the first floor of the hospital. We have an unobstructed view of the Wasatch Front. There is still some red left on the mountains from the leaves of the scrub oak that Mama so loves. I can see the American flag waving in the breeze. And planted right in front of the window is a maple tree, it's colored leaves still on the branches. Yesterday, the staff had turned the TV onto FOX News for her. The TV is off now. The only sound in the room is the air being forced into her lungs by machinery. She is sleeping off and on and when I ask her if she's in any pain she firmly shakes her head "no".

Some expectant mothers like to make a "birth-plan". And often they hire a Doula (professional birth-assistant) to help support them and make sure their plan is adhered to as closely as possible. Until, as often so many well-laid plans do, things change. I contemplate how my mother has really never been in a hospital except for the births of her six children, and just a couple other health issues she's had here and there. She and I had joked that her last stint in the hospital for pneumonia a little over a week ago had been almost like "a day at the spa!" She got to read all she wanted, watch FOX News all day and have food delivered to her. This wasn't going to be another day at the spa.

She and I are left alone the two of us together in her room now. I have now told the doctor to stop interventions. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. The grieve came over me hot and fast. How do I help her when I can hardly breathe myself? A wave of gut-wrenching pain came over me and hot tears streamed down my cheeks. I want my Mama! I NEED my Mama! I turned my face away from her in case her eyes might again open, and swallow down the large lump in my throat and try to regulate my breathing.

It is said that during the processes of both birth and death are closely intertwined. That the veil between us and heaven is so very thin and angels are in attendance to guide, and comfort both the unborn, the living, and the dying. That what may sometimes seem like a lonely time, in reality is not. The most beloved friends and family members that have already passed through the veil are present. I know this is true. I have witnessed it at my father's passing. It is very real and it gives me great comfort. I've also witnessed it when visiting the NICU with my best friend while visiting her infant son who's tiny fragile life was hanging in the balance along with the other infants in that dimly lit nursery of precious preemie lives.

My mother was beginning to turn inward. To that space of time of resting before the work of dying began. Her heavenly angels were beginning to gather in the room. I could feel their presence. I could feel my Daddy. The last time the nurse had adjusted Mama's body for her comfort, it appeared she had left just enough space for me to ease myself right up next to her. I was so tired. Hadn't slept for....I don't really remember. What is time. There is only her breathing in and out. There is only me watching guard. Time has no meaning. My eye-lids feel like sand-paper. My neck and shoulders are so very heavy. "Lie down with your mother and rest." I feel my father telling me.

Natalie came into the room at some point. She smiled. She stroked. She spoke soft words. She ministered. I slept. Or at least I went into a more restful state and could touch and smell my Mama. For a few peaceful moments I was home.

With my daughter now here to tend to me, I could now turn to the business of death. How does she want this to be?! How do I tend to her needs and all of her other people as well?! Music. The sound of the machinery is anything but pleasant. I grab my phone and scroll through my playlists. "Sunday". The Mormon Tabernacle Choir most heavily in the mix. Perfect. I press play and set the volume low and place the phone on her pillow. No response. I guess she's okay with it. It seems a bit church-ey and angel-ey but we'll go with it for now. A few more family members begin to flow in and out of the room. I'm very tired and the music isn't helping. She and I still have work to do. The work of dying. The work of moving from the arms of her loves earth-side to her heavenly loves. This is going to require something a bit more up-beat.

John Denver. Gordon Lightfoot. Dan Folgelberg. The best balladeers! All the musical "prophets" as my brother Alan would say. The prophets that have already gone before her should certainly be performing for this most important event! I change the playlist to my '70's one. Mama gives a thumbs-up! Okay. We got this. The nurses all sense a shift in the room. It's less heavy. We are moving into a groove of sorts. No pun intended. It will a busy next several hours and music always makes work go easier. Lighter.

Grief. My precious eldest niece Jessica said to me "It comes in waves. Sometimes a ripple, sometimes a tsunami." And sometimes it feels like being on a see-saw. You remember something that Mama said that was so shockingly sassy and border-line (and often not so border-line) rude and you just have to laugh. Because that's what families do. We do things. We say things. We hurt. We bend. And we try not to break. And laughter is sometimes the only thing that works. Even if it's inappropriate laughter. And then the wave of the certain one thing that was so unbelievably tender and touching and loving that she did to make you feel like you could do or become anything in this world and the knowledge that no one on this earth will ever be able to make you feel that thing the way she did ever again, and so we weep. We might even wail. And it just hurts so bad.

A new mother not only gives birth to her baby, she is also giving birth to a new version of herself. After I had given birth to my first-born, I had been home for just a couple of days. Feeling completely exhausted, sleep-deprived, overwhelmed, I asked Mama if she could come over and hold the baby so I could sleep. She arrived and we sat together on the couch for a few minutes while she admired the baby's hair and smelled her head and neck and breath and told me I should drink whole milk instead of 2% because I looked gaunt. (See what I mean there?) I gave her a weak smile and put the baby in her arms, tightened tie of my robe around my soft still-swollen belly and told her I was going to go lie down now and please don't let the baby choke while I'm resting. I closed the blinds to my bedroom window, put the pillow over my exposed ear and shut my eyes. I was beyond tired and yet could not sleep. I kept hearing the little mewing sounds of my newborn. I squeezed the pillow over my head even tighter. But now I worried that what if I fell asleep too deeply and she did start choking and I wouldn't be awake to help save her life! I sat up, and called to Mama to please come into the room with the baby. She sat down next to me on the edge of the bed and put her arm around my shoulders. I cried and told her I just can't sleep either way. I'm pulled two directions. I want my sleep like before the baby, but now I want the baby while I should be sleeping. Her words to me forever burned in my brain. "Well honey.....you're the Mama now."

I've heard people say "I can't do death." I never really thought I could "Do death" either. But here we are. "Doing death". I'm exhausted. I feel like a wrung-out wash-rag. I know that ALL of my people...HER people feel the same. We are doing the beautiful hard work of dying. And whether we like it or not, it comes to us all. How do we choose to move through the pains. The waves. The tsunamis.

There are three new great-grandchildren scheduled to arrive earth-side in the coming few months. I see the swollen bellies of my nieces and daughter-in-law and place my hand gently to feel the life-force. Her life-force. Yes Taylor, the umbilical cord sometimes seems rather short. Sometimes much too long. It's just life.

It's the work of birth It's the work of death.