My mother died on July 19, 1991. In my arms. Cardiac disrhythmia, the final act of congestive heart failure.
It was my annual trip to pick blueberries with my dad --- gallons of blueberries. This time we were also going to pick peaches, so I made it a 3-day weekend. Had never done that before, and I rarely went to visit my folks by myself.
I arrived on Thursday evening. We had a pleasant visit, shared a meal and proceeded to play our favorite card game, Canasta. The three of us played. My mom won. My dad went to bed, so my mom and I played another game. She won again. I had always considered myself a skillful player, but she almost always won --- probably at least 8 out of 10 games. Just seemed to always get the good cards. She also always brought out the chocolate covered cherries halfway through the game, I guess to soften the blow of my ultimate defeat.
I was the next one to go to bed. I woke up in the middle of night feeling very warm. With my mother's condition, she always kept the house warm, even in the summer. When I was young, she kept the house like a meat locker. This night I was sweating. I got up to find my mother sitting in her big wingback chair, smoking. She had told me that she had quit smoking, but I knew she hadn't. A non-smoker can usually detect hints of smoking activity --- slight smells in the bathroom, a cigarette butt thrown where the owner thought it wouldn't be seen, etc.. I never confronted her about it and didn't tonight either.
I asked if she had a fan I could use in my bedroom. She produced a small, oscillating fan. I knew that she kept odd hours, but I didn't realize that this would be her last night on earth. I was very sleepy and missed the opportunity to spend that time with her.
My dad and I rose early at daybreak and went about three miles down the road to pick peaches. Our intention was to come back to the house for a meal, then go back out to pick the blueberries, some 8 to 10 miles away. When we arrived back at the house, my mother had laid items out to fix a late breakfast, but she herself was sitting in the wingback chair. She was wearing what looked like a new nightgown. She often wore nightgowns around the house, usually black in color, but this one was cream-colored. She had also taken a shower, which she rarely did in the morning.
My dad proceeded to fix the breakfast, grumbling as he went, and I visited with my mom. Neither of them would let me help with the meals on visits to them. I learned from my mother that she had run out of her fluid pills. These are required for congestive heart failure patients to reduce fluid buildup in the body, especially around the heart. I told her that she needed to contact her doctor immediately, and she replied that he had gone away on vacation. I said that the office was surely open on Friday, and that most doctors have someone covering for them, and that the office would be able to call in her prescription to the pharmacy. Then we would check with the pharmacy later, so that I could go and pick up the prescription that day. She followed my instructions and called the doctor before we sat down to breakfast/brunch.
My dad's grumbling was increasing. He had burned the biscuits, and he complained how he had to do everything around there, that she had never taught him how to cook things properly, etc.. I thought his behavior was odd, because I rarely heard him raise his voice. He was generally quiet and pretty easy-going (or so it seemed). I told him that the biscuits were fine, the breakfast was fine, and let's just eat.
We sat at the table. By now it was 1:00 PM, and my mother wanted to watch her "stories" while we ate. For as long as I can remember her whole life centered on soap operas and horoscopes. I had learned in my fundamental teachings that soap operas were bad, that they put on display lives of selfishness, pride and lust. My mother, along with her mother and my aunts were always avid viewers of the soaps. I would half-heartedly tease her by calling them As The Stomach Turns and The Young and the Listless. She would tease me back by reading out loud my horoscope for the day, knowing how it irritated me, because I had also been taught that divining your future from the alignment of the stars and planets was certainly a tool of the Devil.
We sat down to eat. I sat next to my mother, with my dad across from me. My mother said that I should move over one seat so that I would have a better view of the stories on TV. I muttered something about "not caring to see those things," but dutifully moved over. We ate. My dad continued to complain.
And then it happened.
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