Steve's Journey

I had never cried before my mother died. Well, almost never. I bawled after the car accident when I put three fellow teenagers in the hospital (see blog entry 10/6/2007). I never recall crying after that, no matter what happened. I think I saw it as being strong. But following my mother's death a new tenderness had sprung up in me. It would take many years for it to grow, but I would easily tear up over many things --- death, loving moments, even one of those squishy family movies.

The asked if I wanted to see my mom again before we left the hospital. I said yes. They took us back to a room in the ER, where her body was covered with a white sheet, but her head remained uncovered. The nurse cautioned me to not move the sheet, because they had not "cleaned her up yet." After another bout of crying, I approached her and kissed her on the cheek. It was still warm. My dad didn't seem to address her at all; it was as if he was just a friend, coming along with me for moral support.

We talked on the way home, and I fought the urge to scold him for scolding her at the meal. He was all I had left, and I had to maintain a good relationship with him. When we got back to the trailer, he began to scurry around, straightening up the place for the visitors and relatives who were sure to come. He asked me to go outside and do some weed-eating. I was glad for the opportunity to be occupied. While I was working outside, my uncle Otho from across the street came over and addressed me as Clinton, one of my dad's neighbors. It was then that I knew he was already in the clutches of Alzheimer's. I told him who I was, then I told him about my mother. Then he turned and walked away.

Lois and the girls arrived just after dark. I was never more happy to see them. While it may not have appeared so to my daughters, I always missed them greatly when we were separated. And my dad was right. The relatives began to descend the very next day. From that day forward, and with the exception of my favorite aunt, they gave their condolences, then proceeded to ask what we were going to do with this or that of my mothers things. They also would assert the fact that this or that item was either promised to them by my mother, or that it was really theirs, and my mother had taken it. To make matters worse, my dad went around the room offering various things of hers to people --- while her body was still warm, so to speak!

Weeks before her death, we had visited my mom and dad, and at this visit she went through a modified soul-cleansing, if you will. One of the things she confessed was that she had given birth to what would have been a big sister to me, but the child had only lived a few days. I had already confronted them with my birth certificate many years before, citing that it identified one previous stillborn child; they both, at the time, claimed that the record was in error.

Also on this visit she strongly encouraged me to, upon her death, get a U-haul truck and load up just about everything, saying, "Your daddy doesn't need much to live on." I asked what he thought about it, and she said that he would be fine. I wasn't. Of course, she was concerned about the relatives (all on her side of the family) converging on her "treasures." I thought about this when it actually happened. When my dad died eleven years later, we rented the truck.