Mom sang herself to sleep that night. Nurses stopped as they were walking past her room. "Is she singing?" one of them asked. "Yes," my sister said. "Mom loves to sing. She's always loved to sing."

   

Remembering mom

May 12, 2013


By Al Fasoldt
Copyright © 2013, Al Fasoldt
Copyright © 2013, The Post-Standard




Mom died last month.

I didn't say "My mom died." That would be like saying "My earth." Moms don't need a possessive. Like all moms, she was universal. She was mom.

Mom was 96. She'd been living in an assisted living facility -- an old folks home, for those of us who speak plainly -- since dad passed away seven or eight years ago. They were married 70 years.

She was old fashioned, with an old fashioned name -- Edna -- and an old fashioned way of dealing with people: She liked the people she met. She looked you straight in the eye. She asked how you were. She listened when you replied. She remembered little things.

She was that same person, that Edna, when we gathered around her bed. She was declining rapidly, the nurse said. Or the doctor said. Or maybe we said it to ourselves.

But she was determined to hold on, at least for a few days.

Those of us who were there started remembering.

Mom taught me the basics of piano playing when I was six, and I picked up my love of song from her. So mom and I sang old hymns until we ran out of words, then old Jerome Kern songs, ones I learned from mom's sheet music as a boy.

Nancy knew all the hymns and even some of the make-me-happy songs out of the Depression, so we had a trio. My brother joined in for a quartet. And his wife. And my sister Pam, who took charge of mom's care when mom turned frail a few years ago. We had a chorus.

Mom sang herself to sleep that night. Nurses stopped as they were walking past her room. "Is she singing?" one of them asked. "Yes," my sister said. "Mom loves to sing. She's always loved to sing."

A day later mom refused to wake up. A doctor came in and shook her. He yelled at her.

"EDNA!" She lay still, breathing slowly, not responding.

It was as if she had retreated from the world to consider her options.

That lasted nearly a whole day. Then a technician came in and said, "Come on, Edna, I've got to hydrate you. EDNA? EDNA!"

Mom opened her eyes and smiled. "OK," she said.

A few days later Pam and her friend Clare were sitting by mom's bed. Nobody ever likes to take sides, but it was always clear that mom loved Pam best. If she didn't see Pam in the room, she'd ask, "Is Pam coming?" Except that she called her "Pammy." Nobody else called my sister that name. It was part of the bond, special.

Pam held mom's hand. Mom breathed a sigh and said she was tired.

"I think I'll get some sleep," she said. Pam said it was OK. Then, in that instant between "here" and "not here," she slipped away. Just like that. No drama. Just a sigh and a last breath.

You might think it strange, but all of us celebrated when mom died. It was peaceful for her and for us. We talked about the times she got up at 5:30 each school-day morning to work on her oil paintings. We laughed about growing up in a big family. A local pastor heard us and stopped by.

"She must have been really special," he said.

I don't know if they sing Jerome Kern songs in heaven, but maybe Edna can teach a few of those angels. When I listen really hard, I think I can hear her now.

Happy mother's day, mom.